Page 8 of A Season for Scandal

Once again, I had surprised us both. I hadn’t been planning to say any of that. The words had simply come out. And saying them made the whole thing real.

The impressive frown on the man’s face had deepened. “You’re not going to cry again, are you?” he asked gruffly.

I shook my head. “No. But I am worried.” I was, I finally admitted to myself, out of my depth and afraid. “I don’t know what to do, you see … and I always know what to do.”

There was another pause, and it suddenly struck me how awkward the situation was. Funny that it hadn’t done so before.

“Anyway,” I said, reaching down to collect my book from where it lay on the floor. I winced because it really was a generous tome – seemed there was a lot to be said about landscaping. “I apologize again about the book. And for crying on you. I’ll leave you to your browsing.”

“Wait.” The man held up his hand as I walked past him. His voice was a clipped command. I turned and he was reaching inside the pocket of his dark coat. He pulled out a pen and card, flipped it over before I could read it and then wrote something on the back.

“Here.” He held it out. “They can help you.”

I took it and looked down. On thick, white card, embossed with uncompromising black ink was a name and address:

The Aviary

Mrs Finch

Proprietress

1 St Andrew’s Road

London

“Why are you—” I began, but the man was already pushing past me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his long strides eating up the ground.

“Just go,” he growled over his shoulder. “And give them that card.” With that, he stalked out of view, his coat flaring out dramatically behind him and I stood alone once more between the stacks, dazed.

“What on earth?” I murmured to myself as I turned the card over in my hands. There, in a scrawling hand, was another message.

Oliver Lockhart sends his regards.

CHAPTER SIX

In fact, I knew the Aviary on St Andrew’s Road. It was a haberdasher’s, a particularly nice one. I had shopped there several times for buttons and trim for my dresses. I remembered admiring the golden bird cages full of silk flowers hanging from the ceiling, thinking that something similar with fresh flowers would work well for a party. Now that I was reminded of it, I had a client who usually threw a spectacular ball in the summer, and the cages would look perfect hanging in her orangery.

Floristry inspiration aside, the real question was: why had an extraordinarily handsome and extremely grumpy man thrust a haberdashery owner’s business card at me, told me they would help with my situation, and then swirled off like Count Dracula disappearing into the night? (This was, I supposed, not a good analogy because it had been the middle of the day, but there was certainly something of the otherworldly vampire about Oliver Lockhart, and the whole dramatic coat-swirling moment had felt very I’m-about-to-turn-into-a-bat-and-crawl-inside-a-maiden’s-window.)

Perhaps it was foolish to go. No, there was noperhapsabout it. The man was probably a lunatic. Or maybe he wanted to take his petty revenge over the book-dropping incident by sending me on a wild goose chase.

But I went anyway.

The haberdasher’s was just as I remembered. Above the door was a sign, painted in curling golden script:

The Aviary

For all a lady requires

It was late afternoon now. The windows gleamed; large glass vessels filled with buttons were arranged on a swathe of velvet, a rainbow explosion of different colours. The display made me think of jewels or jars of sweets – both an appealing prospect. When I pushed the door I recognized the music of the bell, and I felt the same good feeling I got when I entered Bloom’s. This was a place that someone cared about, and it showed.

Polished wooden cabinets lined the walls, while ribbons and trims were arranged on stands, making it all too easy to run them through your fingers, to enjoy that seductive slip of silk against your skin. The bird cages I remembered hung from the ceiling, and I smiled at the clever nod to the shop’s name. There were no birds though, only silk flowers made from materials you could buy in the shop. In my mind I found myself twisting jasmine round the gold bars, filling them with a spill of crimson roses. You’d get the perfume then too – heady and romantic.

“May I help you?” a voice asked, and I saw that there was a girl standing behind a desk at the back of the shop. She had red hair and wore a dark dress and a white lacy cap and apron. Her smile was easy, and she looked as neat and well cared for as the shop.

“I’m not sure,” I said, stepping towards her. “This is probably going to sound peculiar, but a gentleman gave me a card and told me to bring it here—”

“May I see the card?” the girl broke in.