Page 89 of A Season for Scandal

“That was…” Helene trailed off.

“Extraordinary,” Oliver breathed, and the way he looked at me made me feel like a goddess. “Bloom, you are extraordinary.”

“She certainly is,” Helene agreed with a grin. “I hope you will show me how to do that?”

“Have you ever considered any investigative work, Miss Lavigne?” Sylla asked, her tone thoughtful. “Perhaps the Aviary might benefit from a French branch.”

Oliver moved to the far wall where the bullet from Mr Brown’s gun was buried in the plasterwork. He ran his fingers over it. “You could have died,” he said slowly. “You could have died right in front of me.”

“Youcould have died right in front ofme,” I said. “So I suppose that makes us even.”

“I think I have lost several years off my life today.” Oliver pressed a hand to his chest. “And I realize there are some things I need to say as soon as possible. I—”

This interesting speech was cut short by the door slamming open. Mrs Finch and several very tall, very broad footmen appeared on the threshold.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Finch said, her eyes travelling from Mr Brown’s crumpled body, to Sylla, holding the gun trained on Mrs Brown. “I see you have everything under control.”

“Perfectly,” Sylla replied, as the footmen set about tying up the Browns. Once Mrs Brown was secure, Sylla checked the pistol was disarmed and placed it on the mantelpiece. Her eyes flicked to me. “I believe we can safely say that Mari’s training period has concluded. Her performance was…” She hesitated here. “Satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory?!” Oliver interrupted hotly. “She wasmagnificent.”

Sylla ignored this utterly. “Are the police on their way?”

“It transpires that Mr and Mrs Brown are wanted for several crimes both here and in England under a variety of different pseudonyms.” Mrs Finch pursed her lips. “They’re to be held at the hotel until various officials have fought it out among themselves. Either way, they’re both bound for a cell.”

“I told you this was too risky!” Mrs Brown screeched at Mr Brown, who was busy staring daggers at me, his left eye already turning an unpleasant shade of purple. “Now look what you’ve done! Look what has become of us!”

“This was as much you as it was me,” Mr Brown growled. “More!Youwere the one who decided we had to marry the girl off. You were the one obsessed with a title.”

“Yes, yes,” Mrs Finch said pleasantly. “There will be plenty of time to portion out the blame when the prosecution has you in the dock.”

“I should go and check on Lucy,” Helene said, casting a dark look at the Browns. “Someoneshould be concerned about what happens to her.”

“Nothing will happen to Lucy,” Oliver said. “I will make sure of it.”

I realized then that he was leaning quite heavily against the wall, and that his face was almost completely drained of colour.

“You need to lie down,” I said, rushing over and pressing my hand to his forehead, which was thankfully still cool to the touch. “Andsee a doctor. You were almost killed half an hour ago.”

“You were almost killed five minutes ago,” Oliver said stubbornly. “And I don’t see anyone fussing over you.”

“Mari is quite right,” Mrs Finch said, and she smirked at me. “Take Oliver down to his room; the doctor should be on his way soon. I already called for him.”

“Thank you,” I said, and when I slipped my arm around Oliver’s waist, taking some of his weight, he didn’t protest beyond a brief mutter of disgruntlement, which I knew meant that he was feeling worse than he’d admit.

Moving slowly, we left the Browns in Mrs Finch’s capable hands, and I returned Oliver to his room, a perfect copy of my own. “At least sit down on the sofa,” I said, and he did, slumping into the cushions and looking increasingly bad-tempered.

“What can I get you?” I asked. “Some tea? Do you feel warm at all? Or cold? A blanket, perhaps…”

“I am not an infant,” he snapped crankily. “I refuse to becoddled.”

I ignored this, rearranging the cushions around him so that his head was better supported. “The doctor will be here soon, and then we’ll be sure that there are no lingering effects from the poison. Fortunately, you seem to have absorbed very little; you’ll probably just feel weak as a kitten for a few days.”

“A kitten?” Oliver glared at me. “I am not a kitten.”

“Of course not, Lockhart,” I said solemnly. “You are definitely not a kitten. You are the picture of strength and vitality. I meant to say weak as a lion.”

“You are making fun of me when we have important matters to discuss,” Oliver huffed.