Page 18 of A Game of Scandal

CHAPTER EIGHT

The next morning, I would probably have thought the whole encounter with Ash had been a strange dream were it not for the money he had left behind on my desk, as well as a scrawled I.O.U. on top of the pile of paper tokens from our game.

I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved that he hadn’t tried to kiss me. I was increasingly sure that kissing Ash would be a most enjoyable experience. He was extremely attractive, and the heat that snapped and sizzled between us seemed worth … investigating.

“Are you ready?” Izzy asked, bustling into my study while adjusting her hat.

“Certainly,” I agreed, pushing the money under a stack of papers. Izzy didn’t need to know everything that went on in my life. “Let’s go and meet the mysterious Mrs Finch.”

The weather was pleasant enough for us to make the short journey to the Aviary on foot. We didn’t speak much, and that was fine with me – I was perfectly happy to enjoy the spring sunshine. It had felt like a long, cold winter, and when you were a young woman of a certain station, that meant a lot of time cooped up under supervision – unless you made your own clandestine forays into the outside world, of course. I was used to the onset of spring feeling like a welcome relief, a loosening of the reins, the time when my world opened up a bit wider.

Unfortunately for me, this year the spring also heralded the start of my first official London season, which would include my presentation at a nonsensical event still called Queen Charlotte’s Ball, despite the fact the woman herself had been dead for the best part of a century.

I kicked a pebble, the familiar rush of frustration surging inside me. Less than three weeks to put an end to those plans. I had a notion that, once Mother was here, there would be no stopping things. Even if Izzy miraculously managed to get Max on board, it would hardly make a difference. My adventure at the Penny had been lucrative, but I still hadn’t nearly enough money to pay for my own tuition. Without that particular card to play, I wasn’t confident I’d be able to convince my well-meaning brother of my determination. I wondered if I could simply return to the Penny and play again. Would Ash stop me? I didn’t think so, but Joe may not be so keen now that he knew I was related to Max.

We came to a stop outside the Aviary, and I glanced at the cheerful window display, real silver-bark tree branches arranged in a graceful arch, covered in silk and velvet ribbons in a hundred shades of pink and red, a river of gold buttons gleaming across the floor like spilled treasure.

Above the door, in swirling cursive letters, the sign read:

The Aviary For all a lady requires

I had, of course, visited this shop several times before, dragged along by friends or Izzy, but I had absolutely no idea that it concealed any kind of secret. I still hardly knew what to think. Perhaps somewhere inside this building was an answer to my problems. I glanced once more at the elegant facade. It seemed unlikely.

The bell over the door chimed as we entered, and I was struck, as I always was, by how warm and inviting the place felt, full of trims and trinkets that invited you to admire, to touch.

We were the only customers in the shop, but an attractive redhead stood behind the dark counter, a grin stretching over her face when she saw us. Stepping aside, she drew back the curtain behind her, revealing a door.

“Right on time,” she said. “Mrs Finch is waiting for you. And, fair warning, Sylla’s invited herself along too.”

Beside me, Izzy smothered a sigh.

My eyebrows rose. There was only one Sylla that I knew of – Sylla Banaji, the daughter of Lady Anne Stanton and Sir Dinshaw Banaji. As she had managed to make it to the ripe old age of twenty-two without accepting a marriage proposal – despite being both beautiful and extraordinarily wealthy – I considered her something of a role model. She was also such an intimidating presence that I’d barely ever spoken to her.

“Max really is going to kill me,” Izzy muttered.

Apparently the young woman behind the counter knew my brother well enough to laugh at this. “You’d better not keep them waiting.” She shot me a friendly wink as Izzy led the way through the door and up a short staircase.

When she swung another door open, I was surprised to find that we were standing in a salon that must have occupied the entire first floor of the building.

An enormous double-sided fireplace sat in the centre of the room, with velvet-upholstered chairs and sofas arranged around it in cosy groupings. Everything was opulent, the colours a jewel box of dark emerald green and gleaming amethyst. There were bookcases spilling over with books and periodicals, and a piano stood in one corner, the top of it covered carelessly in unfurled maps. There were chess tables, some with games still in play, and I found myself itching to run my fingers over the pieces. The walls of the space were painted white, but covered in murals of plants and flowers. I didn’t know the names of any of them – though Izzy’s friend Marigold Lockhart would, I was sure – but they seemed to me to be exotic, bright and spiky things crawling wildly up the walls. No sedate English roses here.

Along the back wall, the flowers vanished, replaced instead with the words:

I am no bird; and

no net ensnares me:

I am a free human being

with an independent will.

It was painted in tall, bold black letters. I knew the quote – Jane Eyre – and approved heartily of its sentiment. Whatever this place was, I liked it. I liked it a lot.

I had only a moment to take this all in, because despite the intriguing nature of my surroundings, my attention was commanded by the presence of the two women standing near the fireplace.

Sylla Banaji was sleek and graceful, her simple gown a slash of narrow-skirted cherry-red silk that might have looked flashy on anyone else, but was, on her, the picture of refined elegance. Her dark hair was pulled back from her finely boned face, and she watched me with hard eyes that gave nothing away.

The woman beside her must, I decided, be Mrs Finch. In contrast to Sylla, this woman was the picture of softness. She was perhaps forty years old, with a heart-shaped face dominated by eyes the same golden brown as her hair. She wore a pale pink gown that was feminine and pretty, and clung to her generous curves. When I met her eyes, her gaze was so direct it cut through me like a warm knife through butter. It was as if she could see everything, as if the secrets I collected and hoarded to myself were there, between us, ready for her to pick up and look over at her leisure. I wasn’t sure I liked that very much and I frowned, which brought an amused smile to her face.