CHAPTER EIGHT
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.
“Felicity Vane,” Izzy said, “I think you’re already acquainted with Sylla Banaji, and this is Mrs Finch.”
I dropped into a brief curtsey, and Mrs Finch gestured to the low table beside us, laid with a neatly arranged tea tray, the china teapot gently steaming.
“Please, Lady Felicity, take a seat,” Mrs Finch said, and her voice was low and sweet, and once more at odds with the keen edge of her gaze.
Sylla remained silent, though that silence felt almost as weighty as Mrs Finch’s scrutiny.
We sat down and were absorbed for several minutes in the familiar ritual of the tea tray, while Mrs Finch poured and made airy small talk. It was enough for me to catch my breath, to feel myself relax into these peculiar surroundings.
“So,” Mrs Finch said finally, her teacup almost to her lips, “I should perhaps begin by telling you something about the work that the Aviary does.”
“It would be a logical place to begin,” I agreed. “I take it we’re in some sort of…” I let my eyes move around the room. “Well, I imagine this is a more feminine version of a gentleman’s club.”
“In part,” Mrs Finch said. “We provide a space for like-minded women to gather, but we’re also an agency – an investigative agency of sorts. We take on cases for women from all areas of society who for one reason or another need our help.”
“Help with what kind of thing?” I asked.
Mrs Finch spread her hands. “All manner of things. They might be victims of theft, blackmail, murder.” She ticked the words off carelessly. “And then of course there are any number of crimes perpetrated against women that don’t technically fall outside the law. A woman suffering at the hands of her husband, a young girl coerced into a relationship she doesn’t desire, a daughter whose father finds her inconvenient and wishes to lock her in an asylum, financial neglect, abandonment… The list is, unfortunately, endless.”
“That’s an important undertaking,” I said softly, seeing my sister-in-law in a new light. I had no idea that the work she did was not only so necessary but so radical. To tackle cases that were undoubtedly disturbing, but considered family matters by the law, where women had no recourse, nowhere to turn…
As if she’d read my mind, Mrs Finch continued. “In order to be as effective as we are, we occasionally work outside the rigid and limiting legal framework of this country.” Her voice was a purr now. “Therefore it is important that our agency remains secret.”
“I bet Max loves that,” I said, glancing at Izzy. “Oh, I wish I’d been there to see you explain it to him in the first place. Working from outside the law.” I laughed. “I bet he said you should hand everything over to the police.”
Izzy grimaced, but Sylla gave a choke of laughter. I don’t know who was more surprised by it – me or her.
Mrs Finch grinned. “Your brother may still be a work in progress,” she conceded. “He’s also a good and decent man. You must be fond of him. We certainly are.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” Sylla muttered into her teacup, the first words she had spoken since our arrival.
“It’s easy to love Max,” I agreed. “But to return to your work here, I take it that this Edward Laing character, the man I ran into at the Lucky Penny, is connected to one of these cases you’ve taken on?”
At this question, the other two women looked to Izzy. “You either trust me or you don’t,” I said impatiently. Sylla’s eyes narrowed, but Mrs Finch nodded. “Quite right,” she said, and she sat back in her chair, examining the fingernails on one hand. “In point of fact, Edward Laing is connected to several cases we’re currently looking into.”
Izzy took up the story. “A few weeks ago, a client came to us,” she said. “She was convinced that her sister had been murdered and that her sister’s husband was the culprit. He had much to gain from the death financially. However, his alibi was convincing.”
“How convincing?” I asked, trying to look unmoved by the conversational turn towards murder.
“He was giving a speech in the House of Commons,” Sylla said crisply, reaching forward to take a pale golden biscuit from the plate on the table.
“Oh.” I frowned. “Quite convincing, then.”
“Indeed,” Izzy said. “We took the case, and during our investigation, we came across a man who at first glance seemed an unlikely suspect: someone eminently respectable and mild-mannered – a wealthy, well-liked man. Initially he was merely a footnote, a slight connection, but, as a matter of routine, I looked into him. I didn’t like what I found.”
“Laing,” I guessed. “Does he have some sort of unsavoury past?”
“Quite the opposite,” Izzy replied. “He’s a model citizen.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Something about him felt wrong,” Izzy said slowly, “so I pushed a bit further. I still don’t know why. Instinct, I suppose.” She leaned back in her chair, blew out a deep breath. “Anyway, that’s when I realized that this particular model citizen had only existed for six years.”