CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The flowers arrived that afternoon.
I was trying to snatch a moment of peace, to regain some equilibrium by retreating to my study, an unfinished and long-neglected letter to Dr Volterra in front of me, when the door swung open.
“Felicity, you have an admirer!” Mother trilled, excitement bubbling over as she whirled in. “And I’d wager I know who it is.”
With a great deal of jostling, and despite my grumbled protests, she tugged me downstairs. The perfume from the enormous bouquet of honeysuckle and lilies was overpowering, filling the entrance hall of the house with its sweet, clinging scent.
My heart sank as I opened the envelope nestled in the bouquet and read the note inside.
I very much look forward to resuming our conversation.
Yours in admiration,
E.L.
“Mr Laing!” Mother said, peeking at the note over my shoulder. “You seem to have made quite the impression on the man. And I must say his manners were excellent, and he had a fair countenance, didn’t he? Not the most handsome man there, but there was something so charming about him that made up for it. Don’t you think, Felicity?”
“I’m not sure,” I hedged. “I didn’t really talk to him for long. I don’t know what has inspired this.”
“Bah!” Mother exclaimed. “ You have inspired it, my girl! You’re going to be the hit of the season and Mr Laing is sensible enough to want to steal a march on the competition. I must write to Lady Endsleigh and find out all about him! So far, it seems he’s a good match. No title, of course, which is a shame, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a well-liked gentleman with impeccable manners, a tidy fortune and a bright future. He is considered quite the catch, but he’s never shown an interest in anyone before, so the other mamas had set him down as a confirmed bachelor. And I hear he’s extremely clever, Felicity…”
The scent from the flowers was overwhelming and giving me a headache, only intensified by Mother’s unceasing enthusiasm. I had no idea what to say to my mother – actually, Edward Laing is currently being investigated for murder by the secret agency your daughter-in-law works for and when he looks at me sometimes I feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web , didn’t really seem appropriate.
I hated that he had sent something to my home; it felt like an intrusion. Later, in my room, I watched the street below out of my window, feeling a strange certainty that someone was outside hidden in the darkness, looking straight back. A man loitered near one of the streetlamps on the square, smoking a cigarette. Had he been there earlier? Now that I thought about it, I was sure I’d seen someone standing in the same place yesterday, not that I’d thought anything of it at the time.
I tried to put it aside as I got ready for tonight’s activity – a visit to the theatre. As Nancy laced me into a gown of pale lilac silk, I wondered if I should try and get a message to Izzy, but what had really happened? A man had sent me flowers. It was hardly an emergency.
No. There was no need to make a fuss. I wasn’t some nervous creature.
By the time the carriage drew up outside the theatre in Covent Garden, I was calmer, despite the thronging crowd. At least at the theatre I wasn’t expected to make conversation. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that I was being watched.
I was behaving like a fool, I thought. I was always under scrutiny at social events; there was no reason to think it was anything more than that.
Mother seemed untouched by my nerves. She was like a child let loose in a sweet shop.
“We don’t get theatre like this in the country.” She beamed, gripping my arm. “I did get dragged to an amateur production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at one of Lady Wentworth’s house parties, but, darling, it was atrocious . Lord Wentworth’s Bottom left much to be desired,” she carried on in hushed undertones, and I choked, horrified until I remembered that this was the name of a character in the play.
“That’s a shame,” I managed faintly as we stepped through the doors and into the crowded foyer. “Hopefully tonight will be an improvement.”
The play was a new production and it had drawn a fashionable crowd. Mother was busy greeting people, her fingers still clamped tightly round my arm, when I spied someone I knew.
“Lady Felicity.” Sylla Banaji didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard through the crowd; somehow that crisp, regal tone of hers cut clean through the noise, scalpel-sharp. Beside me, I felt Mother quiver with delight.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with the Banajis,” she hissed. Mother may have been a dowager duchess, but no one was immune to the glamour of Sylla and her family. I was certain that she had read all the latest gossip about them in the fashionable periodicals.
I introduced the two of them, and wondered exactly how I could get Sylla alone to confide my worries.
“Your Grace,” Sylla said to my mother, a smile on her face that was a far cry from the scowl I was usually treated to. “I wondered if I could borrow Lady Felicity for a moment. I promised to introduce her to Dr Floyd, a friend of my father’s—”
“Dr Floyd!” I exclaimed, delighted, all thoughts of Laing temporarily wiped from my mind. “But his theories on automorphic functions are fascinating!”
Sylla’s smile seemed to grow more fixed. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear you say so.” Then she dragged me off into the crowd.
“Do you think Dr Floyd will have time to discuss his latest paper?” I asked breathlessly. “Oh! I wish I’d known, and then I could have brought his book with me to get it autographed. I have a first edition, you know. I—”
“For heaven’s sake, Felicity,” Sylla snapped as we moved away from the crowds, turned down a corridor and bundled through a door that swung into a small area that appeared to be used for storing surplus stage make-up and hair supplies.
“What is Dr Floyd doing in a cupboard full of wigs?” I asked, confused.
Sylla’s eyes fluttered shut, and she took a deep breath, exhaling steadily. “There is no Dr Floyd.”
“Of course there’s a Dr Floyd—” I began, but Sylla cut me off.
“There’s no Dr Floyd here , Felicity.” She rubbed her forehead with her fingers in a weary gesture. “I just wanted to get you away from your mother.”
Understanding finally dawned. “I’m not going to meet Dr Floyd?” I asked, crestfallen.
Sylla huffed. “I’m sure I can arrange an introduction for another time. I assume you have something to say to me?”
“How did you know that?” I asked.
“I am a highly trained investigator,” Sylla sniffed. “And I haven’t the least idea how you won a single hand of poker when your every thought is written across your face, plain as day.”
“Oh?” I said grumpily. “And what am I thinking right now?”
At that, a cool smile broke across Sylla’s face.
“You’re thinking thoughts unbecoming to a lady, and you haven’t had the required training to carry them out against me. Now, I understand you met Laing at the Wellerbys’ ball. Any further developments?”
“He was pleasant to me, even charming,” I continued, frowning. “And today he turned up at Lady Endsleigh’s afternoon tea. I think he was there … to see me.”
“I would imagine so.” Sylla shuddered. “I can’t think of a single reason to voluntarily appear at such a dreary event. Nothing but dry cucumber sandwiches and spiteful sniping under the cover of polite society.”
“Exactly!” I exclaimed, then, returning to the matter at hand. “He said something – and I’m not quite sure, but he gave the impression that…”
Sylla gave an exaggerated sigh. “While we’re still young, if you don’t mind,” she said, and made an impatient rolling gesture with her hand.
“I think he wants to marry me,” I blurted out.
Sylla’s eyebrows shot up. “You think ? Isn’t that the sort of thing that should be reasonably obvious?”
“Well, I don’t have a lot of marriage proposals to compare it to,” I said, flustered.
“I’ve had a great many,” Sylla said, without conceit, “and though the quality of them has varied, the salient central point has always been clear.”
“We were interrupted,” I managed. “But he definitely gave the impression of romantic interest. Then he sent me flowers afterwards.”
A look of displeasure crossed Sylla’s face.
“That is troubling,” she said thoughtfully.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t marry him, if I were you,” Sylla snipped, but it was obvious the wheels in her clever mind were turning.
“Of course I’m not going to marry him,” I said impatiently. “But don’t you think I should tell him that?”
“Yes, if he asks you,” Sylla replied distractedly, still deep in thought. “It’s a complication, but there’s nothing you can do,” she said finally. “Not right now, at least. We’ll continue to monitor the situation. If anything happens that causes you concern, you get a message to Izzy, or me, or the Aviary at once.” She reached out a hand, as though she were about to lay it comfortingly on my arm, but then – catching herself – scowled, as though I had tricked her into an almost act of kindness, and snatched it back.
“I have to wait and see what happens?”
“Much of our work is waiting to see what happens,” Sylla said, and her tone had softened fractionally, I think because she understood and shared my frustration. “But after that there comes a reckoning.” The smile that spread across her face then was as bloodthirsty as any pirate. “And the Aviary always gets her man.”