Chapter Thirty-Three

The hotel was directly opposite the Louvre, and – because I had no idea where we were – Oliver guided us under a cool stone passage and through to a large square, each side bordered by the grandest buildings I had ever seen. It was strange to be alone with him like this, but now that we were here, in another country, where not a soul knew us, it was suddenly easy to shed the restrictions of propriety and it felt delicious.

The size of the buildings around us was overwhelming. At the bottom, a covered walkway ran behind rows of graceful, symmetrical archways, each column topped with a statue of a man looking wise and dignified. The facade stretched up, hundreds of windows in neat rows, punctuated by monumental gateways, all topped with a grey slate roof that seemed to shine under the August sun.

I stood, frozen and gawping until Oliver chuckled. "Quite the sight, isn't it?"

I was relieved to hear him laugh. He had been tense and silent since we left the hotel suite, not that I could blame him. There was a lot to sift through.

"All of this is a museum?" I asked, dazed.

Oliver nodded, pulling me along through the milling crowds. "Stuffed full of art," he said, "but I think I know somewhere that you will find more beauty and artistry than any wing of that museum."

We walked towards an enormous stone arch, topped with a statue of a woman driving a chariot, flanked by two golden figures.

"It's a triumphal arc." Oliver gestured towards it. "Built by Napoleon, as a lot of these grand monuments were, to celebrate all his successes. Unfortunately for him, the statue on the top these days represents Peace in her chariot – celebrating his failure instead. Funny how quickly things can change."

We passed under the arch along a wide path, cut between perfectly manicured lawns, and down a set of shallow stone stairs.

"Oh!" I exclaimed softly.

"The Jardin des Tuileries," Oliver said.

"You brought me to a garden?" I was absurdly touched.

He shrugged. "It seemed the right thing to do."

And of course it was. The sun shone, dazzling overhead as we stood in the middle of the elegant gardens stretching out endlessly in front of us. "So much green," I murmured. There were avenues lined with trees leading down to a large pool with a tall fountain. Children were floating little boats with red sails across the surface in noisy races.

Beyond the trees I could see the rooftops I already recognized as being quintessentially Parisian with their soft blue-grey slate above straw-coloured stone. Standing to the west of us, somewhere in the distance was the Eiffel Tower, and I started at the sight. I had seen pictures, of course, but it felt so strange to see it in real life. The tallest building in the world.

And then, because I couldn't help myself, I pulled Oliver away from the path where fashionable couples were perambulating, the sensible ladies holding pretty parasols to protect them from the August sun.

I pulled him past the wistful, classical-looking statues of suffering women, and plunged towards the flower beds, which – even in this formal setting – were rioting, full of colour and texture that spilled over their neat borders.

"I might have known you'd be straight in the dirt," Oliver said.

I knelt down on the grass and brushed my fingers with delight against one of the fat apricot-coloured blooms.

"Just look at all these dahlias!" I exclaimed. "I've never seen such huge flowers. The French are actually at the forefront of many of the advances in our field. I was talking to Win about it the other day, and she said…" I trailed off, looking up at Oliver whose expression was almost fond. I cleared my throat. "These white ones too. So beautiful, though I'm not sure of the variety. Fleurel, perhaps."

"Dahlias," he said with no sign of impatience at my enthusiastic rambling. "Let me think. Eternal love and commitment, wasn't it?"

The words were mild, but they set my pulse thrumming. It was that reminder of being in the flower room. The fact that we almost kissed but didn't … and then we didn't talk about it. I'd be lying if I said that particular moment hadn't been playing on a loop in my head ever since.

"Mmm," I managed. "That's right." I forced my attention back to the flowers. "This planting is so creative; I see amaranthus, leonotis leonuris…"

"Leon-what?"

I grinned. "We call it lion's tail. It's this orange one here. And look at these beautiful salvia plants, the purple and the orange together… It's quite feisty for a public space, isn't it? So vibrant."

Oliver only made a slightly perplexed sound of agreement.

"Perhaps I was wrong about the colours you should have in your garden," I mused. "A space like that could handle something bold, don't you think?"

"I think Lockhart Hall could certainly benefit from a bold presence." The touch of gravel in his voice had me looking up, though his face was in shadow under his hat, and I found it hard to read his expression.

He held out his hand to me, and I accepted so that he could pull me up to my feet. The instant our fingers touched I felt the now-familiar tingling that spread like a cold shock through my body.

I let go of him, brushing hastily at my skirt. "I have got myself all muddy again," I said, flustered.

He reached out, placing a finger underneath my chin and tipping it up so that I was looking at him. His eyes roamed over my face, and he stepped closer, whatever he saw there drawing a low rumble from his chest.

I felt dizzy. We were tucked away, out of view of the crowds, surrounded by flowers, and it was as if the surrounding noise and bustle dropped away for a moment. All that existed was the two of us. His hand on my face, his mouth so close to mine. I wanted him with a desperation that edged into pain.

In the end it was this realization that brought me to my senses.

"We – we can't," I stammered, the words wobbling. His hand dropped away as my own lifted to my chest, pressed over my heart, which was actually aching. "I can't… We shouldn't… There's too much…" I rambled, trying to think, trying to breathe.

"Of course," he said at once, taking a step back. "I apologize."

"No, you… I…" I tried again but got no further.

Oliver only gave a brisk nod. "Please," he said with enviable calm, his voice gentle. "You don't owe me an explanation. It was my mistake, and I would never want to make you uncomfortable."

"You – you haven't made me uncomfortable," I said, though he absolutely had, just not in the way he meant. My whole body felt like a lit firecracker, set to explode.

"Good," he said, clearly relieved. "I would hate that. Shall we return to the hotel? Mrs Finch will be wondering where we are."

And with that, we finished our walk in silence.

*

That evening Mrs Finch had dinner sent to me in my room – a luxury that I had hardly dreamed of. It had been a long day of travel, and I was grateful for the calm moment to reflect on my own emotional turmoil. I wasn't sure if that was why Mrs Finch had suggested we all have a quiet evening. I knew she saw far too much, and I hadn't missed her keen look when Oliver and I returned from our walk.

Still, I was not complaining when the waiting staff arrived at my door laden with trays covered in silver-domed plates. When removed, the domes revealed perfectly boiled eggs with swirls of creamy mayonnaise, chicken quenelles with cream and baby peas, a capon covered with a sauce I didn't recognize, something light brown and earthy and delicious, and a pastry called a mille feuille, which was an actual taste of heaven.

As I ate, I thought about the walk with Oliver, about the way we had almost kissed … again. About how much I wanted it, wanted him. I was a practical woman, I reminded myself. I was a businesswoman. I knew a little something about risk and reward, and I knew damn well that Oliver Lockhart was a risk I couldn't afford to take.

There were too many reasons we could never work, too many responsibilities between us and too many differences. He needed a grand lady, not a florist constantly covered in dirt who couldn't waltz and didn't know what a truffle was. (The waiter who retrieved my empty plates had explained that this was the mystery ingredient in the delicious sauce, in perfect English, because I didn't speak French – another thing that any woman Oliver Lockhart ended up with would undoubtedly do beautifully.)

It wasn't that I didn't think I was worthy; it was that I knew I wasn't from his world. I was acutely aware that Simon had thought I was below him socially and it had hurt. I thought about the pain I felt when he'd called off our engagement and I knew it was nothing to the hurt I would experience if I gave my heart to Oliver and it didn't work out. Safer, far safer, not to risk it. I could protect myself from heartache if I simply never fell in love.

And all this was before my responsibilities to the Aviary, and to Bloom's and my family were taken into account. Really, there was no question that stopping the kiss had been the only practical option.

I had almost talked myself into believing that pulling away had been for the best when there was a knock at the door, and I was relieved to find Maud and Winnie standing in the hallway, all dressed up and grinning at me with mischief in their eyes.

"Come on, Mari," Maud said. "We're taking you out on the town."

"Oh, but Mrs Finch said…" I began.

Maud cut me off with a wave of her hand. "Mari, we're in Paris! And a girl I know works at Maxim's. She might have information about the Lavignes or David Brown. It's practically work."

"Please, Mari," Winnie chimed in, her cheeks pink. "It will be so much fun."

How could I resist? Honestly, a distraction was very welcome, and fun was just what I needed.

"Come in while I change," I said, and the pair of them squealed.

Maxim's, it transpired, was only a short walk from the hotel, and it was a nightclub for the wealthy and famous. We were, of course, neither, but Maud's friend let us in through the back door with a wink and a warm greeting and we were soon lost in the crowd.

The place was … red. That was the first thing that struck me. The carpets were thick and red; the walls were scarlet, with crimson silk drapes. The room was lit by lamps covered in red silk shades, casting a warm and somehow decadent glow across the scene.

And what a scene it was. A bar and dining room crammed full of beautiful people in fashionable clothes talking animatedly at a hundred miles an hour in a language I didn't understand. The red walls were lined with enormous, gilt-edged mirrors that reflected the crowds making the place feel even busier. The air was full of perfume and the smell of tobacco. On a small dance floor, couples whirled to the music being played by a small house orchestra in natty red-and-gold uniforms.

"This place is perfect," Maud said, looking about herself with pleasure.

"Nothing worries her, does it?" I asked Winnie as we were shown to a corner table with plush red velvet seats and Maud began chatting with the waiter.

"Maud can fit in just about anywhere," Win said with a proud smile.

"Where did she learn French?" I asked.

"Oh, I taught her." Winnie beamed. "Maud has a wonderful ear for languages."

"Perhaps you could teach me?" I said tentatively. It hadn't ever seemed necessary before, but the Aviary was expanding my world in so many ways.

"Of course," Winnie said. "I'd be happy to. Though Maud might be more help."

"More help with what?" Maud asked.

"Mari wants to learn some French," Win replied.

A wicked grin lit Maud's face. "Oh, yes, let's have the first lesson now."

The next few minutes passed in fits of helpless laughter as Maud taught me an absurd number of rude words in French, and the waiter delivered us tiny glasses of milky green liquid that tasted like liquorice that had been set on fire.

"Go steady with that." Maud smirked. "Absinthe is not for the faint of heart."

"So, Maud." Maud's friend, Eloise, stopped by our table, an empty tray in her hand. "What are you doing in Paris?"

"We're working," Maud said brightly.

"Ah." Eloise nodded in a way that made me believe she knew at least some of the truth about the Aviary. Her eyes moved to Winnie and I. "You must be Win," she said, smiling. "Maud told me so much about you when I was last in England."

"Yes." Win's eyes were soft as she glanced at Maud. "And this is Mari, our newest recruit."

Eloise and I greeted each other. "So – not that I'm not glad to see you – but is this just a social call?" she asked after some small talk about Paris.

"Yes and no." Maud twirled her glass between her fingers. "We needed a night off, but I did think if there was information worth having that you might have it."

"And what sort of information might you be looking for?" Eloise asked, raising her brows.

Maud pulled some bank notes from her pocket and slid them across the table. Eloise picked them up and stuffed them in her apron with a practised nonchalance.

"We're looking for a couple called Lavigne and their daughter, Helene," Maud said.

Eloise shrugged. "Never heard of them."

"What about David Brown?" I asked. "An Englishman."

Eloise pursed her lips at that. "David Brown," she said softly, the name sounding musical in her French accent. "There was a man by that name a couple of years ago. A con man based out in Ménilmontant near the cemetery, I think. Ran with a bad crowd." She tilted her head. "Cheated some dangerous people. I thought he was dead, actually. I'm sure that was the story."

"Nothing else?" Maud pressed.

"I heard he left England in the first place because things got too hot for him there, but he went back and forth using an alias. Maybe more than one." Eloise tapped her fingers against her skirt, her face screwed up in concentration. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "That was right. I remember because Hugo… You remember Hugo?" she asked Maud with an arch of her brows.

Maud chuckled. "Oh, I remember Hugo."

Eloise sighed, pressed a hand to her chest and grinned at me. "Broke my heart."

"Was that before or after you stole his family silverware?" Maud scoffed.

Eloise primmed her mouth, though her eyes still danced. "I don't know what you are referring to."

"Fine, fine," Maud said. "But back to David Brown…"

"Ah, yes." Eloise nodded. "It was Hugo who knew him a little. Said he had a line on the best forger in England. Real prime stuff, as you would say. Meant he could more or less come and go as he pleased. But that was a while ago. If he's not dead, I don't know where to find him. He could well be using a different name."

"Any idea who he might call upon if he found himself in the city?" Win asked.

Eloise shook her head regretfully. "No, I'm sorry. I don't have much to do with those people any more."

"It's fine," Maud said. "It all helps. Thank you, Eloise."

While Eloise sashayed back to work, the three of us sat in thoughtful silence.

"It's not much we didn't know already," Maud said finally.

"It fits," I said. "A career con man. Dangerous. It's another puzzle piece. If it's the same man."

Winnie shivered. "It must be the same man, surely?"

"There are too many damned moving parts in this mess," Maud grumbled. "Still." She seized her glass and lifted it in the air. "That's a problem for tomorrow. For tonight we are young and lovely, and drinking in Paris. Let's enjoy ourselves."

"I'll drink to that," I agreed, and the three of us clinked our glasses together in a toast.