Chapter Seven

Late that night I headed out to buy produce for the shop at the flower market, trying not to dwell on my problems, which was easier than I had expected as my mind seemed only too happy to dwell on Oliver Lockhart instead. It had been a strange encounter, brief but compelling. There was something about him – and not only the fact that he was so devastating to look at – that I couldn't put aside. He had been grumpy, almost rude, and yet he'd sent me to the Aviary… I didn't understand it yet, but I felt instinctively that he had tried to help me. It was a puzzle. Something to think about. So I did.

If you didn't get to the flower market by midnight, then you'd find yourself in real trouble. The narrow lanes were so crammed with stalls and carts, as people prepared to barter into the early hours, that by one o'clock in the morning you couldn't move an inch, and selling was already at its height: a frenzied cacophony of sound filling the air as vicious haggling broke out on every corner.

Fortunately, I had been coming here for as long as I could remember, and so Robbie – the boy who took care of our cart – and I were settled in a prime spot the moment the sellers opened for business.

If anything else were needed to wipe away the troubles of the day, then being here would do the trick. There was nowhere like it and I fell quickly into the rhythm of the place, all other thoughts melting away.

Over the last century, the market had grown and grown, until now it stood, sprawled across the centre of the theatre district. It was right next door to the opera house, but we florists knew where the true drama was to be found.

The front of the covered market was like a temple, all graceful stone columns, and the inside – for me, at least – felt like a cathedral, enclosed by a ceiling of soaring glass and iron. The arcade was lined with sellers who loaded their stalls with flowers from local nurseries and further afield. Thanks to the railways and greenhouses, the flower trade had changed significantly since my grandfather's heyday, and now the press of people found themselves in a fairyland of bright hothouse flowers: blooming orchids, feathery ferns and fat, pungent roses. It was something to be proud of, the way that flower selling – after all, such an ancient tradition – was really here at the sharp edge of modernity, changing almost faster than we could keep up with.

The noise was tremendous, and the sounds, the smells, the frantic pace of it all stirred something inside me. Grandfather had been bringing me to the market since I was a young girl and I felt nothing but delight as I left Robbie in our spot, and weaved confidently between the stands, savouring the day's offerings, a bounty laid before me like a feast.

I was making a show of looking over some sweet tea roses, preparing to grind the price down, when it happened.

A yell went up, an angry roar that had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, and then I was shoved aside by a small girl. I saw only a blur of spindly limbs, a thatch of straw-coloured hair, before she was gone, darting into the crowd.

The next shove that I took was more serious. An enormous meaty hand closed round my upper arm, almost throwing me out of the way as the burly mountain of a man who was attached to it pushed past.

"Thieves again." The flower seller sighed, coming round to help me, but I was already on my feet and in pursuit, sweaty palms holding up my skirts as I flew into the sea of people.

The man who had pushed me out of the way was called Scullen, and he sold greasy-looking pies of dubious origin from a stand that he ran with his pugnacious son. He was also a terrible bully with a reputation for violence (a reputation in which he took great pride). No one was foolish enough to steal from him, because the punishment was severe and had absolutely nothing to do with justice or the authorities, and everything to do with those raw-boned fists of his. The girl must not have been here long if she'd made the mistake of filching a pie from Scullen's stand, and she was about to pay a terrible price for that ignorance.

Busy as it was, it was easy to follow Scullen's progress because he stood a head taller than most of the crowd, and from the way he was moving, it was obvious he still had the girl in his sights. I was breathing hard by the time the crush began to thin. With a muttered oath, I saw the girl slip down a darkened alleyway, Scullen gaining on her and still bellowing like an enraged bull.

I sped up, much to the appreciation of one of the street sweepers who wolf-whistled as I flew past. I had no time to do anything but lift my hand in a rude gesture in return as I dived into the shadows.

Just in time.

When I reached them, the girl was sprawled on the ground, her face a pale moon against the cobbles in the light coming from the building behind her, Scullen towering over her like a monster from a fairy tale. The girl let out a whimper of fright. I would put her age anywhere between seven and eleven, and she had the gaunt look of one whose belly had been kept empty for more than one night.

"Stop!" I shouted. Or I tried to shout. My chest was heaving rather spectacularly from the running, and the word came out as more of a wheeze, but it was enough to cause Scullen to swing round.

He had his arm raised, and almost struck me as he spun.

"Miss Bloom," he grunted, his eyes narrowing as he took me in. "Don't know what you're doing here. No place for a lady. I'm handling some business."

His gaze flicked to the girl, who through some instinct had started to crawl in my direction. In Scullen's eyes there was a heat that told its own story. He would hurt the child, and he'd enjoy doing it.

I straightened up, undoing the clasp on my capacious leather handbag, curling my fingers around the small pair of secateurs that I kept in there habitually. They weren't much of a weapon, and I was very aware that my knees and my hands were trembling, but it was better than nothing.

I forced my voice to remain calm and even. "I think there has been some mistake," I said.

The glower on Scullen's face deepened. I was clearly becoming an inconvenience.

"No mistake when there's no-good thievin' bastards about." Scullen spat on the ground next to the girl, who let out another sound of distress.

"But this girl isn't a thief," I said, injecting my tone with surprise.

Scullen's eyes snapped to mine. "Saw her myself. And this is none of your business, you nosy bi—"

"Mr Scullen," I snapped frigidly, and it was enough to make him pause in the step he had unthinkingly taken in my direction. "If my employee forgot to pay you for your goods, then I'm sorry. I will rectify the matter immediately."

Hoping I wasn't making a mistake, I let go of the secateurs and instead withdrew a couple of coins.

"I believe this should cover it, with a little extra for the inconvenience, of course." I held the coins out in the palm of my hand.

Scullen's glare moved between my hand and the girl. I could see the dilemma playing out on his face. He wanted the money, but his blood was up now. He wanted the fight too. He was like a shark moving in for the kill, and I saw, too clearly, the realization dawn that he could have both.

Should have gone for the secateurs, I thought as a slow, cruel smile spread across the man's face. I knew a moment of utter helplessness, a feeling I was not familiar with, and one I didn't care for at all.

"Is there a problem?" a cool voice asked from behind me, and I swung round to see a slight, well-dressed woman emerging into our pool of light.

She was around my age, with light brown hair and a sweet face dusted with a smattering of freckles. She stood easily, poised, but there was a sharpness in her dark eyes. The sight of her squaring up to Scullen would have been laughable if the moment wasn't so terrifying.

"More meddlesome baggage," Scullen rumbled. "Why don't you interfering females just f—"

"I believe my wife asked if there was a problem," came another voice. This one was clipped and cultured, and it belonged to a man of such golden beauty that I swear he illuminated the dingy alleyway with the force of his good looks alone. He was also built like a Greek god, and more than matched Scullen in height. His tone was frostily polite, but his face was set in firm, dangerous lines.

Clearly deciding the odds had shifted, Scullen spat on the ground again, snatched the coins from my hand and stomped away, muttering a lot of uncomplimentary words under his breath.

The woman let out a huff of annoyance. "I had it under control."

The man chuckled, his arm going round her waist. "I knew that, and you knew that, but I thought I'd just expedite the process."

I was distracted from this interesting scene by the young girl, who had scrambled to her feet and was about to take to her heels again. I wrapped my hand round her arm and felt her flinch.

"No, no," I said gently, removing my fingers. "You're not in trouble. What's your name?"

She looked up at me with wide brown eyes brimming with suspicion.

"They call me Scout, miss," she said finally.

"Well, Scout, as a general rule around here, it's not a good idea to try to steal from Scullen."

"He's a bad man," Scout said, rubbing her hand absently along her arm where I'd touched her.

"Yes," I agreed. "And I would keep out of his way if I were you. Now, do you know Bloom's on Oxford Street?"

If she was surprised by the change of subject, she didn't show it. "Place with all them flowers?" She pursed her lips.

I nodded. "That's right. Be there in the morning at eight sharp. Ask for Suzy."

"Why?" The suspicion was back.

"Because you need a job, and I need a delivery girl who is fast on her feet."

Scout's head dipped so that I couldn't see her face. "S'pose I could do that," she said gruffly, "if the price is right."

"Good. Mind you aren't late." I tucked a coin into her hand. "Now go and get yourself something to eat … from a different stall, I think."

Scout flashed me a brief, wary look, then dashed off. I hoped she would come to the shop, but at least for tonight she would be well fed.

I turned to the two strangers who were watching in silence.

"Thank you for your help," I said, trying not to be too dazzled by the handsomeness of the man before me. "I think that was about to turn ugly."

"Horrible man." The girl sighed. "You should have let me punch him." This was directed at her husband. "Still" – her eyes narrowed thoughtfully – "I suppose there are more creative ways to deal with such bullies…"

She turned her attention to me, and the calculating look dropped from her face, her expression crinkling into a grin that was pure mischief. "I'm Izzy." She held out her hand for me to shake. "This lovely bit of window dressing is my husband, Max."

Max's eyes lit with fond amusement as I shook Izzy's hand and then his.

"Marigold," I said.

"Oh, we know." Izzy's look was measuring. "I've come with an invitation."

"An invitation?" The adrenaline from my confrontation with Scullen was wearing off, and I was starting to feel dizzy.

"From Mrs Finch." Izzy's smile grew. "What time can you be free tomorrow?"