Chapter Eight

The next day I was back at the Aviary, wondering just what, precisely, I was getting myself into. This time, the red-headed girl behind the counter greeted me with a grin of recognition.

"You're to go straight up," she said, holding the velvet curtain to one side. "Just follow the stairs to the top; you can't miss it."

When I hesitated for a moment, the girl's smile softened. "It will only be a short meeting. We know you're busy. I think you'll be glad you came when you hear what Mrs Finch has to say."

Still not sure what to think, I nodded, then I stepped past the curtain and began the climb.

The stairwell was bare and dark, though it smelled pleasantly of lavender. When I reached the top, I was met with another door: this one had a brass sign nailed to it with no words at all, only the image of a small bird.

I knocked.

"Come in," a woman's voice called, and I turned the handle.

I had been expecting some sort of office, but the room into which I stepped was more like the inside of a gentleman's clubhouse. An enormous chimney breast dominated the centre of the space and groups of moss-green chairs and velvet sofas the colour of violets were arranged cosily around the double-sided fireplace. There were also tables holding chess sets, bookcases brimming untidily with books and periodicals, and a slightly battered piano in one corner. The whole room felt like an invitation from a host who cared only about warmth and comfort.

My attention turned to the walls. They had been painted white, but someone had covered them in tall, twining murals of plants and flowers. I saw splashy flame lilies, saw-toothed succulents, dancing lady orchids, delicate pink-tinged caladium leaves – all so beautifully rendered that they seemed to move, rippling across the paint.

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 beingwith an independent will.

It was painted in tall, bold black letters. I knew the quote – Jane Eyre. It stirred something inside me: not comfort but something sharper, spikier, something that felt like those plants – hot and alive.

I was so distracted by the artwork that I didn't notice the other people in the room until someone cleared their throat behind me.

Whipping round, I saw Izzy, the young lady from last night, standing beside another woman. This must be Mrs Finch.

I don't know what I had expected, given the strange way her name had suddenly popped up in my life, but it wasn't the woman in front of me. She was – I would guess – in her late thirties, extremely pretty, and we shared the same soft, generous figure. She was clad in a shimmering blue silk gown that I coveted immediately, and she dressed in a way that highlighted and accentuated her ample curves, drawing the eye to the dip of her waist, the spread of her hips. She was not even trying to blend into the background. I wondered what Simon would think about that.

Her light brown hair was pulled tidily back, and her face was dominated by a pair of eyes the same colour as her dress. Those eyes were focused on me now, and despite her softness and the feminine prettiness of her appearance, her gaze was direct, almost fierce in its concentration. I felt myself standing straighter under her scrutiny, and although she didn't actually smile, there was amusement in her expression.

"You must be Mrs Finch?" I asked, moving forward with my hand outstretched.

"Yes." Mrs Finch took it, squeezed my fingers. "And you are Miss Bloom. I understand you've already met Her Grace, the Duchess of Roxton."

I blinked. "I don't…"

"She means me," Izzy said with a sigh. "But don't let the title throw you. It's new and I'm not at all used to it either. I believe Mrs Finch is teasing you. And me."

The woman in question only smirked.

"Oh – I mean, yes, Your Grace," I said, stumbling over my words. Izzy, the woman who had stood with me in a dingy alleyway last night was a duchess? Wait – did that mean Max was a duke?

"Definitely not ‘Your Grace'." Izzy grimaced. "We don't go in for ceremony at the Aviary. Izzy is fine, thank you."

"Izzy," I repeated, dazed.

"Why don't we sit and have some tea?" Mrs Finch gestured to one of the clusters of armchairs, and I noticed a tea service set up on a table between them. "I find that matters always seem so much less awkward when there's tea. I think it's because it gives you something to do with your hands."

I managed a smile at that. "Tea would be lovely."

Izzy and Mrs Finch both seemed utterly at ease, so I decided I wasn't going to let the combination of this bizarre, clandestine meeting and the casual introduction of the upper echelons of the aristocracy throw me either.

"We were surprised to receive your card," Mrs Finch said, once the tea had been served.

She was right: it was better to have something to do with my hands, and I swirled the silver teaspoon, slowly dissolving the lump of sugar in my amber tea.

"May I ask how you are acquainted with Oliver Lockhart?" she continued.

"I'm not," I said, tapping the spoon gently against the side of my cup and laying it on my saucer. Not for the first time, my mind flashed to the man in question. In fact, his sulky, beautiful face had popped into my thoughts with worrying frequency over the last twenty-four hours. "I met him yesterday. At least, I assume it was him. The gentleman didn't introduce himself."

"Tall, fantastically handsome, stalks about like an ill-tempered cat?" Izzy lifted her brows.

"Yes." I laughed at the perfect description. "That was him."

"But you only met yesterday?" Mrs Finch's question was cool.

"At the library." I nodded. "It wasn't exactly an auspicious meeting. I accidentally dropped a book on his head, and he was – understandably – displeased."

"I'm surprised you ended the encounter on cordial terms," said Izzy. "Oliver is not exactly known for being gracious."

"I'm not sure what terms we left things on," I admitted. "But I … poured out my problems to him, and he gave me the card, sending me here."

"Hmmmm." Mrs Finch tilted her head thoughtfully. "Perhaps you could tell us about the problems you shared with Mr Lockhart?"

I hesitated at that, my teacup lifted halfway to my lips.

"I realize it is a strange request." Mrs Finch sat forward, her voice gentler now. "You don't know us, but I assure you that you were sent here for a good reason. Whatever it is that troubles you may be something that we can assist with."

"I truly don't see how," I said doubtfully, but after looking into their faces for another long moment, I decided to trust my instincts and lay out the whole sorry tale.

Neither of them interrupted until I reached the end of my story, and they showed no sign of shock regarding its contents. Instead, they shared a glance I found hard to read and Mrs Finch sat back in her seat, her eyes half closed – an expression that was distinctly feline.

"Geoffrey Earnshaw," she said meditatively. "The name is familiar. Though I don't believe we have run into him directly … yet?" This question was directed at Izzy.

"Not as far as I'm aware, but Sylla would know better than me." Izzy pursed her lips. "A man of his character however… It should be almost too easy to find something he would rather not be found."

"That much is certainly true." Mrs Finch turned back to me. "Miss Bloom, I believe we will be able to help with this matter, though it will take us a day or two to gather the information that we need."

I must have looked as baffled as I felt.

"Perhaps," Izzy said slowly, "you should tell Marigold more about the Aviary now?"

Mrs Finch assessed me for another long moment. "I think you're right," she said at last.

"The shop?" I said. "It's lovely."

"The shop is only a small part of our business," Mrs Finch said. "The true work of the Aviary is conducted upstairs."

"Here?" I asked. "It is some sort of … society for ladies?" I hazarded. "It reminds me of a gentlemen's club – I have visited one or two to attend to the flowers."

"It is something like a society, I suppose." The cat-like look was back on her face. "The Aviary is an organization run by women, for women. The work we do takes on many different forms, but in its broadest sense we act as a layer of protection that is not always provided by the law. Take your situation, for instance." She gestured to me. "You find yourself at the whim of a dishonourable man. Your home and your livelihood are dependent upon his goodwill. While the proposition he made is abhorrent, it is not something that the law can prevent. Earnshaw has every right to expel you and your family from your business and your home if you don't comply with his demands. We at the Aviary take issue with that." There was a dangerous spark in her eye. "No, we do not care for that at all."

I felt something shimmer inside me in response to her words. The anger and the frustration I felt at my situation rushed to the surface.

"I can't say I care for it either," I said tightly. "Yet I don't see what can be done about it. Had I married Simon, then perhaps…"

"Had you married Simon, then the business you have built would have belonged to him." Izzy's words were heated. "You would have married for duty to a man who is clearly a colossal—" Mrs Finch delicately cleared her throat. "Right, not the point," Izzy muttered. "The point is that we can help you. And when we do, you won't have to give up the shop either."

Something thumped in my chest. "What do you mean?"

"I told you that our work is about protecting women," Mrs Finch said. "We are most easily described as an investigative agency. Women come to us when they have a problem that requires solving. We have found that the most effective way of doing so is often to acquire … leverage over the men who are threatening them."

"Some people might call it blackmail," Izzy said sunnily. "If they were being vulgar."

She and Mrs Finch shared a smile, and I felt as though I had missed an inside joke.

"You're going to blackmail Mr Earnshaw?" I said slowly, my eyes moving between them. "If we're being vulgar?"

The smile on Mrs Finch's face blossomed. "Yes."

"How?"

"The Aviary is comprised of a network of agents who we call the Finches. These are women who come from all walks of life and who possess different skills. They work in secret." Mrs Finch inclined her head towards Izzy. "The duchess is one such agent."

"Finches are split into smaller groups – typically groups of four, so that we can be assigned to cover different cases," Izzy explained. "These groups are called charms. I recently took charge of my own charm." She said the words with obvious pride. "One of our charms will investigate Mr Earnshaw through whichever means seem the most appropriate, and we will then apply pressure to him so that he meets our demands."

"Do you mean to tell me that you" – I pointed to Izzy – "the Duchess of Roxton are part of a shadowy organization of women that blackmails men?"

"Well, I wasn't a duchess when I started, but in a nutshell, yes. That's it."

"But that's…" I trailed off for a moment, assaulted by too many feelings at once. "Incredible!" I finished finally, with a laugh.

Izzy beamed at me, and something flickered between us, a shared moment of glee. I couldn't believe such a group of women existed, but I found already, even without proof of what they could do, that I was glad to hear it.

"There are only a handful of people who know about Isobel's involvement," Mrs Finch said. She wasn't smiling any more and there was steel in her voice now. "It is a secret we are relying upon you to keep."

"Why did you tell me?" I asked. "You didn't have to. I'd never have realized who Izzy was."

The two women exchanged yet another look, and again I got the distinct feeling I was missing something.

"When you arrived with Oliver's card, you piqued our interest," Mrs Finch said finally.

"Oliver is … important to us," Izzy added. "We consider him a friend. Though I'm sure he would object to the description."

"And so we looked into you, Marigold Bloom. We had someone follow you." Mrs Finch nodded to Izzy. "We liked what we found."

I didn't know whether to be annoyed or pleased by this information. "Thank you, I think."

"As a matter of fact, I had already taken something of an interest in Bloom's." Mrs Finch leaned back in her chair. "You frequently employ women who may otherwise struggle to find employment."

I jolted in surprise. The fact that Bloom's often hired women with backgrounds that others might find … unsavoury was not common knowledge. Scout was hardly the first employee I had taken off the street. I pursed my lips. "My employees' past is their business and no one else's," I said firmly.

Something like approval flickered in Mrs Finch's eyes. "You are a hard worker who has built something extraordinary using your skill and brains," Mrs Finch continued. "You are loyal to your family. Your work takes you to many … interesting locations around the city."

"That is true, I suppose," I said slowly.

"You are a keen businesswoman too. Your accounts are perfectly balanced," Mrs Finch mused, and I didn't even bother wondering how she knew that. "You have a good eye when it comes to your clients," she continued. "There doesn't seem to be much trouble with extracting payment on time."

"I tend to know if a customer will be a problem," I admitted with a shrug.

"You read them well." Mrs Finch nodded. "And you're a saleswoman: you're good with people, with getting them to talk, to open up to you."

I thought about what she said and knew it was true. It wasn't only in business either. How often had Simon criticized me for precisely that, for wanting to talk to people, to find out about them, for being too friendly, too interested?

"I saw what you did in that alley last night," Izzy reminded me.

"Nearly got myself killed, you mean?"

"You protected that young girl," Izzy said quietly. "I saw the man who chased her. If you hadn't intervened, I truly think she might be dead. You read his intentions. And you offered her what she needed too."

My stomach lurched. It wasn't as though I didn't know that, but I hadn't wanted to look at the idea head on. "I hardly think he was being subtle about his intentions."

"You ran in, unarmed and untrained, ready to defend someone in need. You measured his response and initially tried to dispel the situation with tact and diplomacy, which showed calm, clear thinking under pressure," Izzy continued.

"I wasn't unarmed," I said weakly. "I had my secateurs."

This startled a laugh from Mrs Finch. "Yes, Izzy," she said softly. "I think you might be right about this one."

Izzy sat back, looking smug.

"Right about what?" I asked.

"That Marigold Bloom has the makings of a Finch," Mrs Finch said. "That I should offer you a job."