Page 20 of The Companion’s Secret

The flower shop hummed with the sounds of buying and selling, the snip of shears and shouted directions. Despite the alarmingly early hour, Gabriel welcomed the noise, first because it meant that he might at last have found a place of business capable of filling his order, and second because, amid the commotion, he could hope to remain relatively anonymous.

“I don’t know what was wrong with the last three shops, Ash,” Fox said, warily eyeing a cactus. “What can you want with all these hothouse blooms? I told you, simple and sweet will be the way to Lady Felicity’s heart. Wildflowers and the like.”

Gabriel nodded, only half attending. When at last it was his turn to place an order, he laid a carefully written note on the counter. The clerk glanced first at it, then at him. “This’ll cost a pretty penny,” he said, looking Gabriel up and down as if deciding whether he could afford the extravagance.

“But you can deliver these items as requested?” Gabriel demanded.

Something about him—his voice, his air, the cut of his coat—must have satisfied the young man, for the clerk nodded crisply. “We’ll have them there yet this morning, sir.”

While he was tallying the order, a rack of bright ribbons caught Gabriel’s eye. “For the nosegay,” he said to the young man, pointing to one.

“Red? Rather a bold choice for the lady in question, Ash.” Fox abandoned his inspection of an odd-looking orchid to peer over Gabriel’s shoulder.

“Coquelicot,” Gabriel corrected. At Fox’s amused expression, he explained, “Named after the poppy. The latest fashion from France.”

“I won’t ask how you come to know such a thing. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t like the answer.”

Gabriel drew a length of the orange-red silk between his fingers; the spool wobbled on the rack as the ribbon unfurled. “It behooves the intrepid explorer to study the habits of the natives, my dear Foxy—to learn their language.”

“The language of ribbons and flowers?” Fox gave a bewildered shake of his head.

“It’s a language I feel certain the lady in question will understand.”

“Well, you know best, Ash.”

No. No, he most certainly did not. He was not, by nature, a risk taker, whatever his opponents at the table persuaded themselves to believe. And he never tipped his hand until he was certain of the outcome of the game. Excitement, apprehension rushed through his veins, unfamiliar and more than a little unwelcome.

Once the order had been placed, Gabriel left the shop with Fox in tow. Oxford Street rippled before them, a river of humanity into which the two of them managed to merge on their second attempt. Though the air still felt raw after two days of cold rain, a few feeble rays of something that passed for sunshine seemed to have convinced fully half of the residents of London that spring had returned.

They had not taken many steps when a hoarse voice spoke in his ear. “So, the rumors are true, Gabriel.”

He would have recognized the voice anywhere, even without the troublingly familiar use of his given name. “And what rumors are those, Uncle Finch?” he asked without turning to look at his interlocutor.

“For one, the rumor that you have crawled out from under the rock where you have been lurking these many years.”

Gabriel squinted into a gray sky pierced here and there with the promise of blue. “I suppose you hoped I would shrivel and die in the sunlight.” He dropped his gaze and met his uncle’s sneer with one of his own. “So sorry to disappoint.”

More than a year had passed since Gabriel had seen his uncle last. Automatically, he steeled himself against the discomfort that always slithered down his spine when he was forced to confront that face—his father’s face, but attached to another man entirely. He recalled having once felt the briefest glimmer of hope that the two men would resemble one another in more than the physical, a spark that had flared and been stamped out long ago.

“Make no mistake, Gabriel. I am disappointed—”

“Lord Sebastian Finch.” Fox’s calm tones cut across their more heated voices as he gave a slight bow.

“This doesn’t concern you, Mr. Fox,” Uncle Finch declared. “I can’t think why you continue to associate with my nephew, under the circumstances. ‘He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith,’” he quoted piously. “A man of God should surround himself with more fitting acquaintances.”

Gabriel very nearly nodded his agreement.

“Sage advice,” Fox replied, unperturbed. He folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Fortunately for us sinners, our Lord and Savior did not see fit to take it, either.”

“Was there something you wanted of me?” Gabriel asked, forcing himself to study his uncle’s pallid face; the man’s health had always been poor, but appeared now to be failing at a rapid pace.

“Certainly not.” The mere suggestion that he had sought Gabriel out seemed to horrify him. “I was on my way to my club to discuss the news of the day. You have heard, of course, about the attempt on His Highness’s life? Terrible, terrible. But one can hardly claim to be surprised, when we welcome these Frenchmen—and women—into our country and believe their sad tales of persecution, their claims of opposition to that republican monstrosity they’re concocting across the Channel.” As he spoke, he watched Gabriel closely.

A certain sly uplift in his uncle’s brows, as if he anticipated some reaction to his words, prompted Fox to ask, “What has any of that to do with Ash?”

The old man gulped an anticipatory breath so sharp it sent his lungs into a paroxysm of shock. When the coughing fit had passed, he rasped out, “Ash? How—how dare—you—?”

Gabriel watched him struggle to breathe, impassive. “I cannot see that my title is any particular concern of yours, Uncle Finch,” he said, lifting one hand to stay the tide of vitriol. “As to the other, Foxy, I would not be surprised if my dear uncle intends to suggest I am in league with a den of French spies. Killing a king is of a piece with my past crimes against the nobility, I dare say.”