and trumpeted, their centres laden heavy with vibrant orange pollen and a perfume so overpowering that it lay heavy in the small dressing room. A lengthy love poem was contained within Devlin’s note that accompanied the flowers. Venetia knew that he had no interest in love, only sex, and that he thought she was his for the buying. She folded the note over and left it where it lay without reading the poem. In addition to the lilies were four bouquets of roses and two of chrysanthemums, all from different admirers. And, on its own, a single spray of small cream-coloured flowers that she did not recognise amidst some glossy green leaves. The card was merely signed L. The flowers stood out amongst all the others because they were not showy or beautiful or colourful. She bowed her head and sniffed their perfume, then she understood.
‘You’re smiling, so I’m thinking they must be from Linwood,’ said Alice.
‘Indeed, they are.’
‘Not exactly flowers to woo a woman.’
‘Quite the contrary,’ said Venetia quietly.
Alice’s expression showed her disbelief. ‘What are they?’
‘They are the flowers of the Spanish Orange tree.’ Venetia passed the spray to her friend.
Alice gave the flowers a cautious sniff. ‘Oh!’ Her eyes widened. ‘They smell exactly like you.’
‘My perfume is made from their blossom.’
‘He’s a clever one, all right.’
Not so clever to see through her, Venetia hoped. But, as the subtle bittersweet scent of the flowers drifted up to her nose, she could not help feeling a pang of worry.
* * *
Linwood did not come to the green room that night and Venetia was relieved. She knew that Robert would be waiting for her. And she knew that the game with Linwood was heading in a direction she had not foreseen.
She hesitated by the small stage door of the theatre that night, her eyes scanning the darkness for her half-brother.
‘I am here, Venetia.’ Her name was a whispered hiss.
‘Robert.’
He climbed into the carriage after her. The door closed with a thud and then they were off.
* * *
The carriage had long since disappeared into the darkness when the shadow finally moved from the periphery of Hart Street into which the stage door of the Covent Garden theatre exited. A figure stepped out from where it had stood, hidden by the darkness, poised still and silent beside the damp stones of the opposite wall. He watched for a moment longer before he turned and walked away, retracing his steps silently back down the road towards the busy throng of Bow Street. There was no one to witness his progress, none to know he had ever even been there, and, even had there been, the man remained faceless in the dark moonless sky. When he reached the street he disappeared into the straggle of the crowd, just one more theatre-goer who had lingered to talk or for other more licentious pursuits. But beneath the glow of the street lamps two tiny sparks of green fire glowed within the head of his walking cane.
Chapter Six
‘Good idea of yours to come for an early morning ride, Linwood.’ Razeby smiled and sat easily as the two horses walked around Hyde Park. ‘Told you a bit of distraction would do you the world of good.’
‘More than you can know.’ Linwood’s mouth gave a cynical smile.
‘So how is the mysterious Miss Fox?’
‘Mysterious,’ said Linwood, and thought of how he had waited in the shadows of Hart Street to surprise her after the play, only to find himself the one surprised by her clandestine meeting with Rotherham’s bastard son—Robert Clandon. He wondered just what the hell Venetia Fox was up to—bedding Clandon while she played him? Or perhaps, given her significant interest in Rotherham the previous day, something rather more daring and dangerous. Either way, Linwood meant to discover more.
Razeby laughed.
The morning air held a slight mist, through which the sun filtered in pale white beams. The horses beneath them snorted, their breaths puffing white and smoky as Trevithick’s ‘Catch Me If You Can’ locomotive had been in his steam circus.
‘What is mysterious is how the hell you have managed to secure her interest when all others have failed. She turned down Hawick and rumour has it he offered her twenty thousand a year. And Devlin, who I know for a fact offered her ten. And I know that you have not the blunt to surpass that.’
‘Maybe Miss Fox is not for sale.’ He had thought the words she uttered in Fallingham’s antiquities room were the truth. But now,