“Surely I must speak with the flower vendors?”
“Them yes, but no one else. Especially not men. I’m not sure what your aunt and uncle are about letting you go in there alone.”
Ellen swallowed down the sigh, reminding herself that he cared about her and this was his way of showing it.
“I promise not to speak to any strange men, Mungo.”
He gave her a hard look and then nodded.
“Get on with you then.”
Minutes later she was wandering down the aisles of flowers, inhaling the scent of blooms and greenery. It was an unusual scent, almost earthy, and she loved it.
“Good day to you, Miss Nightingale.”
“Hello, Miss Jolly.”
And this of course was another reason why her family did not mind her coming here alone. A handful of the vendors were either related or friends with Crabbett Close residents. They kept an eye on her and would report anything back to her uncle they felt necessary.
Making several selections that she organized to have delivered to 11 Crabbett Close, Ellen chatted and admired what was on display.
It was as she neared the end of a row that she got another vision. Brief and over in seconds, she saw a forearm with the black tattoo on it she’d seen in Uncle Bram’s book. Looking down the aisle, Ellen found a man. He was standing at the end, and his eyes were on her. A shiver of unease traversed her spine. The look he was giving her was not one of interest but intimidation.
“Don’t stare at him, miss.”
She turned to the woman who had spoken.
“Pardon?”
“He’s one of them, Baddon Boys,” she said, shooting the man a nervous glance. “They’re a bad lot. They run in a gang and cause all kinds of trouble.”
“I’ve never heard of them. Are they from around here?”
The woman nodded. “Best to keep your distance from them, miss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I will, and thank you for telling me. Could I ask a question?”
The woman nodded.
“Do these Baddon Boys have a tattoo at all?”
The flower seller’s eyes widened, and Ellen knew why. She could feel him. The man was now behind her.
“Who wants to know?”
She turned on her heel at the hard words and came face to face with him.
“Pardon?” She put on her most haughty voice.
“You asked about tattoos. Why?”
Think, Ellen.
“Is this what you’re looking for, love?” The man shoved up his sleeve and showed Ellen his forearm. It was the exact tattoo from both her visions.
“No indeed, a man helped me the other day when the wheel on my carriage broke. I saw that tattoo on his forearm and hoped to thank him. He walked away before I could do so.” Ellen was quite proud of the answer she’d thought up. It sounded plausible, to her at least.
He frowned.
