He located his quarry on a street corner, her usual bright red shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a basket of flowers in hand as she called out to passersby.
“Fresh flowers ‘ere!” She paused at the sight of Henry with an amused look. “Ain’t seen you ’round ’ere lately, guv.”
“How’s business?”
She shrugged. “Could be worse. Could be better.” Lines framed her eyes and bracketed her mouth. She kept a close eye on all around her, which Henry appreciated. Luckily, she was willing to share what she witnessed in exchange for a coin or two, and had provided helpful information on occasion. “An’ ’ow’s business fer you?”
Henry smiled, appreciating her sense of humor. “Busy, as always.”
“Who are you lookin’ fer this evening?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting to her basket. “Actually, I came to purchase some flowers.”
“Oh?” She grinned, clearly delighted. “Got yerself a lady at last?”
“I do.” Henry took great pride in stating that. “And a special evening ahead. One that requires flowers.”
“Well, well. I’m pleased to hear it.”
“Which ones would you suggest?” He took a step closer to the basket to look over the bundles.
“None of these.” She leaned forward. “Got some fresh ones back ’ere I’ll get fer you.”
“Thank you very much,” Henry responded with surprise.
“Wait right ‘ere.” She turned away, basket in hand, and hurried down an alleyway. Only a few minutes passed before she returned with a dozen red roses wrapped in white paper. “’ere you go. These is fresh cut and will last longer.”
Henry took the offering, pleased by their vivid color. “I appreciate that very much.” He paid what she asked, adding a generous tip.
“’ave a lovely evenin’, sir,” she called out brightly.
“I intend to.” With a tip of his hat, he strode toward his lodging house.
He took care to keep the flowers out of sight of his landlady, not wanting to answer questions about them—or worse, have her misunderstand their intended recipient.
After washing and changing clothes, and with flowers in hand, he walked to Amelia’s home on Bloomsbury Street with his nerves still gripping him tightly. He knocked on the door and greeted Fernsby, whose eyes lit up at the sight of the flowers.
“Good evening, Inspector.” The butler nodded in approval as he took Henry’s coat and hat. “Mrs. Greystone is waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”
“Excellent.” He hesitated on the first step, wondering if he should tell her what he had to say when he handed her the flowers. Or did he present the flowers then wait until after dinner to tell her?
“Is anything amiss, Inspector?” the butler asked politely.
“No, not at all.” Henry shrugged aside his anxiety, deciding he would follow his instincts as he continued up the stairs.
The sight of Amelia sitting before the fire with a book in hand settled the doubts and questions that had plagued him. He loved her and couldn’t wait to tell her—though he kept the roses behind his back.
“Good evening, Amelia.”
“Henry! I didn’t hear you arrive.” The delight in her expression was more than reassuring. She set aside the book and stood, causing him to notice the furniture had been rearranged.
His heart pounded: they could now sit together in the settee rather than in separate chairs. He had to take that as a good sign. “I hope the evening finds you well.”
“It does.” She moved closer until she stood before him. “And you? How was your day?”
He offered a rueful look, wondering how she’d react to the news about the sanatorium investigation. Knowing her, with questions. “Interesting.”
“Oh?” Her obvious curiosity invited him to share more, but that conversation would have to wait.
