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       CHAPTER ONE

      THE little flower shop, squeezed between two elegant boutiques, was empty save for a girl in a cupboard-like space at its back, making up a bouquet. It was a charming bouquet, of rose-buds, forget-me-nots and lilies of the valley, suitable for the littlest bridesmaid for whom it was destined, the last of six which she had been left to fashion while the owner of the shop had gone off on some mission of her own. She was tying a pale pink ribbon around it when the shop door was thrust open and a customer came in. A giant of a man, elegantly dressed, no longer young, and wearing a look of impatient annoyance upon his handsome features.

      He came to a stop in the middle of the floral arrangements and said curtly, ‘I want a couple of dozen roses sent to this address.’

      ‘Red roses?’

      ‘Certainly not. Yellow—pink, it really doesn’t matter.’

      He stared at her, and really she was worth being stared at: a big girl with generous curves, short dark curly hair, large grey eyes and a pretty face.

      He said abruptly, ‘What is your name?’

      ‘Eulalia Warburton,’ she replied promptly. ‘What is yours?’

      He smiled thinly. ‘The roses are to be sent to this address.’ He handed her a card. ‘How much?’

      ‘Fifteen pounds and two pounds for delivery.’ She glanced at the card. ‘This afternoon—this evening? Tomorrow?’

      ‘This evening, before six o’clock. Make sure that they are fresh…’

      She gave him an outraged stare. ‘All the flowers in this shop are fresh.’

      She took the money and thumped the cash register with some force. Thoroughly put out, she said snappily, ‘If you doubt it, have your money back and go somewhere else.’

      ‘Dear, dear.’ He spoke with infuriating blandness. ‘Are you having a bad day?’

      ‘It was a perfectly good day before you came in,’ she told him. A good thing Mrs Pearce wasn’t here—she would have been given the sack on the spot. She handed him an ornate little card. ‘You will wish to write a message?’

      She took it back when he had written on it, handed him his change and bade him a coldly civil good day. She got a grunt in reply.

      She watched his broad back disappear up the street and took a look at the card. It was to a Miss Ursula Kendall and, after a careful scrutiny of his scrawled message, she gathered that he was sending his apologies. Well, thought Eulalia, if he was as rude to her as he had been here, a nice piece of jewellery would be more in order.

      She finished her bouquet and began to arrange the yellow roses in their Cellophane sheath; somehow pink didn’t go well with a name like Ursula.

      Mrs Pearce came back presently, approved of the bouquets and, since it was almost time to close, told Eulalia to deliver the roses. ‘I know it’s out of your way, so take a taxi—the money’s in the till.’ She bustled around, rearranging this and that. ‘You’ll have to take the bouquets round in the morning. Half-past nine— another taxi, I suppose—but it’s a good order.’

      It had been a pleasantly warm June day, but now that the afternoon was slipping into early evening there was a cool breeze. Eulalia donned a navy blue jacket over her navy and cream patterned dress, gathered up the roses and left the shop, taking a breath of air as she waited for a taxi. Even there, in London, from time to time one had a faint whiff of really fresh air.

      The roses were to be delivered to an address close to Eaton Square. She paid the driver and mounted the steps to the front door of a Georgian terraced house. The girlfriend, if it was a girlfriend, lived in some style, thought Eulalia, and pressed the bell. The door was flung open at the same moment and a young woman stood frowning at her.

      ‘I’m