Piano music tinkled around the room while guests mingled at the Valentine's Day soiree. The butler, Edgar, attended to the new arrivals at the door. He took their hats, coats and scarves, then herded them on to Jim's grandmother in the main room.

"Mr Singh, I'm so glad you made it," she said, her greeting rising above the murmur of conversation. "My brother, Broom, has told me so much about you."

Jim and Westman turned their heads. They found the young Indian scientist in full evening-dress, his hair neatly combed back.

Singh passed his coat and hat to Edgar. "I wouldn't miss it for the world, madam. I find the English culture and traditions fascinating. Especially a day devoted to romance. This festival appeals to me a great deal."

Primrose clasped her hands, lace dangling at her wrists. "May I compliment you on your English, sir? It is impeccable."

"Thank you." Singh pressed his palms together in thanks, his fingertips brushing his bow-tie. "I've lived in London these past five years, and I had a superb teacher."

"Please, let me introduce you to the other guests. Oh, is your friend not with you?"

"My assistant, Mr Gupta? He had a prior engagement. Also, I must admit, he is not a great admirer of the romantic arts."

Westman leaned close to Jim's ear, his voice rumbling up from low in his throat. "What is he doing here?"

"It would appear my grandmother invited him."

"Where's Sophie?"

Jim tried not to smile. "My, my, Freddie. Don't burst a stay-lace. She's over there with Millicent."

An arrangement of chairs spanned the room, facing the pianist in rows, and Sophie and Millicent Sinclair stood at the far end. Despite Primrose's advice that ladies attend in romantic shades, Millicent wore black. But the professional clairvoyant rarely dressed in any other colour.

Westman relaxed. Just then, Blinks appeared beside them, carrying a silver salver of glasses. He'd offered his services for the evening, donning his black and gold livery to wait on Primrose's guests. And he'd even washed his stockings for the occasion. Jim took two glasses of warm elderflower cordial and passed one to Westman.

At the sound of Primrose announcing the first reader, they took their seats. The poetry began with Mr Barnaby, a neighbour from two doors down, reciting Wordsworth. Part way through the reading, Sophie noticed Singh seated further down their row.

"Oh, it's Mr Singh," she whispered loudly. "I didn't know he'd be here."

She leaned past Jim to catch his eye and waved. With a polite smile, Singh joined his palms in greeting. Westman folded his arms, his expression darkening. When the poetry reading broke for refreshments, Jim beckoned him to the buffet table. They found Blinks and helped themselves to his tray of hors d'oeuvres.

"You look ready to murder someone, Fred."

Westman smoothed down his black waistcoat and gave his matching tailcoat a tug. "How many more love poems must we sit through? This whole tradition is ridiculous."

"Why don't you tell her?"

"What?" Westman asked, startled.

He kept his voice low. "Sophie. You both like each other a great deal. Why don't you tell her how you really feel?"

Westman's scowl lifted, and he exhaled. "Jim, believe me, I've considered what you're suggesting. But let's face it, people like you and I, we court danger, not girls."

"That's the nature of being a monster hunter, but I rather think we can do both."

He shook his head. "Sophie deserves a normal life with a normal suitor."

"Have you met my uncle? Compared to my family, you are normal." He clapped his friend on the arm.

Westman lifted a cynical eyebrow. "You take nothing seriously. It's no wonder your life is one balloon crash after another."

Jim assumed he was referring to his romantic relationships. Most recently there had been Nancy. Before her, Charlotte. Oh, and Beryl. And prior to that, the biggest balloon crash of all – Millicent. Since his parents' passing, he'd filled his world with distractions, and made his fair share of mistakes along the way. But he was tired of that lifestyle. Sometimes he wondered how one recognised real love.

Westman's mouth curved wryly. "It's all fun and games to you, isn't it?"

"Not at all. I can be sensible."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

Jim scanned the room for his sister. "I say, where did Sophie go?"

Blinks nodded towards the French doors. "I saw her go outside for some air, sir."

Westman looked around and his brow furrowed. "Where's Mr Singh?"

***

Sophie wandered down the garden path, bearing the crisp evening air. The recent return of the sun had seen an end to the heavy snow storms. Streets and gardens had thawed, leaving watery slush underfoot. Although spring was waking, temperatures remained bitter. But despite the cold, she was grateful for the peace of the garden. Her grandmother's party had given her a headache.

She rested by the trellis arch, under the red roses that bloomed all year round, and looked at the house. Freddie Westman had barley spoken a word to her all evening. She knew he was the reserved sort, but she couldn't help feeling disappointed. She'd dared to entertain the idea he might send her a valentine. Perhaps she'd simply imagined that he liked her.

"Oh, good evening, Miss Penderry. I didn't know anyone was out here." The voice sounded behind her left shoulder, startling her.

She turned and relaxed. "Oh, Mr Singh. You gave me a fright."

"Forgive me. Are you well?"

She smiled. "I felt a headache coming on, so I came out for some air."

He nodded in understanding. In the light from the waning moon, his softly rounded cheeks lent him a young, boyish charm, but shadows filled his eye sockets. A troubled look weighed down his expression.

"Are you enjoying the evening?" she asked, concerned.

"I've had a lovely time. Your grandmother is a generous host, and I'm surrounded by good company, yet I find myself alone in the crowd. So I came out here to contemplate a few things."

"Ah, I see. Well, take heart, sir. Many of the guests came alone this evening." She shivered and noticed Singh seemed perfectly comfortable in the icy air. "Aren't you cold, sir?"

"I never notice the cold."

Through the French doors, lamplight cast orange fingers up the lawn, and conversation and laughter drifted from the house. Singh turned to peer at the star-dotted sky, his dark figure edged in a faint silvery light. For a moment his hair appeared to shift and writhe in the still evening. There was no breeze.  Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

"Enchanting, isn't it?" he said, transfixed on the crescent moon.

She followed his train of sight. "Yes. It's a beautiful evening."

"Your grandmother tells me you have a passion for botanical science."

"All manner of science interests me."

He turned around and stepped close. Surprised, she backed into the post of the trellis, knocking water from the flowers. There was something unusual about him, alarming yet intriguing.

"In that case, you must come by the university. I would be happy to show you around the laboratory. How is your headache now?" He touched her hair and untangled a fragrant, red petal from the strands.

***

Jim tailed Westman towards the French doors. "She needed fresh air. There's no need to panic."

"I'm not panicking."

Blinks followed. He trotted along the flagstones, balancing a tray of steaming glasses in his hands. "Would you like to take her a glass of hot punch, sir?"

"Good idea, Blinks," said Jim. "It's dreadfully cold out here."

Westman halted in his tracks and stared at the far end of the garden. His fists clenched. "I don't believe it."

Jim followed his line of sight and tensed. He could hardly believe it himself. Sophie and Mr Singh stood beneath the rose arch, Singh's hand touching her hair.

"That does it." Westman shrugged out of his tailcoat and tossed it at the servant.

Blinks caught the jacket to his chest, almost dropping the tray, and gaped when Westman marched down the soggy lawn. Jim went after him, but not quickly enough to stop his friend seizing Singh by the back of his coat. Caught off guard, there was little Singh could do when Westman launched him into the bushes. He crashed through the Rhododendrons and struck the garden wall with a bump. Westman dusted off his hands, and Sophie covered her mouth, aghast. Singh's legs poked out of the foliage, one trouser-leg hoisted above a sock suspender.

"Freddie, what have you done? Oh, my word." Sophie leaned over the Azaleas, keeping her voice low to avoid alerting their grandmother. "Mr Singh? I say, Mr Singh? Hello?"

A groan floated from the bushes.

"Don't waste your concern on that scoundrel," said Westman.

"He didn't do anything wrong. How could you be so brutish?" Sophie cast a distressed look his way, then started towards the house.

"Sophie." Westman reached for her elbow, but she snatched her arm away and continued up the path.

Jim tossed him his tailcoat. "You'd better go after her."

While Westman chased Sophie, apologising profusely, Jim checked Mr Singh for signs of consciousness. The scientist groaned again and Jim helped him out of the bushes.

"What happened?" asked Singh, holding his temple.

"Haven't the foggiest," said Jim, covering up Westman's faux pas. "One minute you were standing there, the next you were in the bushes."

Blinks offered him a hot punch.

"No, thank you." Singh winced and held his head. "I'm not feeling well. I... I think I will have to take my leave."

"I'll show you to the door."

"Please pass on my regrets to your grandmother and Miss Penderry."

"Of course, of course. Oh wait, you're bleeding."

Singh brought his fingers away from his temple and found them smudged with red. Not wishing his grandmother to see the graze, Jim searched his pockets for a handkerchief. He found one and handed it to Singh. The other man dabbed his wound gingerly, then froze.

"Is everything all right?" asked Jim, concerned by the odd expression spreading over Singh's face.

Singh turned his wide gaze on him, then stared at the handkerchief. "The scent on this handkerchief, it smells like home. Is this yours?"

Jim's eyebrows knit. "No. Actually, it belongs to a young lady. I really ought to return it to her."

Singh made a half smile and placed the handkerchief in his hand. "Yes. Perhaps you should."

He escorted Singh to the front door, successfully evading his grandmother. When he'd gone, Jim held Bunny's handkerchief to his nose. Singh had a better sense of smell than he did. All he detected was a faint trace of the soap flakes Esme used for his laundry. Maybe the man bumped his head too hard. He tucked the cloth in his pocket and found Westman alone at the back of the soiree. His friend stood grumpily beside a table of handmade greetings cards.

"Is Sophie all right now?" whispered Jim.

"I believe so. Listen, Jim, there's something not right about that Singh fellow."

"What do you mean?"

Westman sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. Call it a feeling."

"Oh, intuition?"

Jim couldn't help but smile. No doubt his friend's suspicions stemmed from the attention the young scientist had paid Sophie. But it was hardly a crime for a gentleman to flatter a young lady.

His grandmother approached. "Ah, I see you've found the Valentine cards. We spent three days making them all by hand. Sweet, aren't they? They're only tuppence each, and the money will go to the Salvation Army."

Jim's smile widened. "Philanthropy, I like it."

"Will you not buy one?"

"Hmm. Alas, I don't see a future Mrs Penderry on the horizon."

"Who said anything about marriage? A valentine can be given anonymously to a lady you admire from afar." She smiled. "I'm sure there must be someone you admire."

He relented with a sigh. "Very well. Since it's for charity, I'll buy one."

He dug into his pocket for two pennies, then dropped them into the collection bowl and selected a card.

"Thank you, lamb."

"Just doing my duty to the Salvation Army. But if I'm to deliver this card, I must take my leave now."

"So there is a young lady?" Primrose beamed.

Jim grinned secretively. "Enjoy the rest of the party, Grandmother."

Later, at home in his study, he stared at the blank interior of the greeting card. Pen nib poised, he considered what to write.

Dear Miss Spencer.

No, wait. That sounded far too formal. He considered using her first name. Berenice. No, still too formal.

Bunny.

Yes, Bunny sounded more affectionate. He inscribed the words neatly on the card.

Dearest Bunny, your beautiful spirit and bravery are beyond compare. Yours truly, J.

He peered down at his buttonhole and the sprig of lucky heather he'd worn to the party. There was no doubt in his mind that Bunny needed it more. When the ink had dried, he plucked the heather from his tailcoat and pressed it between the folds of the card. After everything she'd endured, a bit of gypsy magic couldn't hurt.