Kathleen Tessaro 3-Book Collection: The Flirt, The Debutante, The Perfume Collector. Kathleen Tessaro

So cycling across town had been a harrowing experience. By the time he finally pulled up in front of 45 Chester Square, he was little more than a collection of raw nerves, and sweating profusely, having spent the last quarter of a mile with a growling black Jaguar firmly up his backside.

      On shaky legs, he climbed down, leaning the bike against the metal railings and doubling over to catch his breath. He tried to block out the all-too-vivid memory of Hyde Park Corner; pedalling for all he was worth only to find himself sandwiched in by huge, red buses, leaning on their horns, veering across lanes, sweeping him into fresh flows of speeding cars. Hughie had an epiphany: he might easily die at the hands of this woman in the Range Rover on her way to nothing more pressing than a hair appointment and, as long as he didn’t stop the flow of traffic, no one would care or, in fact, blame her.

      The door of the house opened.

      ‘You may not leave that here,’ a haughty voice informed him. ‘Please remove it at once!’

      Hughie looked up.

      The butler had the knack shared by good domestic staff and public-school masters of instantly rendering those around them inadequate, before they’ve done or said a thing.

      Of course, being a public-school boy, this made Hughie feel right at home.

      ‘Hello!’ He bounded up the steps. ‘Special delivery. By hand, as they say.’

      The butler took the envelope, shuddering as he read it out loud. ‘For “Olivia”. Indeed. And who are you?’

      ‘Just a courier,’ Hughie said. ‘I mean, if anyone asks.’

      ‘I see. You’re not dressed like a typical courier.’

      Hughie looked down at his jeans. ‘All my spandex is in the wash.’

      The man sniffed. ‘Yes, spandex can be difficult.’

      ‘A devil!’

      ‘Best to air-dry it, don’t you find?’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘It’s the same with all the synthetics. And lurex especially. Plastics are the worst.’

      Hughie blinked. ‘Definitely.’ He backed down the steps. ‘Well, OK. Thanks.’

      Gaunt watched in satisfaction as Hughie quickly wheeled the bike around the corner and out of sight.

      Young people were so easily disturbed. It was as if God had created them for his amusement alone.

       The Perfect Plan (Hughie’s Version)

      On the other side of Chester Square, on Lyall Street, Hughie parked his bike once more in front of the Chocolate Society, which had a couple of outdoor tables set up under a neat little brown-and-gold-striped awning. There he unearthed a second Smythson’s card and envelope he’d lifted from Flick’s desk. And, while enjoying a thick cup of dark hot chocolate, he set about writing his own note to Leticia.

      He hadn’t forgotten about her. Since they’d broken up he had thought about little else. Now, Flick had given him a solution. He would seduce Leticia as a mysterious stranger. Before she knew it, she would be hopelessly in love; unable to resist the skills of the professionals. All he needed to do was duplicate exactly whatever Flick prescribed for Olivia.

      Not a bad plan, he congratulated himself.

      Unfortunately, he’d forgotten a pen and so had to borrow one from the man behind the counter. It was red. And his own handwriting wasn’t nearly as stylish as Flick’s; he had a bad habit of writing all in capital letters which gave the note a slightly sinister air – just one step up from cutting and pasting letters out of newspapers. It was only after he’d inadvertently smeared a bit of Belgium’s best across one corner that he remembered the importance of the gloves and what a fuss Flick had made over them. But then again, Flick was a woman. They were apt to be a bit over the top about details. So, having only bothered to steal one spare card, he wiped it off as best he could and popped it into the envelope.