by Anne Gracie
“Abby and Damaris? What’s it got to do with them?”
He shrugged. “You’re makin’ clothes for them and Jane, aren’t you? I suppose they want to make sure you have the right materials—and before you bite my nose off again, it’s not going to cost either of them a penny, either—nor me. It’ll all come out of Max and Freddy’s share.”
She glared at him, unconvinced. “So you’re not paying for me?”
“Not a penny. Ask them, if you don’t believe me. It’s nothin’ to do with me—I’m just your escort. Max and I arranged it all last night, when we heard the Derry Lass had been sighted. Mai-Lin is famous for finding extra special things.”
She didn’t look happy—pride was a strange and unpredictable thing—but he could see her turning over the idea in her mind. And then something else occurred to her. “But all that bargaining I did with Mai–Lin.”
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you? And so did she.”
“But I bargained her prices down so low—oh, gawd, she’ll think I’m a right royal skinflint.”
Flynn stared at her a moment—who the hell would ever understand women? First she was crowing at getting the better of Mai-Lin in a bargain, now she was all guilty over that same bargain. He began to laugh.
Daisy scowled at him. “What’s so bloomin’ funny?”
But Flynn knew better than to explain. He gazed out of the carriage window for a moment, watching the buildings pass by, and then changed the subject. “The day has fined up a treat, now the fog has lifted. Goin’ for a walk in the park this afternoon, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Not even to look at the fashionable ladies and see what they’re wearin’?”
She shook her head. “Got no time to waste. Too much work to do. Anyway, I’ve seen all the fashions I need to. I make me own styles.”
There was a little pause. Even in the dim light of the carriage Flynn could see how pale and tired-looking Daisy was, now her excitement had passed. He’d noticed it earlier, but he’d put it down to her fear of the water. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes that never used to be there. “Lady Bea said that you never go out with her or the girls anymore.”
“That’s right. I ain’t hunting for a husband. I got no time to waste on such things.”
His brows rose. “You’re not interested in marriage?”
“Nope.”
“Not at all?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?” In Flynn’s experience, every girl wanted a husband.
“Oh, gawd, Flynn, don’t you start.”
He frowned. “Start what?”
“Lady Bea goes on at me all the time about it. Wants to turn me into a lady of leisure.” She snorted.
Flynn couldn’t see the objection. If Daisy were married she wouldn’t be looking so worn out, she wouldn’t be running herself ragged “sewing every hour God sends” for the gentry. And getting up at four in the morning.
“Don’t you want children?” It was the main reason Flynn was intent on marrying; he wanted children most of all. To have a family again.
“Nope.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “Unnatural, ain’t I?”
He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but she went on cheerily, “Never had nuffin’ to do with kids, and babies scare me to death. Always screaming, puking or wetting themselves—and worse! And babies are so little and fragile . . . They die too easy.” She grimaced. “So, no kids for me, thank you very much.”
The carriage rattled over the cobbles. Flynn pondered her words. He’d never met a woman who didn’t want kids—or at least pretend to want them. He wondered if it was to do with her illegitimacy. She’d never made any secret of being born “on the wrong side of the blanket.” “How do you feel about your sisters havin’ children?”
“That’s different. I’ll be just an aunt. Aunts can come and go. They’re not responsible, not stuck with the kid forever.”
“It won’t worry you when Abby or Damaris start increasing?”
“Not a bit.” She gave a soft smile. “Abby was born to be a mother. A baby to Abby would be heaven on a plate—or in a basket. She’ll make a lovely mother, and so will Damaris. And Jane, too, when her time comes. Not me.”
He thought about that for a moment. “So what’s heaven on a plate to you?”
“To me?” She fell silent, then slid him a cautious glance.
“Go on.” He was curious. He’d never met a woman like Daisy.
“Me own shop—one that I own meself—in the best part of town.” She darted another glance at him and, encouraged by his interest, went on in a rush, “I want it to be all elegant and posh, wiv a big bay window and lots of light and velvet curtains and soft rugs on the floor so you can’t even hear yourself walkin’. And inside I’ll have gorgeous big gilt-framed looking glasses so people can look at themselves in beautiful clothes—my beautiful clothes—that I design and make myself, I mean. And they’ll be ladies, real proper toffs, there to buy—”
The carriage hit a pothole and bumped roughly, and she grabbed the seat to steady herself. She glanced at Flynn, suddenly self-conscious. “You probably think it’s stupid, a bit of foolish—”
“I don’t,” he said quietly. “I think it’s a grand dream to have. One day I’ll tell you a story about a boy who stood barefoot on the Dublin docks, gazin’ out to sea, dreaming of havin’ a ship of his own.” He gave her a wry smile. “More than foolish some would say, considerin’ I could barely even feed meself at the time, but—” He glanced outside as the carriage came to a halt. “Here you are back home, so I’ll save that tale for another day.”
He went to hand her down from the carriage but again, she rejected his help. He passed the big parcel of fabrics to William, the footman who’d appeared the moment the carriage had stopped.
Flynn watched as Daisy hurried up the front steps. He knew she was sewing dresses for the other girls, knew she was keen to make money, but until this morning he hadn’t quite realized the scope of her ambition. Her own shop, in the best part of town.
He was glad now that he’d brought Daisy to the ship for the first look at the cargo. Not that he’d ever tell anyone about his private little ritual, but if he ever did, he thought this girl, with her soft voice, her rough accent and her dreaming eyes, might just understand . . . .
She knew what it was to stand in the gutter and look up at the stars.
He climbed into the carriage and gave the driver the address of the Earl of Compton. Time to make a morning call on Lady Elizabeth Compton.
Strictly speaking he was calling on Lord Compton—single gentlemen did not make morning calls on single ladies—but on Flynn’s last two visits, after a few minutes’ conversation in the library—nothing of any consequence—Lord Compton had taken him into the drawing room where his daughter and her chaperone were receiving guests. A few further minutes of conversation, then Lord Compton would make some excuse and depart, leaving Flynn with his daughter and her visitors.
It suited Flynn quite well. There was little chance of any personal conversation, but it was pleasant enough, and he was able to observe how Lady Elizabeth conducted herself in company.
Today there were three gentlemen—two youngish, one elderly—and half a dozen ladies of various ages; mamas and their eligible young daughters, Flynn gathered after Lord Compton had introduced them.
Lady Elizabeth greeted him with cool composure—perfectly friendly, of course, but reserved—and invited him to be seated. She never did show much emotion, but was always perfectly, immaculately polite to him. A perfect lady, in fact. Today she was dressed in pale yellow, her smooth fair hair drawn back in an elegant bun. She wasn’t beautiful, but when she smiled she looked quite pretty.
She didn’t often smile, though. She was in a difficult situation, poor girl—trying to look rich and serene, when Flynn—and probably the whole wor
ld—knew Lord Compton was deep in debt. No doubt once she realized Flynn would settle those debts, she’d smile more.
As he’d hoped, he’d arrived just in time for tea to be served. Flynn sat back in his chair, watching with satisfaction as Lady Elizabeth poured tea into dainty china cups and directed her footman to hand around small cakes and biscuits.
She’d served tea to her guests the first time Flynn had visited her home, and as he’d watched the way she poured tea and handed around cups, he was struck by her elegance, her quiet competence as she ruled the tea table, ensuring each person had exactly what he wanted.
Something about the way she did it felt right, somehow. He remembered thinking at the time that it might be a sign.
He drank his tea—China tea, and weak as cat’s p—water—and munched on some biscuits. Few of the ladies addressed him directly, but he gained more than his fair share of sideways looks, some approving, some curious and some downright disapproving. The two young gentlemen eyed him with lightly disguised hostility, and the old gentleman with a shrewdly cynical expression. He was some kind of uncle or cousin, Flynn knew. Probably knew exactly what was going on.
Flynn didn’t give a toss for the opinions of any of them. They discussed the latest opera. He hadn’t seen it. They discussed some poem by a fellow called Byron. Flynn hadn’t read it.
He was bored. These society people thought themselves so sophisticated, but he doubted they’d ever even been out of England. Not that it mattered. He wasn’t marrying them. He finished his tea.
After a polite interval he leaned forward and invited Lady Elizabeth to go for a drive in the park the following day. She accepted. He stood and took his leave, and the conversation died.
In the hallway he paused to take his hat and coat from a footman and he heard the buzz of speculation that followed his departure.
He smiled to himself. Toffs thrived on gossip. The invitation to drive had just confirmed his serious interest in Lady Elizabeth. He could almost hear what they were thinking, if not saying aloud in front of Lady Elizabeth: Whatever was the world coming to when a jumped-up Irishman of no background at all could openly court an English earl’s daughter?
Lord Compton had indicated that Lady Elizabeth would welcome his suit, and that was enough for Flynn.
A few more of these morning visits, a few more park outings, a few more balls and routs and whatever else passed for an acceptable time to court a lady and he’d pop the question.
* * *
That evening Flynn joined Max and Freddy for dinner at their club—Whites, in St James Street. The ladies—all except Daisy—were attending some private musical evening; the men were escaping from it, citing business as an excuse.
Flynn was a guest, not a member of the club. Both Max and Freddy had offered to propose him, but Flynn had no intention of applying for membership just yet—at this stage he’d probably be blackballed in the election; all it took was one black ball among all the white balls in the secret ballot and his membership would be refused.
Flynn was too canny to allow that to happen. He’d play the long game—come as Max or Freddy’s guest and let the other members get to know the jumped-up-nouveau-riche-Irishman gradually. And when the time came he’d ask the Earl of Compton to propose him—he’d be the earl’s son-in-law by then, if all went to plan.
A waiter came and took their order, and the talk turned to their latest shipment. The transfer from the ship to their own warehouse had been successfully completed, and their man of affairs, Bartlett, was, according to Max, ecstatic about the potential profits. Bartlett was a minor partner in the company.
Their meals arrived—roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for Max, steak-and-kidney pudding for Flynn, and Dover sole and potatoes duchesse for Freddy. Conversation died as the men turned to the serious business of dinner.
Pudding followed, and then port and brandy were brought out.
“So, Flynn, how is the search for a wife progressing?” Max asked when the waiter had gone. “Anyone take your fancy yet?”
Flynn hesitated. He was a bit superstitious about discussing a deal before it was finalized.
“I might have found someone,” he said cautiously. “I’ll know more in a fortnight.”
“A fortnight?”
“I’ve been invited to visit her home in the country,” he said, deliberately vague.
“Anywhere in particular?”
“Kent.”
Freddy and Max exchanged looks. “Hah! Lizzie Compton—I told you, Max,” Freddy said triumphantly. “Laid a pony on it,” he told Flynn. “Wish I’d laid a monkey, now.”
“Dammit, you’ve been betting on me?”
“Why not?” Freddy added earnestly, “Not a public bet. Not in the club betting book or anything, just a small private wager between friends.”
Flynn shook his head. Twenty-five pounds wasn’t exactly a small bet, but he supposed it was better than five hundred. “Well, I’ll thank you to keep mum about it. I don’t want anyone to know—not your wives, not anyone—until everything is decided.”
He turned to Freddy. “How the devil did you work it out anyway?”
“Not too difficult, given your requirements. And when you said Kent, it clinched it.”
“How? There are dozens of eligible girls in Kent.”
Freddy snorted. “You forget that until recently I was acquainted with every muffin on the marriage mart, know who they are and where they come from and what they want.” He saw Flynn’s expression and added hastily, “Not that I’m saying Lizzie Compton is a muffin, precisely. Very pleasant girl, I’m sure. Pretty enough little thing, but horribly—er, delightfully marriage-minded—which is exactly what you want, is it not, Flynn, dear fellow, so there—all working out perfectly.” He took a large gulp of brandy.
Max leaned forward and said quietly, “I suppose you know that Compton is all but under the hatches. He’ll be looking to you to tow him out of the River Tick.”
Flynn nodded. “I didn’t expect an earl’s daughter to come cheap.” He probably knew more about the earl’s debts than most people; he’d investigated the man’s situation thoroughly before he’d approached him.
It was another reason why he didn’t want to discuss his marriage until it was settled. There were financial details to be hammered out before a final agreement was made between himself and Lord Compton. And the girl to court, of course.
Max frowned slightly, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it.
Flynn sipped his cognac. Max didn’t approve? Too bad. It was different for Max; he might have been involved in trade along with Flynn, but being a lord, Max’s position in society was assured; he could afford to marry for love—and had.
For someone like Flynn, marriage—especially marriage into a society family—was a business. The earl’s crippling debts were the reason—the only reason—Flynn would be acceptable as a son-in-law.
Flynn had calculated the costs and decided he could afford them—all going to plan. All that was needed then was to propose to the girl. And for her to accept him. Her father had given him no reason to think she would not. “Lizzie knows her duty,” he’d told Flynn.
Flynn didn’t much like being thought of as a duty, but he was a practical man, and Lady Elizabeth Compton would suit his purposes perfectly. He didn’t need hearts and flowers.
Besides, that was her father’s view of things; he had yet to work out Lady Elizabeth’s attitude.
Flynn was optimistic: He’d never had any trouble with women before.
Chapter Four
It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!
—JANE AUSTEN,
EMMA
The next morning, Flynn received a package from Mai-Lin; a parcel tied with string. In her note she apologized for not giving this to him the day before, but she had been so enjoyably distracted by meeting the delightful Miss Daisy Chance, she’d quite forgotten.
Intrigued, Flynn pulled out a knife and cut the string. Removing several layers of thick brown paper, he found a lovely piece of embroidered silk satin wrapped around a carved mahogany box. Inside the felt-lined, purpose-built box was a pair of exquisitely carved jade vases, pale green, and so intricately carved they might have been made of wax. Each had its own especially made carved wooden stand.
He’d never seen anything quite so lovely. It was a matched pair, but each vase was unique; a simple classic lidded vase shape, seemingly set casually in among flowers, so that water irises grew up the side of one vase, and a sprig of blossom carelessly rested on the lid, as if fallen there by accident. The other vase had a vine twining up it, and a tiny bird fluttering in the branches, as if sipping nectar. And yet each vase was carved from a single piece of jade. The artistic skill involved . . . It quite took his breath away.
When he’d finished examining the vases, he replaced them carefully in their box, and set it aside; they would be displayed next in the fine home he intended to make, along with the other beautiful pieces he’d collected over the years. They were not for his bachelor lodgings.
He wondered whether Lady Elizabeth liked jade. Not that it mattered.
He wrote a quick note of thanks to Mai-Lin—she’d outdone herself this time—sealed the note, and picked up the piece of silk. A thought occurred to him, and he held the fabric up against his chest and glanced at his reflection in the looking-glass. Two vividly colored peacocks, their tails spread gorgeously, strutting their stuff . . .
Behind him, his valet sniffed. Flynn hid a grin. Tibbins’s sniffs were a language all of their own.
“Shall I clear that rubbish away, sir?” Tibbins had already disposed of the brown paper. He reached for the fabric.