The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  She looked at him through the holes in her mask. “Lord Davenham and Mr. Monkton-Coombes are gentlemen.”

  There was a long silence. They danced on. After a moment, Lady Elizabeth said in a bright tone, “That’s a very interesting waistcoat. Are they sea-monsters or dragons?”

  “Dragons,” Flynn said shortly. Now she was trying to butter him up.

  They finished the rest of the dance in silence. As he returned her to her seat, where her chaperone was waiting, she eyed him worriedly. “I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. Flynn. You did ask me to be truthful.”

  “I know.” He forced a smile. “Teach me to be careful what I ask for, won’t it?” She looked truly anxious, so he added, “Don’t worry, lass—I’ve got a thick enough skin.”

  Her gaze dropped immediately to his hands.

  His voice only grated a little as he said, “I’ll see you after supper.”

  She smiled up at him, relieved. “Yes, the last waltz. I look forward to it.”

  After that Flynn wasn’t much in the mood for dancing or talking. It wasn’t the girl’s fault—he had asked her to be truthful. And he wasn’t a gentleman—he made no pretense to be one, so why had that comment irritated him so much?

  He propped himself up against one of the columns that encircled the dance floor and sardonically eyed the colorful throng. A short fat bumblebee with fuzzy wings and bandy yellow legs danced by with a tall elderly fairy in floating draperies, followed by an elderly man in a toga dancing with a woman dressed as Cleopatra.

  Dammit, Daisy ought to be here. Some of these costumes were fantastical and imaginative, and some downright ridiculous. Either way, she would have loved it.

  * * *

  Daisy heard the doorbell ringing below, but took no notice. It was late, almost eleven. Featherby would send whoever it was away. Everyone they knew would be at the masquerade ball.

  A moment later Featherby knocked on her door. “Mr. Flynn is below, miss.”

  Daisy frowned. She’d thought Flynn was going to the ball as well. “Din’t you tell him everyone was out?”

  “He asked to speak to you, miss.”

  “Me? Whatever for?” Bemused, Daisy put her sewing aside, and stretched. It was probably time to finish up anyway. She’d been at it since before dawn. Her back ached and her eyes were sore.

  A quick glance in the looking glass told her she looked as worn out as she felt. Flynn wouldn’t care what she looked like—not that she wanted him to notice, but a girl had her pride. She tidied her hair, pinched a bit of color into her cheeks and went downstairs.

  Flynn, dressed as a very colorful pirate, was seated in the drawing room. He rose as Daisy entered.

  “Gawd, it’s a bloomin’ rainbow come to call,” she exclaimed from the doorway. She raised her hand as if to shield her eyes, but under cover of her hand, she looked her fill. All those colors should have clashed, but somehow, he carried it off. He was a beautiful-looking man and the brash confidence with which he carried himself was downright irresistible.

  “Very funny,” Flynn said, smoothing down his coat with a satisfied expression. “Evenin’, Daisy.”

  She grinned. “You shoulda been born in Lady Bea’s time. The gents in her day were proper peacocks—wearin’ silks and satins and brocades in all colors. Not like today, when evenin’ dress for men is like . . . magpies—all black and white.”

  He laughed. “If I’d been born in Lady Bea’s day she would have eaten me alive.”

  “Pooh, you’d handle her the same way as you do now—perfect,” Daisy said as she seated herself.

  Featherby had provided Flynn with a brandy, and a few moments later William appeared with a tray containing a teapot, a plate of finger sandwiches, and some of the little curd cakes she was so fond of. From the way Flynn’s eyes lit up at the sight, he liked them too.

  “I thought you were goin’ to the masquerade with the others. You’re dressed for it, right enough. Lost your invitation?”

  “No, I was there earlier.”

  Daisy poured herself a cup of tea. “Want one?” He shook his head and raised his brandy glass.

  “So what ’appened?”

  He didn’t answer, just picked up the plate of sandwiches and offered it to her.

  Knowing he wouldn’t eat unless she did, she took one. “Quarreled with your young lady, did you?”

  He didn’t meet her gaze, but said carelessly, “I’ve already danced once with Lady Elizabeth—that’s her name: Lady Elizabeth Compton—and I promised her I’d be back for the last waltz of the evening. At these affairs you’re only allowed two dances with the one girl.” He took a sandwich and demolished it in two bites.

  “So why are you here then, instead of dancing with some of those other girls?”

  He sipped his brandy. “Lady Beatrice told me she’d arranged to have you invited, but that you refused because you had work to do.”

  “I do,” Daisy said. “You of all people should understand that.”

  “I understand more than you think.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re looking exhausted,” he said bluntly.

  “So what? Hard work never killed nobody. I’m startin’ a business, remember?”

  “I know, and that’s why I decided to come tonight, when nobody else was here to overhear what I have to say.”

  Daisy gave him a flinty look. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “Nothing. But I know a lot more about how to run a business than you do, and I have to tell you, you’re goin’ about it the wrong way.”

  Daisy stiffened. She set down her teacup with a clatter. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Flynn, and now you’ve told me, you can get back to your bloody ball.”

  “Settle down, firebrand, I mean no insult.”

  “No? You tell me I’m doin’ everything wrong—me, who’s workin’ my fingers to the bone every hour God sends, making beautiful clothes for Jane and the others—clothes that other ladies want to order—an’ you expect me not to be angry? Bloody oath, I’m angry! What the hell would you know about ladies’ clothin’ anyway?”

  “Nothing,” Flynn said calmly. “You’re excellent at designing and makin’ clothes. But you said it yourself, woman—you’re ‘workin’ your fingers to the bone every hour God sends.’ And not goin’ out. I haven’t seen you at the park for weeks, and now I hear you turned down the opportunity to go to a ball—two balls if you count tonight—that the rest of the world would kill to attend. It’s not like you, Daisy.”

  To her great chagrin, Daisy felt her eyes pricking with unshed tears. Only because her eyes were sore, she told herself. She blinked them fiercely away. “Yeah, well, I been busy.”

  “Tryin’ to do it all yourself,” Flynn agreed.

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Everythin’,” Flynn said. “You can’t expect to start a business by doin’ all the work yourself.”

  “I don’t, Mr. Know-it-all! Jane and Abby and Damaris all help out as much as they can, and Lady Bea lets two of her maids do some of the sewing in their spare time.”

  Flynn nodded. “And still, it’s not enough. You’ve overreached yourself, haven’t you?”

  “No, I bloody well have not.”

  Flynn grinned. “The swear words are flying tonight. Struck a nerve, haven’t I?”

  Daisy wanted to throw the teapot at him. How the hell did he know?

  “What were you doin’ before I got here tonight?”

  “Sewin’,” she muttered sullenly.

  “Sewin’ what?”

  She glared at him. “Seams on a dress, though what it’s got to do with you—”

  “Could anyone else sew those seams?”

  “Of course. But there ain’t anyone—”

  “And w
hat is it that you do that nobody else can?”

  She bristled. “Are you sayin’ that anyone can do what I’m doin’?”

  “Quite the opposite. Think, Daisy—what do you do in this business that nobody else can? Not Jane or Abby or Damaris or the maids—only you.”

  She rolled her eyes. It was obvious what she did that nobody else could. “I come up with the designs, of course.”

  “Exactly.” He drained his glass and sat back in his chair. “Your trouble is, you’re thinkin’ too small.”

  Too small? She glared at him. “You’re talkin’ out yer arse, Flynn! There’s nothin’ small about wantin’ to become the top modiste in London!”

  “Nothing wrong with the ambition, no—it’s the way you’re goin’ about it that’s too small. You need proper premises to work in—not your old bedroom—and you need to hire proper seamstresses to do the bulk of the work.”

  She snorted with bitter laughter. “Oh, yes, fine—proper premises and proper seamstresses. And what do I use for money, eh? Oh, of course”—she hit her forehead in a mocking gesture—“why don’t I use all them bags of gold I keep lyin’ around under my bed? They’re only gatherin’ dust.”

  “You need a partner.”

  “I bloody don’t,” she flashed. “Nobody’s gettin’ their mitts on my business.” She’d lost everything twice in her life and she wasn’t about to make it three times. Besides, she’d had enough of other people telling her what to do.

  “Don’t dismiss the idea before you know what I’m talking about. I’m talkin’ about a silent partner.”

  “I could do wiv a bit of silence right now.”

  He ignored her. “Did I ever tell you about how Max and I got started with our trading company?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, but continued. “We met on board ship. I’d been at sea for a few years by then an’ had worked me way up to third mate. He was a gentleman passenger, just startin’ out, aiming to become a trader. I had a few quid saved, he had barely a bean. But we had plans, both of us, or maybe I should call them dreams—big dreams.” He looked at her. “Like you have.”

  Daisy waited, caught, despite herself.

  “We decided to form a partnership—Max would use my savin’s to acquire goods to trade, and then I’d sell them when me shop docked in England.”

  “Gawd, you were a trustin’ soul, weren’t you? Or maybe it was Max who was the trustin’ one.”

  “There was trust on both sides. I trusted him with me savin’s, he trusted me with the profit. Slowly we built up our profits—but they were slow. It wasn’t until Hyphen-Hyphen’s aunt died—”

  “Damaris’s Freddy—his aunt?”

  Flynn nodded. “It might have been his great-aunt, I don’t recall—but whoever she was, she left him a good-sized lump of cash. And instead of blowin’ it all on high living, like most young gents would, he decided to invest in our dream—Max had written to him, you see—and he used the money to become our silent partner.”

  Daisy folded her arms, feigning disinterest. She was still cross with Flynn, but she wanted to know more. Why hadn’t she heard about this from Damaris? Probably because Freddy never talked about such stuff as business to ladies. Nor did Max. Toffs didn’t. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listenin’.”

  “We used Hyphen-Hyphen’s nest egg to launch ourselves in a big way—we amassed as much cargo as we could afford—choosing the kind of goods that we knew would make a good profit, and hired a ship. I captained it and sailed it to London. We risked everything on that first cargo, but the risk paid off.

  “It was the start of our trading empire—and in case you don’t know, ’cause I’m told it’s vulgar to talk about this kind of thing in polite company, Flynn and Co. is one of the biggest private trading companies in the British Empire.”

  He paused a moment to let that sink in. “And it all started because Max and I took on a silent partner, who trusted us with his money.” She didn’t say anything, so he added, “And we all benefited—Max, me, Hyphen-Hyphen and Blake Ashton, the fourth partner. You haven’t met him yet. He’s still out east somewhere.”

  Daisy nibbled on a curd cake, turning over his story in her mind. “So what’s the story of your success got to do with me and my dressmakin’?” She thought she understood, but she wasn’t sure.

  “If you took on a silent partner, you’d have enough money to rent a premises and hire some seamstresses. If you had enough people to do all the work, you could spend your time using your talent for designing, instead of sewing seams into the night. You could be meeting ladies of the ton and increasing orders that way, instead of living like a hermit. And you’d be producing more clothing. In other words, you could turn it into a proper business, instead of a backyard operation.”

  He painted an enticing picture all right: her own premises, a team of seamstresses working under her direction. Herself, swannin’ around the ton, minglin’ with duchesses and takin’ orders. Not that she wanted to mingle with duchesses. It was their money she wanted, not their company.

  But Daisy knew a fairy tale when she heard it—they always sounded too good to be true. And there was always a hidden cost. “Did Freddy tell you what to do with his money?”

  “No, though he did insist on being able to inspect the books. It’s how he got interested in business, as a matter of fact. Turns out he had a talent for it.”

  “So if I took on a silent partner, he wouldn’t be tellin’ me what to do all the time? He’d stay out of me way?”

  Flynn pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say that. Speakin’ hypothetically, of course, if, say, the silent partner were a man like meself, he might want to make sure you knew how to keep account books properly, might want to offer an occasional bit of advice—”

  “Nope. Not interested.” Daisy stood abruptly, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “Thank you for visitin’, Mr. Flynn. It’s time to go back to Lady Liz now. She’ll be wantin’ her dance. Thank you for the story and the unwanted advice.”

  Flynn stood with a rueful expression on his face. “Don’t be too hasty to dismiss the idea, Daisy. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, I will, you can be sure of that.” She’d think about it, but that was all. She’d had enough of people taking over her things. All her life, whenever she’d managed to get something of her own, somebody—usually a man—always managed to grab it for himself.

  And the law—damn it to hell and back—always favored the bloody man.

  Twice in her life she’d lost everything. Never again.

  She wasn’t a trusting soul like Flynn had been. Or maybe it was Freddy who’d been the trusting soul. Whatever, Daisy wasn’t big on trust anymore.

  Last year, after working hard all her life, she’d ended up on the streets, homeless and almost broke—again—with only a small bundle of fabric scraps, leftovers and other people’s discards. And that wasn’t down to any man, but to Daisy’s own . . . foolishness. Trusting the wrong person—again.

  If it weren’t for Abby and her sisters—and Lady Bea—she’d never have had the opportunity to try and make her dream come true.

  All her life she’d been at somebody else’s beck and call—everybody else’s. She’d been the lowest of the low.

  Now she had a chance—a real chance—to make something of herself, and she wasn’t going to risk losing it. Not again.

  And more than anything she wanted to be her own boss. She’d had a taste of freedom at Lady Beatrice’s and it was in her blood now. She wasn’t ever going back to being bossed around by other people, being told what to do and how to do it and when to do it.

  No, she wanted to do this her way, and if she failed, she’d have only herself to blame.

  She didn’t mind the idea of a silent partner, but a male partner—even one like Flynn, who she liked and almost trusted—was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. As far as
most people were concerned, property—and a business was property—was a man’s domain. If there was a dispute, well, the law was made by men for men. She had no illusions about that.

  In any case, she’d bet her last penny that with the best will in the world, Flynn would never stay silent, never let her decide things for herself. He was a man too used to being in command.

  Besides, she fancied him too much, and God help a girl who went into business with a man she fancied. Fruit, ripe for the picking.

  * * *

  “I’m thinkin’ it might be pleasant for you and me to step out into the garden, and sit this one out,” Flynn said, tucking Lady Elizabeth’s arm into his. “It’s very warm in here and you’re looking a wee bit flushed.”

  “Oh, but—” She hung back. “It’s a lovely idea, but I don’t think we should. It’s not quite . . . proper.”

  She turned a look of subtle entreaty on her chaperone, but her father, who was standing close by, said in a brusque voice, “Don’t be missish girl—nothing’s going to happen to you. Go on outside with Mr. Flynn.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, her voice almost . . . defeated. As if her father was flinging her to the wolves.

  Flynn gritted his teeth. For two pins he’d drop the whole idea and go home. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He’d had enough female trouble this evening.

  First Lady Elizabeth’s tactlessness earlier in the evening, then Daisy, flinging back his offer of a silent partnership in his teeth, as if he’d mortally insulted her—stubborn little wench! And now this, a young lady he was courting acting as if an invitation to walk in the garden was tantamount to an offer of rape!

  But once he’d charted a course, he followed it through to the end—unless there were shoals ahead, or some unseen obstacle. He’d planned to kiss Lady Elizabeth tonight and he’d damned well do it.

  He led her into the garden. At first they simply strolled together, her arm tucked into his, enjoying the mild evening, and the colored lights that bathed the garden in reds and yellows and pinks and blues—and left the rest in shadows. Flynn had plans for those shadows.

  The occasional murmur and giggle from a darkened corner showed he wasn’t the only one making use of the garden for a spot of dalliance, though by comparison, his plans were relatively chaste. A couple of kisses, a bit of a cuddle, and then he’d see where they’d go from there.