The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  “Daisy, my dear gel,” Lady Beatrice interrupted. “One does not talk about such vulgar topics at the dinner table.”

  “I’m not being vulgar,” Daisy explained. “I’m asking about business.”

  “Which is a vulgar topic,” the old lady said. “Anything to do with money is. Abby dear, tell me more about this play you are attending tonight. Who did you say is performing?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. The list of things a lady wasn’t allowed to say was never-ending. She was bloody glad she wasn’t going to be one—she’d never be able to open her mouth.

  As Abby talked about the play, Freddy leaned towards Daisy and murmured, “After dinner. Meet you in the front parlor. Explain then.”

  Daisy grinned. “Thanks, Freddy.”

  * * *

  “But why do you need to know all this?” Max asked. He had come with Freddy, and the two of them had spent the last fifteen minutes being peppered with questions about how Freddy had come to be a silent partner in Flynn and Co. and how the partnership had worked.

  “I’ve been thinking about taking on a silent partner meself,” Daisy told him. “Get the money I need to open a shop.”

  “We’ll fund you,” Max said. “You should have mentioned it sooner.”

  “Yes, of course,” Freddy said. “Or if you don’t want Max and me, the girls would love to invest in your business, I’m sure. In fact, come to think of it, didn’t Damaris ask you about it a while back?”

  “Yeah, she did, and I turned her down.” Daisy turned to Max. “And thanks for offering, Max. I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t want to involve family.”

  He frowned. “But that’s what family is for.”

  “Not for me it isn’t,” she said firmly. If it all went belly-up she didn’t want her family involved. She’d only just gotten herself a family and she valued it too much—valued them too much to risk them in any way.

  This way it was only money. Money came and money went.

  Of herself and her ability to make beautiful clothes, she was confident. The ability to manage bigger amounts of money, and employ staff? And attracting the right sort of customers? And making sure they paid their bills? In those areas she was still to be tested.

  “Ask Flynn, then,” Freddy said. “He’d be in it like a shot. Always has an eye out for a good investment.”

  “No, not friends neither. I don’t ask people for favors.”

  Freddy snorted. “You’re too stiff-necked for your own good, young Daisy. Business is all about trading favors.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t like owing people. And I won’t take charity.”

  Max said dryly, “Freddy and I already have ample evidence of your pride and self-reliance. In some cases that’s admirable, but—”

  “The thing is, I’ve got someone who’s interested. She’s not a friend—more a customer, and an acquaintance—and she’s got a nest egg, an inheritance from an aunt, just like you had, Freddy, and she’s interested in what she calls ‘investing.’ So I thought I’d ask for your advice.”

  “What do you know of this woman?” Max asked.

  “Not much. She’s a widow—her husband was related to Lady Gelbart’s husband. Lady Gelbart introduced us—she brought her to the literary society. Mrs. Foster—that’s her name—said her husband left her very well off. She called the inheritance free money and wants to . . . I dunno, play at being a businesswoman, I suppose.”

  She liked Mrs. Foster, and she’d do her damnedest to make the business a success, but this way it wasn’t personal. Only money.

  She gave a silent snort. Hark at her thinking only money as if it grew on trees.

  Max and Freddy exchanged glances. “How much does this woman want you to put up?”

  “Nothing. She said she’d give me the money to get everything set up.” She told them how much Mrs. Foster was willing to invest and they exchanged glances a second time. “She said we’d have to get papers drawn up, to protect both our interests, but that I’d own fifty-one percent of the business.” She sat back. “So what I want to know from you two is, what’s the catch?”

  There was a long silence, finally Freddy shook his head. “Can’t see one myself—not from what you’ve told us.”

  Max nodded. “It will all depend on the paperwork—the legal agreement she mentioned. Get Bartlett, our man of business, to arrange it. He’s one hundred percent trustworthy, and he’ll make sure there are no nasty hidden clauses to catch you out.”

  He added, “And don’t look like that. You’re not the only one who worries about the family, you know. I accept that you don’t want us involved, but I won’t have Abby worrying—”

  “Or Damaris,” Freddy interjected.

  “That’s right,” Max continued. “You’re our sister too and we protect what’s ours.”

  He fished his card case from his pocket, scribbled something on the back of a card, and handed it to her. “Give Bartlett that. It will ensure his full cooperation. And when the paperwork is drafted, bring a copy to me before you sign anything.”

  “I’ll look at it too.” Freddy rose from his seat. “And that’s not a favor, Daisy-girl—that’s what brothers-in-law are for.”

  * * *

  Things moved very quickly after that. Max arranged for Bartlett to call on Daisy the very next day—he didn’t think it suitable for Daisy to go to Bartlett’s place of work, which was the headquarters of Flynn and Co.

  Daisy wasn’t so sure about that—she would have liked to see inside the offices of a worldwide trading operation—but of course, she wasn’t about to argue. Max was doing her a favor, after all.

  But it did cross her mind that Flynn wouldn’t be so stuffy about it.

  She hadn’t breathed a word of any of it to Flynn. She didn’t want to tell him until everything was finalized, and that would depend on whether the silent partnership with Mrs. Foster went ahead or not.

  True to his word, he’d been back, and back, visiting her as frequently as ever. Not to pester her, which she couldn’t have borne, but because he told her, “I don’t aim to lose my best friend over this.”

  Best friend. She felt a glow at his words.

  “But don’t think I’m givin’ up,” he’d added. “I’ll ask you just once, every day, in case you change your mind.”

  She wouldn’t, but she was glad to know she’d be able to keep seeing him. Even though it hurt. And even though she wanted him fiercer than ever.

  But it couldn’t be. When it came to Flynn, it was look but don’t touch.

  * * *

  Bartlett called on Daisy first thing in the morning—Lady Beatrice wasn’t even awake. He talked to her about the partnership, what she wanted out of it, how she wanted to run her business and took her through every angle and permutation, peppering her with questions until she was quite dizzy.

  He told her he’d call on Mrs. Foster’s legal man next. “But don’t look so worried, Miss Chance,” he said as he tucked his meticulous and copious notes into a leather-bound folder. “We’ll protect your interests. It all looks quite straightforward, but I’ll make sure everything’s tied up nice and tight.” He smiled. “I must say, it’s quite a change to be in on a business enterprise at the beginning. I look forward to watching your business grow.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears,” Daisy said fervently. “Thanks, Mr. Bartlett.”

  He paused at the door. “Will you be wanting any assistance with finding a suitable premises? Because if you were, I’d be delighted to assist you.”

  She hesitated, not wanting to ask for too much.

  He added, “I found this house for Lady Beatrice, and I also found the property that’s Lord and Lady Davenham’s London residence. Property is something of an interest of mine, so if you’d like . . .”

  “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Bartlett, but I dunno.” Bar
tlett might be good at finding posh houses for rich folks, but a shop was a different matter altogether.

  “What if I take a look at what’s currently on offer and send you a list of possibilities? You could waste a lot of time, otherwise.”

  Daisy considered it. It would cost her extra, no doubt, but if it saved her time . . . “Won’t it take you away from your work—your proper work, I mean? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble or nothing.”

  Bartlett smiled. “It won’t get me into trouble—Lord Davenham himself suggested it. Besides, I have assistants who can deal with whatever comes up. Believe me, I’d enjoy the change.”

  “Then thanks, Mr. Bartlett, I’ll take you up on that. Let me know what I need to do.”

  “I’ll stay in touch.”

  “And Mr. Bartlett, would you mind not mentioning any of this to Mr. Flynn? I’d like to keep it a secret for a little while.” Bartlett looked a bit uncomfortable—Flynn was his employer after all—so she added, “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

  Bartlett gave a short, clipped bow. “Trust me.”

  * * *

  Within a few days, the silent partner agreement between Daisy and Mrs. Foster had been hammered out, the documents signed by both parties and a business account opened at the bank Bartlett recommended. Since it was the one that also dealt with Flynn and Co., Daisy was happy to go along with it.

  Truth to tell, it was all rather intimidating. She’d hardly understood a word of the legal papers, outlined on thick legal paper, embossed and witnessed and sealed with red wax. And the sums involved were frightening to say the least. And the speed with which it all took place, it quite took her breath away.

  But Bartlett explained everything in words she could understand, and at the end of it all . . . she owned a business. Money in the bank and all.

  Bartlett had even arranged for one of his assistants—who turned out to be his nephew—to set up proper books and show Daisy how to keep track of money in and money out. It was a far cry from her stash under the floorboards in the attic at Mrs. B.’s. And different again from the bank account she’d opened under Max’s guidance six months ago, when he’d learned she kept her money under her mattress.

  So now she was ready to start. She’d prefer to hire seamstresses first—Flynn had been right the night of the masquerade ball when he pointed out to her that anyone could do the sewing, and that her talent was in design.

  She’d have to interview women and see samples of what they could do but before that she needed to find suitable premises. She could imagine Lady Beatrice’s face if Daisy arranged for a stream of seamstresses to line up for interviews outside the Berkeley Square house. It was bad enough that Lady Beatrice’s own friends came to call for fittings.

  She couldn’t wait to get a shop.

  She felt a bit guilty, keeping all these exciting developments from Flynn, especially since Bartlett was helping her so much and Bartlett worked for Flynn. But he also worked for Max and Freddy, which made her feel a bit better.

  And with the best intentions in the world, Flynn would want to stick his bib in. He’d want to help and advise, and he’d end up taking over—just to help her, not meaning anything by it—and she didn’t want that. This was hers, her very own business. Daisy Chance, who’d never owned anything.

  So she wasn’t going to tell him until she had all her ducks in a row.

  * * *

  “I’ve got a phaeton waiting downstairs,” Flynn said a few days after Daisy had signed the papers. “I’ve come to take you for a drive.”

  “Sorry, Flynn, no time.”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Look at you—you’re all worn out from workin’ long hours, sewing your fingers to the bone and worryin’.” He cupped her cheek and his voice softened. “You’re gettin’ thinner by the minute and you’re as pale as paper. It’s a beautiful sunny day—the kind of day you Londoners hardly ever see, so let’s not waste it. Come for a drive in the park with me, just for an hour, and we’ll put some roses back in your cheeks.

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but I got to finish this.”

  “Then marry me and let me take you away from all this.”

  She smiled. “I don’t want to be taken away from all this.” Gawd no, not when she’d just signed a partnership agreement with Mrs. Foster and her dream was finally going to come true.

  Her own shop. She could barely believe it. Not so long ago, all she owned in this world was a bundle of fabric scraps.

  “But I want to take care of you.”

  She shook her head, charmed in spite of herself. “I can take care of meself, Flynn,” she said gently. “Please, try and get it into that head of yours that I’m all wrong for you. Go away and find a nice, ladylike girl who wants to be pampered and cared for and live without a worry in the world. That kind of life would bore me stupid.” Not to mention intimidate the life out of her.

  “I don’t want a nice ladylike girl,” Flynn said. “I want you.” He frowned. “That came out wrong.”

  She laughed. “It’s all right, I know what you mean but really, I’m gettin’ sick of hearin’ this same old song. I’ve given you me answer, and if you’re going to harp on about it, I’m goin’ to have to ban you from my workroom.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Try me.”

  It wasn’t him harping on marriage that was the problem, she acknowledged privately. It was him, coming around all the time, making her laugh, telling her stories, bringing her little things—even though she told him not to. Charming her.

  And looking so blooming manly and handsome—and making no secret of how much he wanted her—it was killing her to resist.

  He was slowly wearing her down.

  She caught herself missing him when he went away—even for a few days—found herself looking forward to his visits—they were almost daily now.

  The reason she was looking so tired wasn’t only because of her long working hours, nor the nerves and excitement connected with the partnership. As much as anything it was dreams. Dreams of Flynn in her bed. Making her all hot and melty and . . . bothered.

  It wasn’t Flynn she didn’t want; it was marriage.

  “All right, I promise you I won’t bring it up again—”

  “Good.”

  “—today. You have to allow me at least one proposal a day.” And before she knew what he was about he leaned in and gave her a swift but very thorough kiss.

  Somehow, he managed to kiss her on every single visit. She tried to stay alert for it, to watch for it and prevent him, but . . . maybe she wasn’t as vigilant as she ought to be. They were kisses to dream on.

  He melted her bones every blooming time, and he knew it, the big rat.

  Looking quite pleased with himself, he sat down opposite her, crossing his long-booted legs. “Now, what shall we talk about today?”

  And that was another reason she couldn’t bring herself to ban him from visiting her. He was quite happy to sit and talk to her for hours on end. It didn’t slow her work down at all, and it was so good to have the company. Jane was busier than ever trying to juggle a gypsy and a lord—that couldn’t end well, that was for sure—and now the Season had commenced, the house was always filled with company, which kept the maids busy ’til all hours.

  Daisy knew how hard maids worked; she didn’t want to make more work for them.

  “I know,” Flynn continued. “Tell me about how you found your sisters. Or did they find you? I didn’t realize until the other day that it was such a recent event.”

  At that moment, Featherby knocked at the door. “Note for you, Miss Daisy. Hand delivered a moment ago.” He presented it to her on a silver platter. “The, er”—he glanced at Flynn—“the sender said it was quite urgent you open it at once.”

  The note was sealed with a wafer and addressed to her in a cramped hand she re
cognized. Bartlett. Daisy opened it.

  Suitable premises available for private inspection before noon today. Urge you not delay. Property on market tomorrow, and is of quality and price to be snapped up immediately.

  The address was listed at the bottom. It was a street off Piccadilly—an excellent location. Daisy glanced at the clock. It was eleven already.

  She put her sewing aside and stood up. “Sorry, Flynn, we’ll have to talk another time. I’ve got to go out. Featherby, can you get me a hackney cab, please?”

  Flynn rose, frowning. “What’s this? You’re going out? Now?”

  “Yes.” She grabbed her pelisse off the hook behind the door and shrugged into it.

  “And yet you were too busy to go out with me.”

  “This is different.” She crammed a bonnet on her head. No time to fuss about appearance.

  “Is it?” He waited, but she wasn’t going to explain.

  “Sorry about this, Flynn, but I really do have to go. I’ll see you later.” And she hurried down the stairs.

  Flynn followed.

  “Any sign of that cab?” she asked Featherby.

  “William is out in the street endeavoring to secure one.”

  She waited. And waited. Flynn received his hat and coat from Featherby.

  Daisy paced back and forth in the entry hall, watching Featherby who was watching William. He would be hard to miss, William, but there seemed to be no cabs in the vicinity. She glanced at the hall clock. Quarter past eleven.

  “It’s urgent, is it?” Flynn said dryly. “Because as it happens I have a phaeton outside, waiting. I was intending to take you for a pleasant drive, but if we’re rushing to a death bed . . .”

  Daisy glanced at Featherby, who looked outside, then shook his head.

  “All right then, thanks, Flynn.” She was treating him badly, she knew. She gave him the address and he helped her into the carriage—lifting her, without warning, into it with his bare hands around her waist.

  She didn’t mind at all. It was lovely to be treated as if you were delicate and featherlight, even if you weren’t. “Lady Bea would smack you for that,” Daisy said as he climbed in after her.