by Diane Gaston
But as Tanner grabbed his arm and led him back to the supper box, the sweet voice of Rose O’Keefe lingered in Flynn’s ear, an echoing reverie:
List to me, ye gentle fair; Cupid oft in ambush lies…
Chapter Two
Rose peeked through the curtain at the throng of men outside the gazebo, some carrying flowers, others waving their cards, all calling her name. There were so many, she could not see them all. If he was there, the man who had watched her with such rapture, she could not see him.
She turned to her father. ‘There are more tonight.’
‘Are there now, Mary Rose?’ Her father placed his oboe in its case.
The woman at his side, a robust creature with ample décolletage—the woman who shared his bed—added, ‘We have our pick, I’d say.’
Rose frowned. ‘I do not wish to pick, Letty. I am content merely to sing.’
She had known nothing of Letty Dawes when Rose had surprised her father by appearing on his doorstep four months ago. The letters her father had sent to her at the school in Killyleagh made no mention of Letty, but then his letters had never been very informative.
Her father had been very surprised and perhaps somewhat disappointed to see that Rose had come to London with the ambition to sing. He had always told her to stay in Ireland, to remain at the school he’d sent her to after her mother died, the school that had kept her on as a music teacher. But teaching was not for her. Rose burned with the passion to perform, to sing.
Like her mother.
Rose’s most treasured memories were of sitting by her mother’s sickbed, listening to her tales of the London stages, the excitement of the music, the lights, the applause, the glory of her finest hour, performing at the King’s Theatre. Even seven years of schooling and four more of teaching could not extinguish the fire that had been ignited so early within Rose to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Rose had saved her pennies until she had enough to make the journey to London.
But any fantasies she’d had about a loving reunion with her father had been thoroughly dashed in those first few minutes of his surprised hugs and kisses. Letty Dawes had appeared from behind him, lamenting the sacrifices they would have to make to house and feed her, laughing at her desire to sing on the London stage. What theatre would employ an Irish country lass? Letty had said.
At first Rose thought her father had married again, but her father explained that entertainers lived by different rules from those she learned in school. He and Letty did not need marriage to share a bed. Then her father offered to pay Rose’s way back to Ireland, and Letty exploded in rage at how much it would cost. A huge row broke out between them, and Rose walked out to escape hearing it, knowing she had caused it. She was glad now that she had walked out, because otherwise she would never have met Miss Hart.
It was Miss Hart who brought her to Vauxhall Gardens that glorious night when Rose had another tearful reunion with her father, and he introduced her to Mr Hook. Mr Hook let her sing one song and, seeing as she was not yet twenty-one, asked her father if he might hire her. So when it came time to leave Miss Hart’s house, Rose returned to her father and Letty, who suddenly perceived her as a source of more income. To sing at Vauxhall, Rose would endure anything, even living with Letty.
It seemed she must also endure this frenzy of interest from gentlemen, all pressing her father to meet her. It was all part of the profession, her father told her.
He glanced out of the window. ‘Perhaps there will be some titled gentlemen among these fellows. That is who you must court if you wish to move ahead.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Letty added, putting an arm around Rose’s shoulders as if in affection. ‘A titled gentleman would be grand. There is no telling how much you might make, Rose. Why, some men even buy houses for their…’
Rose wrenched away. She knew much more about what men expected of women who performed on stage than she had when she first arrived in London. But what of love? Of romance? That was what Miss Hart had found with her Mr Sloane. That was what Rose coveted for herself.
‘What men are expecting in exchange for those houses, I have no wish to give,’ she told Letty.
Letty broke into shrill laughter. ‘Give? If you don’t give it, men will just take it anyway. Better to profit, I always say.’
Her father walked up to her and tweaked her chin. ‘Never fear, Mary Rose.’ He spoke gently. ‘Your papa will make certain you are set up like a fine lady. I wouldn’t let my little girl go with some penniless rogue, now would I?’
Rose pressed her hand against her throat. All part of the profession, her father had told her.
He hurried away, and she heard him shout, ‘Give me your cards, gentlemen…’ before the door closed behind him.
Letty shook a finger at her. ‘You obey your father. He has your best interests at heart.’
To escape having to talk to her further, Rose peered through the curtain. The men outside flocking around her father appeared spectre-like in the dim light, like a flock of bats in a moonlit sky. She shivered. She loved her newfound singing success. After Vauxhall’s season was over, she was certain she could find more employment. She could support herself. She could afford to wait for love to find her.
Rose gripped the curtain in determined fingers. Until she discovered for herself the sort of true love she’d witnessed at Miss Hart’s, she must merely sing her songs and fend off all other plans her father and Letty had for her.
As she stared through the gap in the curtain, she wondered if one of the shadowy figures would materialise into the man who’d drawn her attention when she’d performed. Would he be the one? she wondered. The one who might love her? But as her father collected the cards and gifts, she didn’t see anyone who could be him.
Letty walked up behind her and opened the curtain wider. ‘Your father is a smart man to put them off. They’ll be willing to pay more if they must wait to win you.’ She paused as if wheels turned slowly in her head. ‘But not too long. Too much waiting and they will lose interest.’
Her father’s arms were filled with small packages and bouquets of flowers. One hand was stuffed with cards. He turned to come back in, but another man stepped forward. Rose could not make out the man distinctly in the dim light, but he was dressed in a dark coat and seemed of similar size to her man in the audience.
She had a melting feeling, like when she’d watched Miss Hart with her Mr Sloane.
Her father and the shadowy gentleman spoke a few words before the man bowed and walked away, and her father re-entered the gazebo.
He dropped the heaps of fragrant flowers and small, ribbon-wrapped packages on to a nearby table and turned to Rose. ‘Mary Rose, pull this last card from my hand.’
She pulled the card sticking out from the stack and read, ‘The Marquess of Tannerton.’
He let the other cards cascade on to the table. ‘I told the fellow he could call tomorrow at four o’clock.’
Letty’s eyes lit up. ‘That was the Marquess?’
‘I’m not sure of it.’ Her father smiled sheepishly. ‘I was half-stunned, to be sure. Didn’t heed what the fellow said, but I heard “marquess” and told the man he could call.’ He gave Rose a patient look. ‘You must see a marquess, Mary Rose.’
It should hearten her that the marquess might be the man who so captivated her, but somehow it did not. Whatever could exist between a marquess and a songstress would not be love.
Rose sighed. She would just have to discourage this man. She was confident she’d learned enough about gentlemen to fend off unwanted attention. Her priority at the moment was to finish out her summer singing at Vauxhall, and to have Mr Hook put her forth with the highest recommendations to others who might hire her. Rose wanted to keep singing, perhaps on a proper stage this time, part of a real theatre. She wanted to rise some day to the principal roles, to have her name always in the newspapers, her image on playbills, theatre managers clamouring for her to sing for them.
In the meantime, she wan
ted coin enough to pay her keep so Letty would not complain that her father allowed her to stay. Until she found where she truly belonged—or with whom—she would not settle for less. She would not engage her heart to a marquess who wanted her for mere amusement. Even if he was handsome. Even if her blood stirred when he looked upon her.
She merely would let her father believe otherwise.
‘I will receive the marquess, Papa,’ she said.
Flynn stepped out of the hackney coach and walked the short distance up Langley Street to the lodgings where O’Keefe had directed him, a plain enough building from the outside. He took a deep breath and nodded, telling himself again that the previous night’s infatuation with a Vauxhall singer had been due to too much arrack. He was clear headed now.
Rose O’Keefe, like Tanner’s many other conquests, would be a woman of business, savvy enough to work out that making herself into a hard-won prize would drive up the price. It was Flynn’s job to see that Tanner did not pay one pence more than she was worth—and she ought to be worth no more than the others had cost the marquess.
Flynn stared at the door of the building and tugged at his cuffs, straightening his coat. Appearances were always important in negotiations, he told himself. He cleared his throat and opened the door, stepping into a dark hall.
Letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, he waited a moment before ascending the wooden staircase. One flight up, he turned and knocked upon a plain wooden door. As its knob turned and the door began to open, his chest tightened, exactly as if he had run from Mayfair to Covent Garden.
But the sensation passed when Mr O’Keefe admitted him into a small parlor with threadbare furniture, adorned by luxurious bouquets of flowers on almost every surface. Flynn congratulated himself for forgoing a bouquet of rare blooms. He patted the inside pocket of his coat that held Tanner’s offering.
‘Good day to you, sir.’ Mr O’Keefe bowed repeatedly. ‘Good of you to call.’
‘How do you do, sir.’ A garishly dressed woman curtsied deeply.
Mr O’Keefe took his hat and gloves and gestured to the woman. ‘This is Rose’s very dear friend and mine, Miss Dawes.’
She curtsied again.
Their deference was extreme. It dawned on him that they thought he was Tanner. ‘I did not give you my name last night. I am Mr Flynn, the Marquess of Tannerton’s secretary—’
Mr O’Keefe suddenly relaxed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said in an almost normal voice. He thrust his hand out to Flynn. ‘Good of you to come.’
Flynn accepted the handshake. ‘It was good of you to allow me to call.’
O’Keefe gestured to the sofa. Flynn indicated that Mr O’Keefe must sit as well, and the older man, thin as a reed and a good head shorter than Flynn, lowered himself into an adjacent chair.
‘I come on the marquess’s behalf,’ Flynn began. ‘The marquess has had the pleasure of hearing your daughter’s lovely voice. He is most anxious to meet her.’
Mr O’Keefe nodded, listening intently.
Flynn continued, ‘I should like to convey the marquess’s high regard to Miss O’Keefe directly, if that is possible.’
‘I’ll fetch her,’ Miss Dawes piped up. ‘I have no idea why she has not showed herself.’
‘I would be grateful.’ Flynn watched her bustle through an interior door.
‘Rose!’ he heard Miss Dawes say sharply.
Flynn frowned.
‘She’ll come,’ Mr O’Keefe said in a reassuring tone.
Flynn did not wish to negotiate with the father. Experience had taught him that it was preferable to deal with the woman herself.
‘Here she is,’ chirped Miss Dawes from the doorway. She quickly stepped aside.
Rose O’Keefe entered the room, so graceful she seemed to glide above the floor. Up close, with daylight illuminating the room, her beauty robbed his lungs of air. Her face, so fair and fine, was framed by raven-black tendrils, her skin translucent. But it was her eyes that captured him and aroused him again. They were as green as the rolling hills of County Down.
He stood.
Before he could speak, she said, ‘You are?’
Her father rose from his chair and walked over to her. ‘Mary Rose, Mr Flynn is secretary to the Marquess of Tannerton.’
Her glorious green eyes widened slightly.
Flynn bowed. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’
She seemed to recover from any surprise, saying coolly, ‘You were wanting to speak to me, sir?’
Flynn heard the lilt of Ireland in her speech, not quite as carefully eradicated as his own. He began, ‘I come on behalf of the marquess—’
‘I see,’ she interrupted. ‘What is it a marquess wants of me that he cannot be asking himself?’
Flynn blinked.
‘Mary Rose!’ her father pleaded. ‘Mind your tongue.’
‘Obey your father!’ Miss Dawes scolded.
Miss O’Keefe darted Miss Dawes a defiant glance. This was going badly, Flynn thought. It was beginning to seem as if her father and this Dawes woman were forcing her into this. Tanner never desired a woman be compelled to share his bed. Flynn needed to deal directly with Miss O’Keefe. He must be assured she would be a willing partner.
And, at the moment, Miss O’Keefe looked anything but willing.
‘I will speak with Miss O’Keefe alone, sir,’ he said in a smooth voice.
Mr O’Keefe looked uncertain.
Miss Dawes wagged her finger towards the daughter. ‘Talk to him, Rose. Be a good girl.’ Then she hustled the father out of the room.
Flynn turned back to Miss O’Keefe. Her green eyes were strained.
‘I would not distress you, miss,’ he said softly.
She waved a graceful hand in the air. ‘It is of no consequence.’
He paused, composing his next words.
She spoke first. ‘You came for a reason, Mr Flynn?’ Her voice was high, and tiny lines appeared at the corners of her perfectly sculpted lips.
His brows knitted. This girl seemed not at all eager to hear an offer. ‘Indeed. About Lord Tannerton.’
‘Would you care to sit, sir?’ she asked with forced politeness.
He inclined his head, waiting for her to sit opposite him before he lowered himself into the seat.
‘You were saying, Mr Flynn?’
He began again, ‘I was saying, the marquess has heard you sing—’
‘And you, Mr Flynn? Have you heard me sing?’ She seemed bent on interrupting him.
‘Yes, Miss O’Keefe, I have had the pleasure.’
A genuine smile fleetingly appeared. ‘Were you liking my singing?’ She dipped her head and he noticed that her lashes were long and luxurious.
‘Very much,’ he said, regaining his wits.
She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Flynn…it is an Irish name. Where are you from, Mr Flynn?’
Flynn did not usually lose such total control over a conversation. It disturbed him, nearly as much as perceiving her reluctance disturbed him. Nearly as much as her eyes disturbed him.
‘Where am I from?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, where in Ireland are you from?’
He could not remember the last time he’d been asked this. ‘County Down, near Ballynahinch.’
Her bewitching eyes sparkled. ‘I attended school in Killyleagh.’
‘So did my sister.’ Those words slipped out.
‘Oh!’ She turned thoughtful for a moment. ‘Could she be Siobhan Flynn, by any chance? There was a Siobhan Flynn two years ahead of me.’
Siobhan’s name propelled him back to Ballynahinch. Little Siobhan. She’d been eleven when he’d last seen her. How old was she now? Twenty-one?
It meant Miss O’Keefe was naught but nineteen. No wonder her papa hovered near.
‘She may have been the same,’ he said.
Miss O’Keefe’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘How does she fare? I rarely heard news of any of the girls after they left.’
Flynn realised he had barely heede
d news of Siobhan in his mother’s letters. ‘She is married and has two sons.’
Miss O’Keefe sighed. ‘How nice for her!’
Flynn began again. ‘About the marquess—’
‘Oh, yes, the marquess.’ Her false tone returned. ‘He sent you. You did not come to speak with me about home.’
Home. Home. It repeated in his ears.
‘The marquess is anxious to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Keefe. He is prepared to become your friend.’
‘My friend?’ She glanced away. ‘He knows so much after listening to a few songs?’
He opened his mouth to respond with lavish compliments.
She spoke first. ‘Are your friendships so easily made, Mr Flynn?’
‘My friendships?’ He was repeating again. He disliked that she distracted him from his intent, making him think instead of friends, long-ago boys who explored crumbling castle ruins with him or fished in crystalline streams.
He forced himself to meet her gaze directly. ‘I assure you, Miss O’Keefe, the marquess chooses his friends judiciously, and none would complain about the connection.’
She did not waver. ‘And is he usually sending you to inform his new friends of their good fortune?’
Flynn wrinkled his brow. She did not seem pleased at all at Tanner’s interest. Why? Her father and that other female certainly relished the potential connection.
He must convince her she would do well under Tanner’s protection. She would certainly have more freedom than she appeared to have in her father’s house, with the shrill Miss Dawes bullying her.
But the image that rose in his mind was not of her with Tanner, but of her standing on a green hillside, wind billowing through her skirts and hair.
He mentally shook himself. Somehow he maintained his direct gaze. ‘The marquess involves me if he feels it would best please the lady to do so.’ He reached into his coat pocket. ‘To show his good intentions, the marquess wishes to bestow upon you a small gift.’
Flynn pulled out a velvet box. She glanced in alarm at the door behind which her father and Miss Dawes were certainly eavesdropping. She stilled his hand. ‘No gifts,’ she whispered, slanting her eyes towards the door again. ‘Please.’