The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (5 page)

“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 world—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.

*   *   *

T
hat 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.

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

T
he 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.

“Do you think there’s enough fabric here for a waistcoat?” Flynn asked.

“No. Perhaps a small tea cloth,” Tibbins said repressively. He reached for it. “Shall I—”

Flynn slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll take it to Miss Daisy and see what she thinks.”

“You’ll pull Mr. Weston’s elegant coat out of shape if you keep putting things in the pockets, sir.”

Flynn shrugged. “It’s my coat. And pockets are for putting things in.”

Tibbins sniffed.

*   *   *

F
lynn called in at Berkeley Square around eleven. “Morning, Featherby, Miss Daisy in?” he asked, when the butler answered the door.

Featherby gave him a dry look. “These days she’s rarely out, sir.”

“I’ll just pop up to see her then, shall I? Got a bit of fabric I want to ask her about.”

“Of course, sir.” The household was well used to Flynn coming and going. He’d run tame in the house ever since he’d first arrived in England.

“May I prevail on you for a small favor, sir?”

Flynn paused. It wasn’t like Featherby to ask for anything. “What is it?”

“I’ll be sending up a pot of tea and some sandwiches in a few moments. I’d be grateful if you would encourage Miss Daisy to eat some of them.”

Flynn frowned slightly. “Off her food, is she? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Oh, no, sir, just that she’s been working so hard lately, she often forgets to eat.”

Flynn nodded. “Leave it to me.” He mounted the stairs in a thoughtful frame of mind. So Daisy was forgetting to eat, was she? And if she was up every day at four, she couldn’t be getting much sleep.

At this rate the girl was going to make herself sick.

He knocked and entered, and found Daisy sitting cross-legged on the window seat, frowning over some intricate piece of sewing. “Flynn,” she exclaimed. “What brings you here—no, give us a moment, me lap’s full of these little beads and if I spill ’em . . .” She carefully tipped a stream of tiny glittering crystals into a jar, and screwed on the lid before getting to her feet.

She stretched. “Gawd, me bloomin’ back—I been hunched over that dress for hours. But it’s the best place for the light.” She straightened and gave him a sunny smile. “So what do you want?”

Flynn pulled out the Chinese fabric. “Mai-Lin sent me this. It’s not very big. But I was wonderin’ if you could make it into a waistcoat. “

Daisy took it from him and examined it, caressing the fine fabric almost lovingly. “Beautiful piece of stuff, ain’t it? It’s small, but . . .” She draped the silk against Flynn’s body, this way and that, eyeing it thoughtfully.

He took the opportunity for a closer examination while her attention was on the fabric. She was too pale, and looking somehow fragile. He frowned. Someone needed to be taking better care of her; it was clear she wasn’t going to do it.

“Yeah, I reckon I can make it work. I’ll have to pair it with some other fabric, just for the edges—here,”—she gestured—“and here.” She glanced up at Flynn. “You got time to wait, while I work out a design and take some measurements?”

“Don’t you have me measurements already?” He always found it a bit unsettling, having Daisy put her hands on him. A bit . . . arousing. There was nothing in it, of course—she wasn’t doing anything his own tailor didn’t do—but his body didn’t react to his tailor the way it reacted to Daisy.

“Of course, but this will take a bit of fiddlin’ and I want to be sure this embroidery is visible. Otherwise what’s the point?”

Flynn pulled out his watch and consulted it. He was due to collect Lady Elizabeth in an hour. “Go ahead then,” he told Daisy.

“Got somewhere to be, eh?”

“Taking a lady for a drive.”

She grinned. “Not a duke’s daughter who keeps rats I hope.”

He chuckled. “You heard about that?”

“I certainly did.” She picked up a pad of paper and started sketching a design. “So you got your eye on a real proper lady, eh?”

“I do.” He couldn’t hide his satisfaction.

“Courtin’, then are you?”

“Just about.”

“So tell me about her. What’s she like?”

Flynn hesitated. Daisy slanted him a look from under her brows. “You don’t think I’m going to blab to the old lady, do you? I know how to keep mum.” Her pencil flew. “Besides, I didn’t ask for a name—not that it’d mean anything to me anyway—I just wondered what she was like.”

“Her family is a very old and noble one, related to half the aristocrats in the kingdom. She comes from Kent—that’s
where their principal house is, and where she grew up. She was educated at home—”

“Gawd, no, not something straight out of
Debrett’s
, Flynn. What’s
she
like? Herself, not her family.”

Flynn had looked up Lady Elizabeth’s family in
Debrett’s
. It was only practical. But women weren’t interested in such things. He thought about how to describe Lady Elizabeth. “Well, she’s quite pretty. Young. Slender. Dainty. Light brown hair that curls a little.” He paused, trying to think what else to say.

“Blue eyes?” She was laughing at him.

“How did you know?”

She snorted. “Just a guess.”

Actually, now he came to think of it, he wasn’t sure whether Lady Elizabeth’s eyes were blue or green. Or maybe they were hazel, like Daisy’s and changed color according to what she was wearing. Yes, that was probably it. Hazel.

She shook her head over her sketch, tore off the sheet and crumpled it up. “I didn’t ask what she looked like, Flynn—I asked what she was
like
. What kind of a girl is she? Would I like her? Is she funny or serious? Has she got brothers and sisters? Has she got a temper? Does she like animals—that kind of thing.”

Flynn considered that. “No sisters or brothers. And she’s serious. As for whether you’d like her . . . I can’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t. She’s a perfect lady—always polite.”

“Politeness bein’ what I look for in a friend,” Daisy agreed sardonically. She kept sketching, but after a minute looked up. “That all you got?”

Flynn shrugged. “I don’t know her very well. Yet.”

At that moment, the footman, William, arrived with a tray containing a pot of tea, two cups, a plate of sandwiches and a dish of small cakes. He set the tray down, saying to Daisy, “Mr. Featherby says you’re to eat and drink something, or he’ll want to know the reason why.”

“Gawd, old mother hen he is.” Daisy rolled her eyes and put her sketch aside. “No need to fuss, William, I was gaspin’ for a cuppa anyway.” She turned to Flynn. “Want some tea, Flynn?”

Flynn was neither hungry nor thirsty, but he nodded.

Daisy set out the cups and poured a thin stream of dark fluid into the first one. Flynn leaned forward. “Is that Indian tea?”

She nodded. “Yeah, can’t stand that cat’s pi—that weak China stuff that Lady Bea likes. I like proper tea, good and strong and hot. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Flynn watched as she poured, then reached for the sugar tongs.

“One lump or two?”

“Two,” said Flynn. She handed him his cup and he stirred in the sugar then sipped the hot, strong brew with pleasure.

Daisy passed him the plate of sandwiches. Very fancy they were, too—small triangular sandwiches with their crusts cut off—chicken, and egg, and . . . “Am I mistaken or are they honey rolls?” he asked.

She nodded. “I expect so. Have one.”

“You first.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. Not hungry.”

“Oh.” He sat back, the plate of sandwiches untouched.

“Eat,” she urged him. “Featherby will be cross if we don’t touch nothing.”

He shrugged. “I can’t eat unless you do. Not polite, is it?”

She rolled her eyes at him, and picked up a chicken sandwich. Flynn waited until she’d taken a bite, then took one himself.

“So,” she said as they ate and drank, “you know practically nuffin’ about this girl and yet you’re plannin’ to marry her.”

“I do know her—sort of—I know her family, her background.”

Her mouth was full of sandwich, so she just raised a skeptical eyebrow at him.

He found himself saying, “That’s how they do things in the English upper classes. She’s an earl’s daughter.”

Her brows climbed higher. “And that’s why?” she said when she’d finished her sandwich. “Because she’s the daughter of an earl?”

“Yes, dammit, that’s why.”

She said nothing, just dusted crumbs from her fingers but
the carefully blank expression on her face—so very unlike Daisy—prompted him to add, “And why shouldn’t I marry an earl’s daughter?”

“No reason at all.” Her tone said quite the opposite.

He shoved the honey rolls in her direction, too annoyed to speak. She selected one, bit into it, chewed, swallowed, then said lightly, “I just never took you for a snob, Flynn.”

“I’m not a snob.”

She snorted. “Course you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“But you’re marryin’—oh, excuse me,
considerin’
marryin’ a girl you hardly know, simply because she’s an earl’s daughter.”

“It’s not because of that—or not only because of that.” He tried to explain his feelings about wanting to marry the finest young lady in London but it came out a bit . . . tangled.

He hadn’t gone far when she interrupted. “Lordy, you don’t need to justify yourself to me, Flynn. I don’t give a toss who you marry, as long as you’re happy with her. I was just interested, that’s all.”

She started packing up the tea things and continued, “I don’t care if you’re a snob, anyway—I am one meself when it comes to me customers. I want toffs—proper, top-of-the-trees toffs—to come to my shop. They got taste, most of them, and they’ll give me shop consequence, bring it into fashion, like. And it’s the same with you—I get it: marryin’ this earl’s daughter will give you consequence.”

“That’s not it—” he began. But it was. He just hadn’t thought of it in such bald terms.

“Marriage is different, though. If I was wanting to get hitched—which I ain’t—I’d want to know more about the person I was marryin’. You’re goin’ to be stuck with them for life, so I’d want to know a lot more about them.” She gave him a sideways glance, her eyes clear. “Manners and bein’ pretty and ladylike and being related to posh people is important to you, I know, but . . . she’s got to make you happy, Flynn.”

Daisy set the tea tray aside and straightened with a laugh. “Hark at me, the expert on marriage, the girl who’s never
been married and ain’t never goin’ to be. Sorry, Flynn, it’s none of my business, so I’ll stop stickin’ me bib in. Now about this waistcoat—what sort of buttons would you like? I reckon covered ones, don’t you?”

*   *   *

O
n his way to collect the phaeton he’d hired for Lady Elizabeth’s drive, Flynn ruminated on the conversation with Daisy, mulling over the questions she’d stirred up.

What did he know about Lady Elizabeth herself, apart from the polite public face she showed him?

And was he really so shallow, choosing a wife solely on appearance and pedigree? There was more to his choice than that, he was sure, but he was forced to concede that there was some truth in Daisy’s accusation.

It wasn’t as if he thought members of the aristocracy were any better than ordinary folks. He didn’t care the snap of his fingers for other people’s opinions of him. It was just . . . Daisy’s words came back to him.

Marrying this earl’s daughter will give you consequence.

And why shouldn’t he have consequence? Hadn’t he earned it?

It wasn’t snobbery. He’d made his fortune by seeking out the best of everything—he had an eye for quality, he liked fine things, and he saw no reason why that approach wouldn’t work just as well in selecting a wife.

He collected the phaeton—a very smart equipage, black with gold trim, pulled by a high-bred pair of glossy matched bays—picked up the reins and eased into the busy London traffic.