Chapter Fourteen

It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides.

—JANE AUSTEN, PERSUASION

Lady Beatrice had summoned them all to dine that evening—just a family dinner before they went off to attend their various engagements: Max and Abby and Freddy and Damaris were going to the theater, and Lady Bea was taking Jane to a soirée musicale—which was like a concert, only in somebody’s home.

Daisy had been to a few soirées in the early days of living with Lady Bea. They were all right if the people playing or singing were talented, but sometimes they weren’t.

Lady Bea, who was utterly thrilled by what she called Abby’s delicate situation and sometimes her interesting condition and occasionally the impending happy event—apparently proper ladies didn’t say pregnant, or up the duff or having a bun in the oven—was using it as an excuse to gather her gels around her more frequently than ever.

Tonight it particularly suited Daisy; she’d thought long and hard about Mrs. Foster’s offer, and now she was ready to talk to Max and Freddy about silent partners and what they did or didn’t do.

Luckily, Flynn hadn’t been included in the dinner invitation. She wasn’t sure why, but she suspected Featherby had said something to Lady Bea.

It would have been impossible trying to talk to him with the whole family looking on. And she didn’t want him to know about any silent partner possibility, yet. He’d be hurt that she’d rather accept help from a stranger than from a friend.

He didn’t understand: She was trying to protect him, trying to protect their friendship. If they even had a friendship now.

She pushed it out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand: the silent partnership.

She liked both her brothers-in-law. Freddy was fun and easy to talk to, but she was a little in awe of Max; he was graver and more thoughtful. Very much head-of-the-family. Tonight Freddy was seated beside her, which made things easier.

“Freddy,” she said after the first course had been removed and while the dishes for the second were being brought out. “Can you tell me a bit about what happened when you became a silent partner in Flynn and Co.?”

“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.” Bartlett 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 recognized. 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.

He grinned. “I know, but it’s worth it.”

She laughed.

“So, what’s this place you need to get to in such a hurry?”

No point keeping it a secret now, so she told him everything, about Mrs. Foster and the silent partnership, about Max and Freddy, and about Bartlett and why they were going to this address.

He listened in silence and the more she told him the guiltier she felt, keeping it from him. It had been his suggestion, after all, that had begun it all. She’d thought she was protecting herself from his interference, but now it just felt . . . mean.

But not a word of reproach passed his lips.

And that made her feel worse than ever.

*   *   *

The shop wasn’t quite what Daisy expected; for a start it wasn’t for sale, but for lease—a five-year lease with an option to renew for another five years. In all other respects it was perfect. It even had gas connected, which meant light for working in during the dark of winter as well as heat.

“A lease isn’t a bad idea,” Flynn murmured in her ear. “Why tie up all your capital in a building?”

Because she wanted to own something. Something that belonged to her.

“If you lease the place, you could afford more staff and materials, produce more, sell more, and in five years, if you need to expand, you can.”

She could see his point. She was glad now she’d invited Flynn to inspect the building with her. He’d offered to wait outside, but she felt mean enough without adding to it. “No, come in with me,” she’d told him. “I’d be glad of another opinion.”

To tell the truth, she was more than a little nervous. She’d never spent so much money in her life—never had so much money. The sums were quite frightening for a girl who’d earned a few guineas a year plus board and bed.

Gibbins, the agent, was a small dapper man, with an accent that started off as quaite refained, but once he realized he was talking to an Irishman and a Cockney, his East End origins became more apparent and his attitude slightly superior.

The more patronizing he became the less nervous Daisy got. She soon realized he’d discounted her completely; as far as Gibbins was concerned she might as well have been wallpaper.

From the beginning, he addressed himself entirely to Flynn.

To Flynn’s credit he did nothing to encourage it—apart from looking big and impressive and beautiful, which she supposed he couldn’t help. He hardly spoke a word, left it all to Daisy. As he should.

The agent’s affectations didn’t bother Daisy, but when throughout the inspection he continued to address himself exclusively to Flynn—when she was the one asking all the questions—she finally saw red.

She poked him in the ribs. “Oy, mate! I’m the one you’re doin’ business with, not him. And I’m standing over here.”

Gibbins frowned and looked at Flynn for confirmation—which made Daisy even madder.

Flynn shrugged. “I’m just the driver.”

Gibbins pursed his lips. “Do you mean to say the property would be leased by a woman?” He was still talking to Flynn. Daisy would have clipped him over the ear, except she really liked this building. The more she saw the more she wanted it.

Flynn’s eyes hardened. “A lady, yes.”

“And I’m still standin’ over here,” Daisy said, poking Gibbins in the back.

He turned stiffly. “But I understood . . . My communication was with a Mr. Bartlett.”

“That is correct. My man of affairs,” Daisy declared loftily.

Flynn had a sudden attack of coughing and turned his back. Daisy ignored him. To Mr. Gibbins she said, “Now, are we going to do business or does my man Bartlett have to tell the owner that you refused a good offer because you was too stiff-necked to deal with a woman?”

Gibbins looked unhappy. “I don’t know . . . Don’t you have a husband who can sign for you?”

Flynn shifted restlessly. Daisy was sure he was going to say something, tell Gibbins he was going to marry her or something. She narrowed her eyes at him in a silent death threat if he said so much as a word, then said to Gibbins, “No, I bloomin’ well don’t have a husband. I do however have a very healthy bank account. Now are you going to hiver-haver around like a kid in a sweetshop, or will you give me the lease?”

Gibbins was outraged by her plainspeaking, but after a moment he nodded. “It’s very irregular, but I suppose so.” He produced some papers.

Daisy hesitated—she wanted to sign them straight away, secure the shop immediately, but documents like these could contain legal traps for the unwary, and she knew she wouldn’t understand the terminology. She took the documents. “I’ll have Bartlett look through these, then I’ll sign them and send them back. In the meantime I will take the keys.” She held out her hand imperiously.

Gibbins hesitated.

“Big mistake if you don’t,” Flynn murmured.

Gibbins glanced at Flynn, looked at Daisy’s face and meekly handed over the keys.

Daisy’s fist closed over them. She held her breath, looking disdainful and imperious, until the odious little man had gone. She locked the door after him in case he changed his mind, then expelled her breath in a gust of relief. She turned to Flynn. “I got it, Flynn. I got me a shop!”

“You were brilliant, handled him perfectly,” he said and seized her around the waist and twirled her around until she was dizzy and laughing. He let her slide slowly down his body, devouring her with his eyes.

A sudden tension filled the air. He lowered his mouth to hers, but after a brief brush of lips she twisted away, out of his arms, too full of excitement—too nervous and on edge—to let it go any further.

“Come on,” she said, panting a little. “Let’s look at it again.”

“Haven’t you already been over it with a fine-tooth comb?”

“Yes, but I had that horrible little man distracting me, and—I got a shop, Flynn!—I want to go over it all again now it’s mine. Decide what I’m going to do with it.” She was too excited to stand still.

With a rueful smile he followed her through each room again.

The shop—her very own place!—for the next five years, at least—was narrow, but it stood three stories high. The ground floor consisted of two sections, a more formal shop area with a gorgeous bay window, and a back section that was well-lit and spacious but a bit grubby and worn.

“Nothing a bit of paint and elbow grease won’t fix,” she declared. “I’ll get curtains for that bay window—velvet, I reckon. Green. Or maybe ivory. And the same to screen off the back area. And a nice thick carpet on the floor. And some elegant chairs. And a huge big looking glass with gold edging. Maybe two.”

The next floor up had big windows on two sides—the building was set on a corner block—perfect for a working area. Light was crucial for seamstresses. Of course some of them would take their work home, but most would be working here.

The back entrance led straight onto the stairs—there were two sets, one at the rear, that served the entire building, and one that just led to the first floor. “One for toffs and one for the rest of us,” Daisy crowed.

The top floor would be used for storage, and for a place for her to work. She could already see the big table she’d place under the middle window. And a desk in the corner for the accounts and order books.

“I don’t remember seein’ this.” It looked like a cupboard but when she opened it, she found a narrow set of stairs. “Where do you reckon it goes to?”

The stairs led into a long, low attic room that ran the entire length of the building. Six windows were set into the sloping roof. They were dirty and didn’t let in much light, but that was easily fixed. The room was dusty, but dry. Soap and water and a bit of elbow grease would make it a useful addition to their storage area. She glanced at the windows. Maybe even a working area.

At one end was an old bed, no mattress, just a bed-head, four legs and a frame of sagging ropes. In the middle was a long table that could be used for pattern drafting and cutting out. A couple of broken old chairs lay tumbled in a corner.

“Oh, look at this.” A door at the end led out onto the roof. “You can see half of London from here,” she breathed. “Look, Flynn—that’s my kingdom out there. Ain’t it beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” he murmured and there was something in his tone that made her look around. He wasn’t looking at the view at all. He was looking at Daisy.

“I’m that glad you came with me, Flynn,” she said softly. “Thanks for being here, and for sticking up for me.”

“I’m glad too,” he said. “I needed to see my rival.”

“Rival?” she frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured to the shop, his gaze not leaving her face. “This is what’s keeping us apart, isn’t it? What you want instead of me.”

There was a long silence. The breeze picked up. Below her she could hear the rumble of the city, the cooing of pigeons. “It’s not like that,” she said at last.

“Isn’t it?” There was a thread of bitterness in his voice.

And it was partly true, she couldn’t deny it—but only partly. Gazing up into those blue, blue eyes, for once not gleaming with wickedness and laughter and arrogance, all her resolutions fell away.

It was marriage she was rejecting, not Flynn. Flynn she wanted with a burning hunger. And right now, with excitement coursing through her veins, on the doorstep of her dream coming true, she needed to show him, share this moment with him. Love him.

She stepped forward and placed her palms on his chest, feeling the strength and the warmth beneath her fingers. “I do want you, Flynn. I want you something fierce.” And she pulled his head down to show him exactly how much.