Chapter Four

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

The 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.

*   *   *

Flynn 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?”

*   *   *

On 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.

The sun had come out and he felt very fine as he negotiated the streets of Mayfair. Preferring quality was not the same as being a snob. He had a plan, and he intended to stick with it. He’d always been a man of his word: he’d announced to the world that he wanted a highborn wife, and what he wanted, he went after, and got.

Invariably.

In a few weeks’ time, if all went as planned—and why would it not?—he’d be a betrothed man, and to the daughter of a blue-blooded English earl: Lady Elizabeth Compton, who was related to half the aristocracy of Great Britain. And he would be too, once he married her.

Not bad for a man who was once a barefoot wharf rat working the Dublin docks.

He caught that thought, pulled it out and examined it.

Dammit! He was a snob.

But just because Lady Elizabeth Compton was a highborn titled lady didn’t mean she wasn’t the right girl for Flynn. Daisy was right—he didn’t know the girl well enough. Yet.

There was plenty of time to get to know her better, starting with this drive. He was glad now he’d chosen this earlier-than-fashionable time, because he’d seen how the toffs drove at the fashionable hour in Hyde Park—at a crawl, stopping to chat to people in other carriages, and to take friends up for five minutes and put them down again five minutes later.

This way he’d have Lady Elizabeth all to himself.

Besides which, at the hour for fashionable promenading he had an engagement for a lesson with Lady Beatrice—God help him.

*   *   *

So much for having Lady Elizabeth all to himself. She’d brought her maid with her, a grim-faced damsel of uncertain years who eyed Flynn with barely disguised contempt: It was clear she thought him not near good enough for her precious wean.

Flynn gave the woman a grin as he helped her into the little seat at the back of the phaeton. He quite enjoyed being disapproved of. It gave him something to work with.

There was no conversation of any significance on the way to Hyde Park: Flynn needed to concentrate on the traffic. Luckily the horses were well used to the chaos of London traffic because they didn’t turn a hair, and trotted elegantly and smoothly along.

Lady Elizabeth sat beside him, her back straight as a little soldier’s, and with about as much expression on her face. She was shy, he told himself. It was the first time she’d been alone—or almost alone with him. And she might be a nervous passenger.

He set himself to relax her.

They discussed the weather—it was warming up, Lady Elizabeth observed. Flynn responded that, having lived a good part of the last ten years in tropical climes, he didn’t yet find it warm.

Lady Elizabeth found nothing to add to that topic, not even a question about where he’d been, or what it had been like living in foreign climes.

Talk turned to the Season. “Are you planning to attend the masquerade ball next week, Mr. Flynn?”

“I am indeed. Lookin’ forward to it. And I’ll be wearin’ a proper costume, not just a domino that some fellows—me friend Lord Davenham, for one—consider proper wear to a masquerade.”

She didn’t respond—was it shyness, nerves or lack of interest?—so he said, “What costume are you plannin’ to wear, Lady Elizabeth?”

“Oh, that would be telling.” But it was the closest he’d seen to a smile on her face, so he pursued that line of conversation.

They were still talking about costumes she had seen—or worn, he wasn’t sure—at other masquerades as they swept through the wrought iron gates of the park.

“The spring flowers are starting to bloom,” Lady Elizabeth observed. “Spring is such a happy season, is it not. And after the cold of the last year . . . “

At least the girl was trying. Flynn tried to think of something to say, so he asked her to tell him the names of all the flowers they could see, claiming he only knew about tropical blooms, which was a lie.

He knew nothing about flowers at all. Could name a rose. And a daisy. And a daffodil. He spotted one about to bloom and they admired it for a few minutes. Daffodils were, apparently, happy flowers.

They moved on. This kind of talk was getting him nowhere. What would he be able to tell Daisy—or anyone else—if she—or they—asked him what Lady Elizabeth was like? That she thought flowers and seasons were happy? And that she liked dressing up.

Time to be blunt.

“Has your father spoken to you about me, Lady Elizabeth?”

In the rear, the maid sniffed.

He felt rather than saw Lady Elizabeth’s cautious sidelong glance. “Yes.”

“So, you’re clear about me intentions?”

She made a small sound in her throat and nodded.

“And you’re happy to be courted—I’m not asking for an answer to the bigger question, mind—just that you’re willin’ to get to know me a bit better. With a view to—” He paused, considering the possibility of a breach-of-promise case, and demurred. “A view to seein’ what might come of it.”

There was a short silence. And a sniff from the back seat.

“Lady Elizabeth?” he prompted. “If you’re not keen to go forward with this, now is the time to say so, before we’ve got in any deeper, and while there is nobody here to witness what you tell me.”

From behind there came another meaningful sniff. Flynn recognized the Language of Sniffs, beloved of his valet. He added, “Unless your maid is a spy for your father, that is.”

He heard an indignant gasp from behind. “Muir is my own maid,” Lady Elizabeth said hastily. “She was my nurse and has been with me since I was a babe.”

“And she don’t tell tales on her lady, neither,” came a grim voice from behind. Sniff.

Flynn smiled. “That’s grand, then, so, what’s your answer, Lady Elizabeth? Are you happy for me to continue with this court—with us visiting and going for drives and such until we both know our minds. Because if you don’t want it, say so now. I won’t hold it against you and I won’t tell a soul. I prefer straight dealing.”

She took her time answering. Considering how to say it, no doubt.

“Papa has made my duty clear to me, and I am willing to . . . to go forward with this acquaintanceship,” she said at last.

That told him. She was willing. Flynn was her duty. Flynn, with the moneybags to drag her father out of the debt he’d mired his family in.

Gambling, horses and women—that’s what Flynn’s investigations had shown Lord Compton had frittered a fortune away on. Flynn had no time for the man.

A man ought to ensure his family was protected from debt, not gamble his money—and their security—away on his own pleasures.

Compton was cold-bloodedly sacrificing his daughter in exchange for Flynn’s fortune. And she would do her duty.

Still, he couldn’t blame the girl for not responding any more warmly. In fact, given that they hardly knew each other—yet—he found her honesty quite appealing. She was mighty cold for a girl who’d just agreed to be courted, but he had no doubt he’d be able to warm her up.

He hadn’t even kissed her yet.

Lord, but these English had it all arse about—marry the girl, then kiss her. And of course the bedding to follow.

He contemplated that prospect. Would she be doing her duty then?

Faith, but that would take the fun out of things.

They completed their circuit of the park, noting daffodils and snowdrops and other charming—and probably happy—flowers, and then Flynn turned the horses for home.

He hadn’t made a lot of progress, but the air had been cleared between them, and he fancied she was easier in her manner with him than she had been when they started out.

Certainly her maid glared at him with slightly less severity as he helped her down. It was progress, of a sort.

“I wonder, Miss Muir, would you know my manservant, Tibbins? Ernest Tibbins?” he asked her.

The maid looked at him as if he was mad. “No, why would I?”

“It’s just that you both seem to speak the same language,” Flynn said. “Afternoon, ladies.” He drove away with a faint smile on his face, leaving both females staring after him.

The drive hadn’t gone quite as he expected, but he wasn’t unhappy with the result.

He wasn’t entirely happy, either.

The girl might be willing, but she could hardly be called eager.

Daisy’s questions itched at him. Until she’d flung those questions at him, he’d never really questioned his desire to marry a highborn, titled lady. It had seemed perfectly reasonable.

But putting Daisy’s questions together with Lady Elizabeth’s response to him . . . well, it made a man think.

On the one hand, he’d always prided himself on not giving the snap of his fingers for what anyone thought of him. On the other, class was important. In every country he’d ever visited, society was arranged in layers, and it was always better to be on the top than on the bottom.

By marrying Lady Elizabeth, he’d be getting a wife with a fistful of aristocratic connections—and hopefully children. More than anything, Flynn wanted children.

He knew how he and Lord Compton would benefit, but what about Lady Elizabeth? What was she getting?

A husband, certainly, and a wealthy one at that. But she didn’t know Flynn well enough to judge if he’d be a good husband to her or not. For all she knew he might be a wife-beater or a gambler and whoremonger, like her father.

No, marriage to Flynn was her duty. But what was her alternative?

Her home was entailed. Once her father died she’d be homeless, dependent on her cousin’s charity. And she’d been on the marriage mart a couple of years already, so it was clear none of the other nobs wanted a dowerless girl, no matter how pretty-behaved and well-born.

There was no doubt in Flynn’s mind that she’d accept his proposal, when he made it. The match was everything he’d claimed he wanted. Why then had this drive left a sour taste in his mouth?

His thoughts were far into the future as he guided the phaeton into the narrow mews that led to the stables. Marriage was for children, and he wanted his children to have every advantage. He didn’t want them to suffer the way he had as a boy.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be raising a pack of little snobs who imagined the world owed them a living—and considered themselves superior to ordinary folk—simply because of who they were and who they were related to.

His fists knotted hard around the reins. No daughter of his would ever—ever!—be forced into marriage with a stranger for the sake of her father’s debts.

He loosened his grip deliberately. There was no question of Lady Elizabeth being forced. He’d make sure of that. She might have limited choices, but there were choices.

She was stiff and awkward, but she didn’t know him very well yet. She’d no doubt warm up a bit as she came to know him better. She might be thinking of duty, but Flynn could show her that duty could also be a pleasure.

If she ever gave him the chance.

He handed over the phaeton and horses to the care of the grooms and hurried off to Berkeley Square. Quarter to four. Almost time for his so-called lesson.