Chapter Five

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

At five minutes to four, Featherby knocked on the door of Daisy’s workroom. “Miss Daisy, it’s almost time for Lady Beatrice’s lesson.”

Daisy scowled, but put the sleeve she’d been sewing aside. “I’ll go, and I’ll watch, but I ain’t going to bloomin’ well dance.”

Featherby said nothing. He just held the door open for her, his expression bland.

Daisy picked up a dress that had the hem pinned, but wasn’t yet sewn. Featherby eyed it but said nothing. He had a way of making things happen, just by . . . expecting.

She said, as if he’d argued, “I hate dancing. I’m no good at it.”

She stomped her way up to the room that had been cleared for their lessons, entered and stopped dead. The carpet had been rolled back and all excess furniture had been removed, leaving only the piano and a few chairs arranged along one wall, but that wasn’t what startled her.

As well as Lady Beatrice, Jane, Abby and Damaris, the elderly Frenchman Monsieur Lefarge who taught the various dance steps, and his cousin, Madame Bertrand, who played the piano, there were four gentlemen—a stranger, Max, Freddy and Mr. Flynn. Four.

“What the—?”

“The gels need more practice with actual gentlemen,” Lady Beatrice declared. “So Monsieur Lefarge has brought another of his cousins to dance with Jane, and I invited dear Max and Freddy. And of course, Mr. Flynn is in need of lessons himself, having been at sea all his life.”

“Not exactly,” Flynn began. “And I did say I knew—”

But the old lady took no notice. “Abby and Damaris will dance with their husbands, unfashionable as it is, and Jane will dance with—”

“Flynn,” said Daisy, seating herself and her sewing by the window.

“Nonsense! Jane is attending balls with the eyes of the world upon her. She needs further practice with someone who knows what he’s doing. Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin is an expert, Mr. Flynn is a rank beginner.”

“I’m not, as a matter of—” Flynn began.

Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette and eyed him with a beady expression. “I’m sure you perform the hornpipe delightfully, Mr. Flynn—and you must show us some day—but not today.”

Max and Freddy stifled chuckles, not very successfully. Lady Beatrice gave them the kind of withering look that reduced grown men to schoolboy status. She continued, “Jane needs an expert to refine her steps, so she will dance with Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin and Daisy, you will dance with Mr. Flynn.”

Daisy looked up from her sewing “Who, me? But—”

“But what?” Lady Beatrice intoned. “Is this not a dance lesson? Did you not come of your own free will?” The old lady leveled her lorgnette at Daisy.

Featherby, who had been hovering, gave Daisy a Meaningful Look.

Daisy glowered. They were all ganging up on her. She looked at Flynn, who was wholly engaged in picking a piece of fluff off his coat sleeve. An invisible piece of fluff, the cowardly big rat.

“It’ll be fun, Daisy,” Jane said in a coaxing voice.

“You might find you enjoy it,” Damaris added sympathetically.

Betrayed on all sides. Daisy looked at Abby, but Abby said nothing. She knew how Daisy felt about dancing, knew how she felt about her stupid leg. Daisy swallowed.

Flynn strolled across the room and held out his hand to her. “Come on, lass, there’s nothing for it but to give in gracefully.”

Gracefully? That was a laugh. There’d be nothing graceful about Daisy on the dance floor. And dancing with Flynn, of all people to make a fool of herself with. She didn’t move.

“If you refuse me, the old lady will make me dance with the little old Frenchman. He’s wearin’ rouge!” Flynn said with a comical grimace. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Daisy? Not after I went out of me way to give you first pick of all those gorgeous fabrics.” Laughter gleamed in his blue, blue eyes. He wasn’t going to give up, she could see. He had no idea.

“Oh, all right, but it’s blackmail.” It wasn’t. He was just bloody irresistible, damn the man. Scowling, Daisy dumped her sewing on the chair beside her and stomped grumpily onto the dance floor.

“Such a gracious acceptance, Miss Chance, I’m deeply flattered,” Flynn murmured, his blue eyes dancing. He was enjoying this, the big rat.

“Stubble it, Flynn. I never asked for this.”

“Me neither,” he said. “I thought I was the only one pressed into this.”

“Pressed?”

He shrugged. “The English navy has two kinds of seamen—volunteers and pressed men. Pressed men can kick forever and be miserable, or try to make the best of it. You can see which choice I’m makin’.” He held out his hand.

Daisy sighed. He was right, blast him. Makin’ a fuss never did nobody any good. Certainly not Daisy. Best to get the rotten dance over and done with as quick as she could. And hope that Flynn had to concentrate so hard on his own steps that he’d never notice Daisy making a dog’s breakfast out of it.

“We will start wis ze waltz,” Monsieur Lefarge announced. A wizened elderly Frenchman, he wore fashions reminiscent of the previous century, including powder and rouge. “First ze gentlemen bow, like zis,”—he demonstrated—“and ze ladies zey curtsey like zis.” Again he demonstrated and despite his tight satin pantaloons he performed a graceful curtsey. “Ze gentlemen place ze hands like so, and like so.” He demonstrated, then checked they were all positioned correctly. “And now, Clothilde, but slow, s’il vous plaît.”

Madame Bertrand played a chord. Daisy took a deep breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. The dance began.

“One-two-sree, one-two-sree, one-two-sree,” Monsieur chanted. Daisy could hear her own uneven steps, loud as loud could be on the wooden floor, clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump. Probably everybody else could hear too. It was mortifying.

Flynn’s big hand was warm on her waist. It was completely distracting. He tried to swing her around.

“Oy! Stop pullin’.”

“I’m not pullin’, I’m leading. It’s what men are supposed to do.”

She snorted. She could smell his shaving soap, and the fresh scent of well-laundered shirt. And Flynn. He always smelled nice. Her own palms were sweaty. She wanted to pull her hand out of his and wipe it, but there was no chance.

He moved forward and she stumbled backward. “Now you’re pushin’,” she said.

“No, you’re resisting.” He seemed to find it all so amusing. She got crosser and crosser.

“Mademoiselle Daisy, you must let ze gentleman lead.”

Daisy scowled. “Bugger this. I can’t bloomin’ well dance and I wish—”

“Stop fighting it, will you, girl,” Flynn told her. “Just shut your wee trap and let me lead.”

Daisy wanted to kick him, but Lady Beatrice was watching, eagle-eyed.

Daisy tried to remember her steps. She stared at his waistcoat, scarlet, green and gold Chinese dragons on a black background. She’d made that waistcoat. She remembered every stitch.

“One-two-sree, one-two-sree . . .” the Frenchman chanted. His cousin twirled Jane daintily around. Jane floated like a gossamer fairy. A dainty gossamer fairy.

Daisy was more like an angry troll. “I hate this,” she muttered. Clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump.

“Really? I’m havin’ the most delightful time,” said Flynn as he wrestled her into a turn. “Of course I’ve got the most charmin’ and agreeable partner . . . “

She glanced suspiciously up at him.

His eyes laughed down at her. “And I never realized waltzing and wrestling had so much in common.”

She tried to glower, but somehow a laugh escaped her.

“Good God!” he exclaimed in amazement. “It laughs?”

“I’ll kick you if you’re not careful.” But her mouth kept trying to smile.

He chuckled. “If you’d only relax and let me lead you might even find you enjoyed it.”

She snorted. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

“Chance would be a fine thing, if only she would let me lead.” After a few more tightly wrestled twirls he stopped. Was it over? Thank goodness.

Daisy tried to pull her hand free, but Flynn held onto it tight. “Madame Bertrand,” he called, “Encore une fois, mais plus vite, s’il vous plaît.”

“What did you say?” Daisy began, but the music began again.

“Now,” Flynn said and taking her in a grip much closer than Monsieur Lefarge had showed them, he began to twirl her rapidly around the room. The music was twice as fast as before.

“What the ’ell—” Daisy tried to keep up. She tripped and almost fell. She clutched him tight. He took no notice, just kept twirling her around and around. She forgot all about remembering the steps; it was all she could do to stay on her feet. If he let go of her, she’d fall flat on her face, she was certain. Or her arse.

“You bastard! Let me g—oh, bloody ’ell!” as she stumbled again.

He grinned and kept dancing.

The minute this bloomin’ dance finished she was going to kill him. She hung on grimly, certain that any minute she’d trip and sprawl across the floor, making a complete fool of herself.

Somehow, she didn’t.

With one big, warm hand anchored firmly around her waist and the other holding her hand, he kept her steady, despite her uneven steps. He was strong. His big body was the anchor around which she swirled.

There was no chance of her falling, she realized gradually. She might trip, she might stumble, but Flynn wouldn’t let her fall.

With that realization she relaxed a little, and suddenly the rhythm of the music started to make sense. She forgot about her leg, and her uneven steps and the clump-two-clump and whatever she was supposed to be doing; she just let him spin them around and around. And around.

Oh my gawd, so this was what it was like to dance. She was practically flying.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “See, when you stop fighting me, when you forget about your limp—”

She stumbled.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” she hissed furiously. But it was back to clump-two-clump.

They finished the dance in silence. Madame Bertrand played the final chord, and finally, finally Flynn let Daisy go. She stepped back, breathing heavily and, in an action she hadn’t made since she was a small child, she wiped her sticky hands on her skirt.

He stared down at her, dismayed. “Daisy . . .”

She refused to meet his gaze.

“Sank your partners,” Monsieur Lefarge instructed.

Flynn bowed and said in a low voice that only she could hear, “I didn’t mean to . . . It was just . . . when you stopped thinkin’ about yourself, and bein’ self-conscious, you danced light as a fairy—”

But Daisy didn’t want to listen to such rubbish. She knew it wasn’t true. She bobbed him a curtsy, muttered her thanks and headed for her seat. The whole room could hear her clumping unevenly across the bare floorboards.

She glanced back at the other occupants of the room. Jane said something to Lady Beatrice and hurried away—no doubt to see to that blooming dog she’d adopted—Damaris and Freddy were laughing about something, Max and Abby were still entwined, murmuring softly to each other.

Only Flynn stood watching her, a slight frown darkening his brow.

She knew her face was red. She didn’t care. She’d made a right bloomin’ fool of herself. She felt like bursting into tears, but she never cried. Never.

She picked up her folded sewing, looked across at Lady Beatrice and raised her voice, saying, “I done the bloomin’ lesson, so I ’ope you’re satisfied. Now, I got work to do.”

She marched from the room—didn’t even slam the door—and hurried upstairs to her workroom, the place where she could be herself again: Daisy, who knew what she was good at, knew where she belonged—in her own little empire.

And not on any bloody dance floor.

*   *   *

After the dancing lesson Max invited Flynn to join him and Freddy for a drink—the girls were planning to take afternoon tea with Lady Beatrice and then there was something about dresses. Or costumes. Flynn gladly accepted.

He left ahead of the other two, and was making his way down the stairs just as Jane came hurrying up, a furtive expression on her face.

“Miss Jane,” he said politely and made to pass her on the stairs.

She hurriedly thrust something behind her, but not before he caught a glimpse of a small red leather shoe with a red and white rosette on the toe.

“Bringing Miss Daisy her slippers?”

“Oh, hush!” she exclaimed, looking around guiltily to see if anyone noticed. “She’s not following you is she?”

“No, she stormed out ahead of me,” he assured her. “She’ll be in her workroom by now. Why, what’s the problem?”

Jane showed him what she had been concealing, and said in a tragic voice, “My dog.”

Only one shoe still bore a rosette—just. It hung by a thread. The other was chewed and bedraggled and utterly ruined. “Daisy’s going to kill me. Or worse, my dog. But it’s her own fault—she should never have left them out, tempting him with leather slippers! He’s not used to living with people yet.”

Voices sounded in the hallway above and Jane looked around frantically, as if seeking somewhere to hide the ruined slippers.

“Here, give them to me,” Flynn said.

Jane thrust them into his hands and Flynn slipped a slipper into each coat pocket just as Max and Freddy appeared on the landing.

Jane murmured her thanks and hurried upstairs. Flynn hid a smile. Clearly he was expected to get rid of the evidence.

*   *   *

The two men joined him and, since it was a clear, cool day, they walked to Max’s home, around the corner. Max took them to his library, where they settled into comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs.

He poured them each a drink. “I didn’t expect you to be attending dance lessons, Flynn.”

“Ah, well, apparently I need them; everyone knows all seamen can only dance the hornpipe.” He leaned forward and added confidingly, “And did you know, they don’t dance the hornpipe at Almack’s? I was never so shocked in all my life.” The others laughed.

“So you didn’t tell her about all the balls and routs and parties you’ve danced at in various embassies and grand houses in the far-flung corners of the empire.”

“She didn’t give me the chance.”

“So how did she twist your arm?” Freddy asked.

Flynn grinned. “Hornpipe issues aside, it was a punishment.” He told them the story.

“Pammy Girtle-Brown!” Freddy shuddered. “Ghastly female! Not even a muffin, she’s a . . . a stale Bath bun. That talks. And talks. And talks—all utter rubbish and at the top of her lungs. Spent a fortnight in her company at a house party once—snowed in—no chance of escape. And she keeps rats, lets ’em crawl over her body.” He shuddered again and drained his glass. “Scarred me for life.”

Max chuckled. “And Aunt Bea swallowed the tale?”

“For all of five minutes,” Flynn said. “She was truly appalled. Claimed I’d almost given her palpitations.”

“Serve you right then,” Freddy told him. “Pammy Girtle-Brown! Give anyone palpitations!”

Max said, “I expect Aunt Bea wanted a partner for Daisy too—Abby says she’s determined to make Daisy attend the lessons with all of them, no matter how much Daisy protests.”

Flynn thought about Daisy protesting. He thought he understood at least some of her reluctance. “Do either of you know what’s the matter with her foot?”

Freddy shook his head. “No idea.”

“It’s her leg, not her foot,” Max said. “I’m not sure how it happened—some accident when she was a child, perhaps—but I think one leg is shorter than the other.”

Flynn thought about the way Daisy moved and nodded. It made sense.

*   *   *

A few hours later Flynn left Max’s house. He put on his coat and felt the shoes in his pockets. He ought to toss them away—they were no use to man or beast. He examined the well-chewed slippers. Well, maybe beast.

They’d been pretty shoes once. An idea came to him. He hesitated.

Oh, what the hell, why not?

So on the way home he stopped at a small backstreet shoemaker he knew of. He gave the man Daisy’s ruined shoes and explained what he wanted. “Can you do it?” he asked the shoemaker.

The man assured him he could, and Flynn went on his way.

*   *   *

“Are you sure you won’t come to the masquerade ball, Daisy?” Jane asked. “Lady Beatrice did get you an invitation, and it would be such fun, seeing all the wonderful costumes.”

“No, thanks, lovey—not my style of thing at all.” Daisy had too much work to do to go gallivanting. She straightened the blue satin bow on Jane’s shepherdess costume. It had come up a treat, if she said so herself. Jane was nothing like any shepherdess Daisy had ever seen—not that she’d seen many in London—but she looked as pretty as a picture, which was the main point.

“Stubborn gel! It would do you good to get out of that poky little room and mingle with other people,” Lady Beatrice declared.

“Can’t,” Daisy said. “No costume.”

“Wear a domino,” Lady Beatrice said. She looked magnificent as Good Queen Bess, in a purple and gold brocade and a gold ruff.

“You needn’t stay long,” Jane urged. “The ball is just around the corner. You could come for a bit, and then walk home.”

“Look, stop worrying about me and go off and have yourselves a good time,” Daisy urged them. She was sick of arguing. “I’m not in a party mood. I got a bit of work to do, then I’m for an early night.” Below the front doorbell rang. “That’ll be Abby and Max,” she said. “Mustn’t keep them waiting.”

“Stubborn, stubborn gel,” Lady Beatrice muttered and kissed Daisy on the cheek. “Make sure you do get a good night’s sleep—you’re starting to look frightfully pale and drawn!”

“I will,” Daisy lied. She embraced Jane, followed them downstairs and waved them off in the carriage.

“Mad, isn’t it, Featherby,” she commented as he shut the door behind them, “goin’ round the corner in the carriage.”

He gave her a mock-shocked look. “Good Queen Bess—walk? Unthinkable.”

Daisy laughed. “You mean Lady Bea—walk? Unthinkable! Not when there’s a carriage available.” She hurried upstairs and returned to her workroom.

She was almost up-to-date on Jane’s dresses—for the moment—and Lady Gelbart and old Mrs. Hartley-Peacock had been making anxious noises about wanting their bed gowns and jackets. The two old ladies were so desperate for them, they’d offered to pay Daisy double the price—in cash!—and she’d already quoted them a ridiculous price.

Cash in hand. She would work on those tonight.

Despite her weariness, Daisy grinned to herself as she picked up the first of the half-finished silk and lace confections, in pink silk and creamy lace. She threaded her needle and got to work.

Who’d’ve thought that very first nightgown and bed jacket she’d made for Lady Bea would lead to a whole stack of orders from other rich old ladies of the ton?

And who would’ve believed the kind of thing she’d first made for the girls in the brothel would be so popular with respectable old ladies? But the naughtier they were, the better the old ducks liked them. These days Daisy was making them with real French lace and proper silk—all new—not bits cut from old dresses. She had to admit, silk felt beautiful against the skin.

But those years of picking apart old dresses for the fabric had taught her how to construct a garment—how to cut and shape clothing. She’d started off by using the pieces as a pattern, but soon learned to adjust and adapt them.

She’d always had ideas for clothes in her head.

And now she knew how to make them look exactly how she imagined. She loved that she could make a chubby girl look slim, or give a skinny girl a bit of added shape. She had a good eye for color too; the right color could make a woman look sallow or vibrant, make her eyes dull or sparkle. It was a source of never-ending fascination.

More and more orders were starting to come in—which was what she’d dreamed of. Why would she waste her time at a ball instead of getting something finished—something that she’d be paid actual money for?

Besides, why would she want to go to a ball and watch Flynn twirling around the room with the dainty Lady Elizabeth?

*   *   *

The ballroom was crammed to the gunwales, as the most successful ton affairs seemed to be. Flynn shouldered his way through the colorful throng, squeezing between a mermaid and a winged fellow dressed in a sheet, a coronet of leaves and precious little else—some sort of Greek or Roman god, Flynn presumed.

He spotted Damaris and Hyphen-Hyphen, both dressed in Chinese outfits, Freddy with a long mandarin mustache dropping down his chin.

“Got a bit of seaweed caught on your face,” Flynn commented, reaching for it.

“Hands off, barbarian!” Freddy stepped back, and eyed him up and down. “Dammit, Flynn, you’ve forgotten to wear a costume.” He turned to Damaris. “He’s wearing exactly the same clothes I met him in.”

Flynn grinned. Freddy knew perfectly well Flynn had commissioned this outfit especially for the ball. “Better than wearing your wife’s dressing gown.”

“Stop it, you two,” Damaris said, laughing. “Mr. Flynn, you look wonderful—a most dashing and fearsome-looking pirate!”

Flynn tried to look modest, but he had to admit he was very pleased with his costume. He was dressed in tight red pants, gleaming thigh-high black boots, his dragon waistcoat, a frothy white shirt and a purple and gold brocade coat. On his head he wore a black headscarf with a white skull and crossbones on it, a mask that was a ragged strip of black velvet with two sinister eyeholes, and in his ear, his largest, shiniest gold earring. In a final touch, he’d thrust a cutlass through his black leather belt.

“And you look beautiful, Damaris. Much too lovely to be married to this ramshackle fellow.” Her embroidered Chinese costume set off her slender elegance to perfection.

“Show a bit of respect, pirate—I’m a mandarin, you know, and pretty dashed important. I could have your head chopped off”—Freddy snapped his fingers—“like that! It would, I’m sure, be an improvement.”

They were joined at that moment by Abby and Max, Jane and Lady Beatrice. They exchanged greetings and Lady Beatrice eyed Flynn with undisguised approval. “Now this is the kind of man I expected when Max first told me about his friend Captain Flynn—flamboyant, colorful and with more than a touch of pirate about him. A fine figure of a man, indeed.” She peered at his cutlass—at least he hoped it was his cutlass. “I hope that thing’s a fake. Don’t want to cut the ladies’ dresses to ribbons.”

“Silver-painted cardboard, m’lady,” Flynn assured her. “Got it from a theater company.”

“Good.” Her gaze raked him up and down again. “Daisy make that waistcoat, did she?” She poked his chest with the handle of her lorgnette.

Flynn nodded.

“Gel ought to be here to see it in its full glory.”

“She’s not here?” Damaris said, glancing around. “But I thought you’d arranged an invitation especially for her.”

“Claims she’s having an early night, but I know better.” The old lady snorted. “Staying home to work, stubborn little creature. She’s turning into a veritable troglodyte. Well, get along with you, children, the dancing is about to start. Off you go and find your partners.”