Chapter Six

Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want.

—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

Flynn had engaged Lady Elizabeth for two dances—the first and the last waltz of the evening. He’d been too late to secure her for the supper dance, which would have ensured he could take her into supper and spend more time getting to know her. Still, he didn’t mind.

He had no intention of dancing the last waltz with her. Instead he’d take her into the garden and kiss her. He’d been planning it ever since their drive in the park. Soften the girl up a bit. Show her that it didn’t have to be all duty, that there could also be pleasure.

He damned well hoped there would be pleasure. He didn’t want a dutiful marriage—he wanted something warmer, cozier. He didn’t expect them to fall in love, but he did hope for affection, at the very least.

Not that the nobs acted exactly cozy—half the time husbands and wives seemed to have nothing to do with each other—though what happened in the bedroom was, no doubt, another thing entirely.

He glanced around the room. Masks, music, a bit of mystery; it was an evening made for romance. A kiss or two in the moonlight, or in the shadows created by the colorful lanterns strung around the garden—that should set them on the right course.

In the meantime, he had no shortage of willing partners and had danced his way through a cotillion, the Sir Roger de Coverley and several other country dances while he was waiting for the first waltz.

He saw Lady Beatrice sitting watching the dancers. She noticed him, and beckoned him over.

“Been observing you, Mr. Flynn.”

“Have you, milady? Like what you see, do you?”

Her eyes gleamed in appreciation—the old dear did love to flirt—but all she said was, “You acquit yourself quite creditably on the dance floor.”

“Thank you, milady. That lesson you arranged for me seems to have done the trick.”

She gave a snort of amusement. “Why did you not tell me you knew how to dance?”

Flynn smiled. “I never tell a lady what she doesn’t wish to hear.”

She snorted again. “That little habit—if it’s true—is going to get you into a lot of trouble then.” Her beady old eyes twinkled up at him. “I look forward to it.”

“So do I, ma’am, so do I.”

She laughed outright. “Get along with you then, you rogue. It’s the waltz next, and you don’t want to keep Lady Elizabeth waiting, do you?” She sighed and added, “If I were twenty years younger I’d cut her out.”

“If I were twenty years older, ma’am, I’d—” he began gallantly, then blinked. “How did you know?”

“About Lady Elizabeth?” She gave him a dry look. “When will you realize, dear boy, that I always know everything.” She gave him a little push. “Now run along and dance with the gel.”

Flynn chuckled to himself as he crossed the ballroom to where Lady Elizabeth was waiting. Hyphen-Hyphen was right—the old lady was a witch.

“Our waltz, Lady Elizabeth.” He bowed and held out his hand.

She made no move to take his hand, just looked at it as if there was something wrong.

“What?” He glanced at his hand. He knew she didn’t much like the look of his hands—you didn’t do manual labor from childhood and end up with the smooth, pale hands of a gentleman. His hands were strong and capable. They might be marked with scars and nicks from a lifetime of hard physical work, but they were well scrubbed, and his nails were clean, neatly pared and lightly buffed.

He wasn’t ashamed of his hands: They reflected who he was. And how far he’d come.

“Gloves, Mr. Flynn,” she reminded him, flushing slightly.

“Oh, right.” He pulled them out of his pocket, put them on and led her onto the dance floor.

The opening bars sounded and he took her in his arms. She was cool and graceful and composed. He smiled to himself, remembering the stiff, cross, spiky little hedgehog he’d waltzed with at Lady Bea’s. Lady Elizabeth was the perfect partner, but somehow, the hedgehog had been more fun.

Still, he was here to court the lady. “You look very pretty this evening, Lady Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flynn.”

They twirled around.

He tried again. “You make a charmin’ milkmaid.”

“Thank you. There are several milkmaids here tonight, I noticed.”

“Yes, but you’re the prettiest.”

There was a short silence. Below her mask she flushed a little.

“Are you enjoying the ball?”

“I am.” She added, “I particularly enjoy all the costumes and the masks. It adds a pleasant air of intrigue to the evening.”

“You know most of the people here well, I suppose.”

“Oh yes. Almost everyone.” She flushed again and Flynn remembered this was her third Season—no doubt her last, unless she found a husband. As it was, her father must have scraped up every favor owed him to finance this Season—going even further in debt in order to sell off his last asset—his daughter.

“So what do you think of my costume?” Flynn said easily.

An expression flickered across her face that he didn’t quite understand. “It’s very . . . colorful.”

“Do you not like it?” he asked. “I don’t mind if you don’t. I’d rather you spoke your mind.”

She hesitated. “It’s just that it wasn’t very . . . wise of you.”

“Wise?”

“To remind people.”

“Of what?”

“Your past.”

He stared at her a moment, then laughed aloud. “Good God, girl, I was never a pirate. I’m a trader.”

Her mouth tightened and she glanced around to see if they’d been overheard.

Flynn didn’t give a damn who might be listening. “I was—I am—in partnership in a worldwide trading enterprise, along with Lord Davenham, Freddy Monkton-Coombes and another fellow you don’t know.”

“Yes but—” She broke off.

“Yes but what?”

She looked at him through the holes in her mask. “Lord Davenham and Mr. Monkton-Coombes are gentlemen.”

There was a long silence. They danced on. After a moment, Lady Elizabeth said in a bright tone, “That’s a very interesting waistcoat. Are they sea-monsters or dragons?”

“Dragons,” Flynn said shortly. Now she was trying to butter him up.

They finished the rest of the dance in silence. As he returned her to her seat, where her chaperone was waiting, she eyed him worriedly. “I hope I didn’t offend you, Mr. Flynn. You did ask me to be truthful.”

“I know.” He forced a smile. “Teach me to be careful what I ask for, won’t it?” She looked truly anxious, so he added, “Don’t worry, lass—I’ve got a thick enough skin.”

Her gaze dropped immediately to his hands.

His voice only grated a little as he said, “I’ll see you after supper.”

She smiled up at him, relieved. “Yes, the last waltz. I look forward to it.”

After that Flynn wasn’t much in the mood for dancing or talking. It wasn’t the girl’s fault—he had asked her to be truthful. And he wasn’t a gentleman—he made no pretense to be one, so why had that comment irritated him so much?

He propped himself up against one of the columns that encircled the dance floor and sardonically eyed the colorful throng. A short fat bumblebee with fuzzy wings and bandy yellow legs danced by with a tall elderly fairy in floating draperies, followed by an elderly man in a toga dancing with a woman dressed as Cleopatra.

Dammit, Daisy ought to be here. Some of these costumes were fantastical and imaginative, and some downright ridiculous. Either way, she would have loved it.

*   *   *

Daisy heard the doorbell ringing below, but took no notice. It was late, almost eleven. Featherby would send whoever it was away. Everyone they knew would be at the masquerade ball.

A moment later Featherby knocked on her door. “Mr. Flynn is below, miss.”

Daisy frowned. She’d thought Flynn was going to the ball as well. “Din’t you tell him everyone was out?”

“He asked to speak to you, miss.”

“Me? Whatever for?” Bemused, Daisy put her sewing aside, and stretched. It was probably time to finish up anyway. She’d been at it since before dawn. Her back ached and her eyes were sore.

A quick glance in the looking glass told her she looked as worn out as she felt. Flynn wouldn’t care what she looked like—not that she wanted him to notice, but a girl had her pride. She tidied her hair, pinched a bit of color into her cheeks and went downstairs.

Flynn, dressed as a very colorful pirate, was seated in the drawing room. He rose as Daisy entered.

“Gawd, it’s a bloomin’ rainbow come to call,” she exclaimed from the doorway. She raised her hand as if to shield her eyes, but under cover of her hand, she looked her fill. All those colors should have clashed, but somehow, he carried it off. He was a beautiful-looking man and the brash confidence with which he carried himself was downright irresistible.

“Very funny,” Flynn said, smoothing down his coat with a satisfied expression. “Evenin’, Daisy.”

She grinned. “You shoulda been born in Lady Bea’s time. The gents in her day were proper peacocks—wearin’ silks and satins and brocades in all colors. Not like today, when evenin’ dress for men is like . . . magpies—all black and white.”

He laughed. “If I’d been born in Lady Bea’s day she would have eaten me alive.”

“Pooh, you’d handle her the same way as you do now—perfect,” Daisy said as she seated herself.

Featherby had provided Flynn with a brandy, and a few moments later William appeared with a tray containing a teapot, a plate of finger sandwiches, and some of the little curd cakes she was so fond of. From the way Flynn’s eyes lit up at the sight, he liked them too.

“I thought you were goin’ to the masquerade with the others. You’re dressed for it, right enough. Lost your invitation?”

“No, I was there earlier.”

Daisy poured herself a cup of tea. “Want one?” He shook his head and raised his brandy glass.

“So what ’appened?”

He didn’t answer, just picked up the plate of sandwiches and offered it to her.

Knowing he wouldn’t eat unless she did, she took one. “Quarreled with your young lady, did you?”

He didn’t meet her gaze, but said carelessly, “I’ve already danced once with Lady Elizabeth—that’s her name: Lady Elizabeth Compton—and I promised her I’d be back for the last waltz of the evening. At these affairs you’re only allowed two dances with the one girl.” He took a sandwich and demolished it in two bites.

“So why are you here then, instead of dancing with some of those other girls?”

He sipped his brandy. “Lady Beatrice told me she’d arranged to have you invited, but that you refused because you had work to do.”

“I do,” Daisy said. “You of all people should understand that.”

“I understand more than you think.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re looking exhausted,” he said bluntly.

“So what? Hard work never killed nobody. I’m startin’ a business, remember?”

“I know, and that’s why I decided to come tonight, when nobody else was here to overhear what I have to say.”

Daisy gave him a flinty look. “What’s it got to do with you?”

“Nothing. But I know a lot more about how to run a business than you do, and I have to tell you, you’re goin’ about it the wrong way.”

Daisy stiffened. She set down her teacup with a clatter. “Well, thanks very much, Mr. Flynn, and now you’ve told me, you can get back to your bloody ball.”

“Settle down, firebrand, I mean no insult.”

“No? You tell me I’m doin’ everything wrong—me, who’s workin’ my fingers to the bone every hour God sends, making beautiful clothes for Jane and the others—clothes that other ladies want to order—an’ you expect me not to be angry? Bloody oath, I’m angry! What the hell would you know about ladies’ clothin’ anyway?”

“Nothing,” Flynn said calmly. “You’re excellent at designing and makin’ clothes. But you said it yourself, woman—you’re ‘workin’ your fingers to the bone every hour God sends.’ And not goin’ out. I haven’t seen you at the park for weeks, and now I hear you turned down the opportunity to go to a ball—two balls if you count tonight—that the rest of the world would kill to attend. It’s not like you, Daisy.”

To her great chagrin, Daisy felt her eyes pricking with unshed tears. Only because her eyes were sore, she told herself. She blinked them fiercely away. “Yeah, well, I been busy.”

“Tryin’ to do it all yourself,” Flynn agreed.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Everythin’,” Flynn said. “You can’t expect to start a business by doin’ all the work yourself.”

“I don’t, Mr. Know-it-all! Jane and Abby and Damaris all help out as much as they can, and Lady Bea lets two of her maids do some of the sewing in their spare time.”

Flynn nodded. “And still, it’s not enough. You’ve overreached yourself, haven’t you?”

“No, I bloody well have not.”

Flynn grinned. “The swear words are flying tonight. Struck a nerve, haven’t I?”

Daisy wanted to throw the teapot at him. How the hell did he know?

“What were you doin’ before I got here tonight?”

“Sewin’,” she muttered sullenly.

“Sewin’ what?”

She glared at him. “Seams on a dress, though what it’s got to do with you—”

“Could anyone else sew those seams?”

“Of course. But there ain’t anyone—”

“And what is it that you do that nobody else can?”

She bristled. “Are you sayin’ that anyone can do what I’m doin’?”

“Quite the opposite. Think, Daisy—what do you do in this business that nobody else can? Not Jane or Abby or Damaris or the maids—only you.”

She rolled her eyes. It was obvious what she did that nobody else could. “I come up with the designs, of course.”

“Exactly.” He drained his glass and sat back in his chair. “Your trouble is, you’re thinkin’ too small.”

Too small? She glared at him. “You’re talkin’ out yer arse, Flynn! There’s nothin’ small about wantin’ to become the top modiste in London!”

“Nothing wrong with the ambition, no—it’s the way you’re goin’ about it that’s too small. You need proper premises to work in—not your old bedroom—and you need to hire proper seamstresses to do the bulk of the work.”

She snorted with bitter laughter. “Oh, yes, fine—proper premises and proper seamstresses. And what do I use for money, eh? Oh, of course”—she hit her forehead in a mocking gesture—“why don’t I use all them bags of gold I keep lyin’ around under my bed? They’re only gatherin’ dust.”

“You need a partner.”

“I bloody don’t,” she flashed. “Nobody’s gettin’ their mitts on my business.” She’d lost everything twice in her life and she wasn’t about to make it three times. Besides, she’d had enough of other people telling her what to do.

“Don’t dismiss the idea before you know what I’m talking about. I’m talkin’ about a silent partner.”

“I could do wiv a bit of silence right now.”

He ignored her. “Did I ever tell you about how Max and I got started with our trading company?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, but continued. “We met on board ship. I’d been at sea for a few years by then an’ had worked me way up to third mate. He was a gentleman passenger, just startin’ out, aiming to become a trader. I had a few quid saved, he had barely a bean. But we had plans, both of us, or maybe I should call them dreams—big dreams.” He looked at her. “Like you have.”

Daisy waited, caught, despite herself.

“We decided to form a partnership—Max would use my savin’s to acquire goods to trade, and then I’d sell them when me shop docked in England.”

“Gawd, you were a trustin’ soul, weren’t you? Or maybe it was Max who was the trustin’ one.”

“There was trust on both sides. I trusted him with me savin’s, he trusted me with the profit. Slowly we built up our profits—but they were slow. It wasn’t until Hyphen-Hyphen’s aunt died—”

“Damaris’s Freddy—his aunt?”

Flynn nodded. “It might have been his great-aunt, I don’t recall—but whoever she was, she left him a good-sized lump of cash. And instead of blowin’ it all on high living, like most young gents would, he decided to invest in our dream—Max had written to him, you see—and he used the money to become our silent partner.”

Daisy folded her arms, feigning disinterest. She was still cross with Flynn, but she wanted to know more. Why hadn’t she heard about this from Damaris? Probably because Freddy never talked about such stuff as business to ladies. Nor did Max. Toffs didn’t. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listenin’.”

“We used Hyphen-Hyphen’s nest egg to launch ourselves in a big way—we amassed as much cargo as we could afford—choosing the kind of goods that we knew would make a good profit, and hired a ship. I captained it and sailed it to London. We risked everything on that first cargo, but the risk paid off.

“It was the start of our trading empire—and in case you don’t know, ’cause I’m told it’s vulgar to talk about this kind of thing in polite company, Flynn and Co. is one of the biggest private trading companies in the British Empire.”

He paused a moment to let that sink in. “And it all started because Max and I took on a silent partner, who trusted us with his money.” She didn’t say anything, so he added, “And we all benefited—Max, me, Hyphen-Hyphen and Blake Ashton, the fourth partner. You haven’t met him yet. He’s still out east somewhere.”

Daisy nibbled on a curd cake, turning over his story in her mind. “So what’s the story of your success got to do with me and my dressmakin’?” She thought she understood, but she wasn’t sure.

“If you took on a silent partner, you’d have enough money to rent a premises and hire some seamstresses. If you had enough people to do all the work, you could spend your time using your talent for designing, instead of sewing seams into the night. You could be meeting ladies of the ton and increasing orders that way, instead of living like a hermit. And you’d be producing more clothing. In other words, you could turn it into a proper business, instead of a backyard operation.”

He painted an enticing picture all right: her own premises, a team of seamstresses working under her direction. Herself, swannin’ around the ton, minglin’ with duchesses and takin’ orders. Not that she wanted to mingle with duchesses. It was their money she wanted, not their company.

But Daisy knew a fairy tale when she heard it—they always sounded too good to be true. And there was always a hidden cost. “Did Freddy tell you what to do with his money?”

“No, though he did insist on being able to inspect the books. It’s how he got interested in business, as a matter of fact. Turns out he had a talent for it.”

“So if I took on a silent partner, he wouldn’t be tellin’ me what to do all the time? He’d stay out of me way?”

Flynn pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say that. Speakin’ hypothetically, of course, if, say, the silent partner were a man like meself, he might want to make sure you knew how to keep account books properly, might want to offer an occasional bit of advice—”

“Nope. Not interested.” Daisy stood abruptly, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “Thank you for visitin’, Mr. Flynn. It’s time to go back to Lady Liz now. She’ll be wantin’ her dance. Thank you for the story and the unwanted advice.”

Flynn stood with a rueful expression on his face. “Don’t be too hasty to dismiss the idea, Daisy. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Oh, I will, you can be sure of that.” She’d think about it, but that was all. She’d had enough of people taking over her things. All her life, whenever she’d managed to get something of her own, somebody—usually a man—always managed to grab it for himself.

And the law—damn it to hell and back—always favored the bloody man.

Twice in her life she’d lost everything. Never again.

She wasn’t a trusting soul like Flynn had been. Or maybe it was Freddy who’d been the trusting soul. Whatever, Daisy wasn’t big on trust anymore.

Last year, after working hard all her life, she’d ended up on the streets, homeless and almost broke—again—with only a small bundle of fabric scraps, leftovers and other people’s discards. And that wasn’t down to any man, but to Daisy’s own . . . foolishness. Trusting the wrong person—again.

If it weren’t for Abby and her sisters—and Lady Bea—she’d never have had the opportunity to try and make her dream come true.

All her life she’d been at somebody else’s beck and call—everybody else’s. She’d been the lowest of the low.

Now she had a chance—a real chance—to make something of herself, and she wasn’t going to risk losing it. Not again.

And more than anything she wanted to be her own boss. She’d had a taste of freedom at Lady Beatrice’s and it was in her blood now. She wasn’t ever going back to being bossed around by other people, being told what to do and how to do it and when to do it.

No, she wanted to do this her way, and if she failed, she’d have only herself to blame.

She didn’t mind the idea of a silent partner, but a male partner—even one like Flynn, who she liked and almost trusted—was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. As far as most people were concerned, property—and a business was property—was a man’s domain. If there was a dispute, well, the law was made by men for men. She had no illusions about that.

In any case, she’d bet her last penny that with the best will in the world, Flynn would never stay silent, never let her decide things for herself. He was a man too used to being in command.

Besides, she fancied him too much, and God help a girl who went into business with a man she fancied. Fruit, ripe for the picking.

*   *   *

“I’m thinkin’ it might be pleasant for you and me to step out into the garden, and sit this one out,” Flynn said, tucking Lady Elizabeth’s arm into his. “It’s very warm in here and you’re looking a wee bit flushed.”

“Oh, but—” She hung back. “It’s a lovely idea, but I don’t think we should. It’s not quite . . . proper.”

She turned a look of subtle entreaty on her chaperone, but her father, who was standing close by, said in a brusque voice, “Don’t be missish girl—nothing’s going to happen to you. Go on outside with Mr. Flynn.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, her voice almost . . . defeated. As if her father was flinging her to the wolves.

Flynn gritted his teeth. For two pins he’d drop the whole idea and go home. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He’d had enough female trouble this evening.

First Lady Elizabeth’s tactlessness earlier in the evening, then Daisy, flinging back his offer of a silent partnership in his teeth, as if he’d mortally insulted her—stubborn little wench! And now this, a young lady he was courting acting as if an invitation to walk in the garden was tantamount to an offer of rape!

But once he’d charted a course, he followed it through to the end—unless there were shoals ahead, or some unseen obstacle. He’d planned to kiss Lady Elizabeth tonight and he’d damned well do it.

He led her into the garden. At first they simply strolled together, her arm tucked into his, enjoying the mild evening, and the colored lights that bathed the garden in reds and yellows and pinks and blues—and left the rest in shadows. Flynn had plans for those shadows.

The occasional murmur and giggle from a darkened corner showed he wasn’t the only one making use of the garden for a spot of dalliance, though by comparison, his plans were relatively chaste. A couple of kisses, a bit of a cuddle, and then he’d see where they’d go from there.

It was his experience that women loosened up once the kissing started. He had no plans to seduce her though. No, he’d keep this fairly innocent. Schoolgirl stuff.

She was nervous. Normally a little on the quiet side, tonight she chattered nonstop about the gardens, the lights, the costumes, what she’d eaten for supper, what Flynn’s plans were for the morrow . . .

Anything, he guessed, to fill the silence. And to prevent him from broaching any more personal topic.

They passed under an arch and came to a tiny, miraculously secluded courtyard.

He stopped. She stopped with a jerk and turned a pale, set face to him. He could feel the tension running through her. He smiled. “Relax, Lady Elizabeth. I’ll not hurt you, lass.”

She stiffened. Flynn drew her closer, put a finger under her chin, because she was trying to look away from him, and kissed her, softly at first, just lips on lips, brushing lightly. Warm, soft, gentle. Gathering her in.

She made no move to move closer, or indeed to move away. She just stood there stiffly in his embrace. As if ready to endure . . . whatever. She was trembling—and not in a good way.

Surely in this, her third Season, it couldn’t be her first kiss.

Maybe it was. He was getting nothing from her. Nothing except resistance and . . . nerves.

He drew her closer, and deepened the kiss, gently parting her lips for the first light touch of his tongue—

“Splt!! Ugh!” She shoved him away and stumbled a few steps backward, wiping her mouth, revulsion in every movement. “What are you—?” She broke off, and eyed him anxiously. There was a short silence, then, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . prepared for . . .”

“Your first kiss?” Flynn asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. But she didn’t meet his eye. A lie then. No matter.

He moved forward again, but she flinched. Flinched.

He dropped his arms and stepped back. He’d never made a girl flinch in his life. “I’ll take you back inside.”

He turned to leave but she clutched his sleeve. “No, you can’t!”

He turned, frowning down at her. What was going on here?

“Sorry—I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn, it’s just—” She gestured around the shadowy garden, lit by gaily colored lanterns. “Someone might see us . . .”

He shook his head. “Nobody can see us here. I think we both know what’s happening here, Lady Elizabeth. I apologize. My mistake in thinkin’ you were willin’.”

“Oh, but I am! I promise you I am! I must—It is just—” She swallowed convulsively, her eyes stricken. “Please believe me, Mr. Flynn, I am willing. Very willing. When we are married, I will . . . It will be different. I will welcome your . . . attentions then.”

I will do my duty then.

“I don’t think so,” Flynn said gently. “Don’t worry, lass. There’s no blame to you attached. “

“Oh, but there is. Please. Papa will—” She broke off, chewing her lip. On the verge of tears. “Please, you must believe me. Here—I will prove it.” She grabbed him by the arms, stood on tiptoe and mashed her mouth up against his.

Flynn tried to turn it into a kiss, but it was a miserable failure, even worse than before. He tasted desperation and revulsion in equal measure. He’d never experienced anything like it.

He gently eased her away. She stood there, wringing her hands in agitation, waiting desperately for his reaction. Did she really imagine that could convince him?

He glanced around the garden to make sure they could not be overheard. He lowered his voice. “Is there someone else?”

“Someone else?” She started guiltily and scanned his face frantically. “No? Who do you mean. Have you heard something? Did Papa say—? Oh, please no.”

“Hush, lass, there’s no need to take on so. All I want to know is, is there another man you would prefer to marry? Someone your Papa doesn’t approve of?” Someone with no money, in other words.

She shook her head. “No, there’s no one I prefer to marry. No one, I promise you. Truly.”

“Are you sure? Because if you tell me there is, I will help you.”

Again she shook her head. “There is no one,” she said dully. “I only wish there were.” And then she realized what she’d said and her face crumpled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean—”

Flynn stared down at her. There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” She practically gabbled the words. She clutched at his sleeves again. “Please, Mr. Flynn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I am willing, more than willing.”

“No, you’re not.” He knew when a woman was interested and she was the very opposite. So why was she so anxious to convince him otherwise? He added in a soothing voice, “I’m not offended, Lady Elizabeth. Don’t worry, I’ll not be asking your father for your hand—”

“Oh, but you must, or else—” She broke off and looked away, chewing on her lip, clearly distressed.

“Or else what?”

For a few moments he was sure she wasn’t going to say anything. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally whispered so softly he almost didn’t catch it, “Lord Flensbury.” She shuddered.

Flensbury? He’d never heard of the man. “Who is Lord—”

But at that moment, bells rang to signal that it was time for the unmasking, and the garden was suddenly filled with people, and squeals and laughter and exclamations and all chance of any private conversation was gone.

“I’ll call on you at your home tomorrow morning,” Flynn told her over the hubbub. “You can tell me all about it then.”