Chapter Eight

The world is pretty much divided between the weak of mind & the strong, between those who can act & those who cannot, & it is the bounden duty of the capable to let no opportunity of being useful escape them.

—JANE AUSTEN, SANDITON AND OTHER STORIES

It wasn’t far to Compton House—all the nobs lived fairly close together—but Flynn took his time getting there. He felt no responsibility to Lady Elizabeth and he was eager to get back to Daisy and explore his reaction to the kiss—their mutual reaction, if he was any judge.

But his conversation with Lady Bea on the subject of Lord Flensbury had disturbed him. The old lady had twigged to the significance of his question straight away. “So Flensbury is Compton’s alternative choice, is he? Poor little Lizzie.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the man?”

“On the surface, perhaps nothing. Flensbury’s is an old family, aristocratic and very well connected. And he’s wealthy.” She paused. “But he’s also ancient—eighty if he’s a day—and has gone through three wives that I know of without getting a son on any of them. Rumor has it he’s looking for a fourth, a gel young enough to breed with. Determined to cut out his cousin—his heir—who he hates.”

Eighty? And Lady Elizabeth was just two and twenty. Not to mention being a . . . Lady of Llangollen. Dammit, it was no better than a rape.

He must have made some kind of sound, for the old lady nodded and said, “Quite so. And Flensbury isn’t the kind of man I’d want any of my gels to even meet, let alone marry, even if he were fifty years younger.”

She curled her lip and added, “Unsavory practices. Nobody knows what the first three wives died of, but nobody doubts they’re happier now.”

She cocked her head and eyed Flynn shrewdly. “You’re definitely not marrying Lizzie Compton, then?”

“Yes. We don’t suit.”

“And so her father will press her to take Flensbury. Poor little gel.”

It hadn’t been at all what Flynn wanted to hear. It was one thing for the girl not to wish to marry at all, but to be forced to wed an eighty-year-old . . . with unsavory practices.

Flynn swore and kicked a pebble along the street. He wished now he’d never heard of Flensbury, never asked Lady Bea about him. He didn’t want to know. It had nothing to do with him.

The man sounded thoroughly unpleasant—appalling even—but he wasn’t Flynn’s problem. Any arrangement concerning Lord Flensbury was between Lady Elizabeth and her father. Lady Elizabeth was of age; nobody could force her to marry.

Except that she had no money of her own, and her father had made no provision for her future, so unless she married . . .

Flynn kicked another stone, hard. It wasn’t his responsibility. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had, perhaps, raised a few expectations, but she didn’t want him, either—that kiss last night had proved it. And besides, he’d made no promises.

Her future was nothing to do with him. Nothing.

He reached the Compton house and rang the doorbell. He’d speak to Lady Elizabeth privately, tell her his decision, clear things with her father, then get the hell out of there.

The butler ushered him into Lady Elizabeth’s drawing room just as she was pouring tea for a small handful of guests. As Flynn paused in the doorway, watching her graceful handling of the large teapot, something clicked.

That feeling he’d had the first time he’d seen her in her home, it wasn’t some mysterious instinct telling him Lady Elizabeth was the girl for him. It was the teapot—an echo of memory of Mam and the tea table, a reminder of home and family and childhood security, before the cholera had shattered everything.

The symbol of family that he’d harbored in his mind—all unknowing—since he was a small boy.

If he hadn’t walked past that shop this morning he might never have realized it. The last little thread tying him to Lady Elizabeth dissolved.

He took a seat and accepted a cup of tea. He’d wait out the other visitors and speak to her in private. Given her reaction to his kiss last night, she ought to be relieved.

He thought of Flensbury and swore silently.

It wasn’t his problem.

*   *   *

“Please, I’m so sorry I was so silly last night. Can we try again?” They were seated in the garden, on a low bench next to some neglected roses. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes were liquid with incipient tears. Her mouth wobbled. “I promise you, I’ll do better. If you’ll just give me another chance . . .”

Flynn sighed. It would make no difference. He had no desire to marry her now—less than no desire—but the sight of her trying to force an expression of eager willingness onto her face . . . He felt like a brute.

He shouldn’t have come at all, should have just stayed away, let Lady Elizabeth and her father draw their own conclusions. But that would be the coward’s way out. He had raised expectations—and not just in the girl and her father—he was well aware there had been talk and speculation among the ton. So he needed to face her like a man.

“Please, if we could just try kissing again, I promise I will not—”

“No, lass.” He placed a comforting hand on her arm and before she could stop herself she recoiled, just a little.

Realizing what she’d done, she leaned toward him with a forced smile. “Sorry, you startled me.”

But it wasn’t that. It was his hands. Gloves, Mr. Flynn. Or maybe it was just because he was a man.

“Ah, lass, can’t you see? You don’t want me to touch you at all,” he said gently. “If a man and a woman are to be married, there needs to be an attraction between them. You have to want to be touched.”

She bit her lip. “I could try . . .”

He shook his head. “There’s no point. It wouldn’t be right for either of us.”

“But if you don’t marry me, it must be . . .” She shuddered. “Lord Flensbury. And that will be even worse—oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Why must you marry Flensbury?” Flynn asked bluntly. “I don’t understand.”

She stared at him as if he were lacking in wits. “Because of Papa’s debts, of course. He’s facing ruin.”

“I know that. What I don’t understand is why your happiness must be sacrificed for the sake of your father’s debts.”

“He’s my father. It’s my duty.”

Flynn snorted. “It’s your father’s duty as a parent to take care of you, to provide for you—not to sell you off to the highest bidder like some kind of prize heifer.”

A fat tear rolled down her cheek. Flynn watched helplessly, regretting his brutal honesty. He hated it when women wept. But it was time she faced the truth.

He tried a different tack. “What is your father doing to solve his debt problem?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Well I do, and the answer is nothing—nothing! He hasn’t reduced his expenditure, he hasn’t adjusted his lavish way of life in the least, he’s not even investigating how he could earn money. Worse, he’s continuing to gamble and he’s squandering a fortune on—on other things,” he ended lamely. But he couldn’t speak of Lord Compton’s mistresses to his gently bred virgin daughter.

“I know,” she said in a low voice. “His mistresses.”

So she knew. “Then why on earth would you think you owe it to him to marry someone you find objectionable?”

She said in a resigned voice, “What else can I do? I must marry, and it’s not as if there’s anyone else I want to marry . . .”

“Isn’t there someone, some friend or relative you could live with?”

She produced a handkerchief and dried her eyes carefully. “My aunt would take me in—my mother’s sister. She and Papa have never got on.” She folded up the handkerchief and looked at him hopelessly, as if that was that.

“Then why not go to her?”

“I can’t. She lives in Italy. She eloped with an artist—he was Italian, and was employed to paint her betrothal portrait—but instead she ran off with him and was cast off by the family.” As she explained her hands moved restlessly, pleating and repleating the handkerchief as if was the most important thing in the world to get each fold exact. He was sure she had no awareness she was even doing it. “She and Mama stayed secretly in touch, and after Mama died she wrote to me several times, inviting me to visit. Of course Papa wouldn’t hear of it.”

It was the perfect solution. Out of the country and off his conscience. “Then go to your aunt.”

“How? I have no money.”

“I’ll give you the money.”

“No!” She looked at him, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

“Why the hel—why on earth not?”

She gave him a clear look. “Strange as it may seem, Mr. Flynn, I do have a little pride left. Since I am not to marry you, I could not possibly accept your money.”

“Make it a loan then.”

“No. It’s quite impossible.” She was quite firm in her resolve.

Flynn stared at her in exasperation—and a slender thread of reluctant admiration. Her convoluted reasoning was quite mad, of course, but he could see she was operating from a position she thought was honorable. And far be it from him to deny the girl her pride. She had little enough left.

She said with dignity, “It is kind of you to be concerned, Mr. Flynn, but it is not your problem. I am not your problem.”

It was exactly what he’d been telling himself all along, but it was even less convincing when she said it. She might believe it; he might even believe it, but he couldn’t leave her in this mess. It wasn’t of his making, but he’d contributed to it.

“I own a fleet of ships. I could arrange passage—”

“Thank you, but no. The subject is closed. I should not have been so indiscreet as to involve you in my private concerns.” She rose and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Flynn. Thank you for being so honest with me. It has been a pleasure knowing you.”

Flynn bowed over her hand. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege knowing you, Lady Elizabeth.” He liked her a great deal better now—giving him this calm and dignified dismissal—than he had during any of their previous acquaintance.

Not that he’d changed his mind in the least. He was delighted to be off the hook.

But she wasn’t off it, and that was the trouble.

*   *   *

“Daisy, Daisy.” Gentle hands shook Daisy’s shoulder.

“Wha—?” Daisy jerked awake with a start, her pulse pounding. It took her a moment to realize where she was—in her own bed. Alone. In the middle of the night. A pale shape bent over her. “Jane?”

“You’re not ill, are you Daisy?”

Daisy blinked into the darkness. “No.” Her nightgown was twisted high above her waist. She felt hot and sweaty—and it was a cold night.

“Oh, it must have been another bad dream then. Your legs were thrashing around and you were moaning and groaning so fearfully I was quite worried.”

Daisy felt her face heating. Thank goodness it was dark and Jane couldn’t see her. Thrashing around? Moaning and groaning? It wasn’t fear.

She thrust away the sensations—so real she could almost still feel them—of big, calloused hands stroking her, teasing, arousing her to distraction . . . She tried to shove her nightgown back down around her legs.

She was aching, acutely sensitive. Damp.

Jane plonked herself on the side of Daisy’s bed. “Is something worrying you, Daisy dear? It’s usually me who has the bad dreams, not you.”

“No, it’s nothing,” Daisy muttered. “Don’t worry—probably just the onion soup from last night. Go back to bed, Jane.”

Jane hesitated. “Are you sure? Because this is the second night in a row you’ve had one, so it can’t be the onion soup. If you want to talk about—”

“I’m sure. There’s nothing to talk about, really. “

“Is it the business? Because if it is—”

“It’s not. It’s nothing—just a stupid dream. Now, go back to bed or you’ll catch a chill.”

Jane went, reluctantly. Daisy hunched her bedclothes around her and feigned sleep until Jane drifted back to sleep.

Stupid dream was right. Damn that Flynn.

She was sleeping worse than ever, and now it wasn’t only business worries that kept her tossing and turning. Thrashing around and moaning.

He’d got her all stirred up with that blooming kiss. Twice now she’d woken up all hot and bothered, with her nightgown hitched up around her waist and her bedclothes in a twist. Hot and damp and . . . lust-ridden.

That one blasted kiss had knocked her endways. Given her a taste of the forbidden. Taken her feelings about Flynn from a harmless, secret fantasy and turned them into . . .

No! She wasn’t goin’ there.

Two days since that kiss and she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him—apart from in her dreams. If he had been interested, if that kiss had affected him half as much as it had affected her . . .

But from what the others said, he was still seeing Lady Elizabeth. A woman who kissed like a fish, but who was a lady. A pretty, sweet-spoken dainty lady who no doubt danced like a thistledown fairy, not a clumping great Cockney clodhopper who swore like a trooper.

Not that she cared. She didn’t want anyone. She had a business to build.

She checked that Jane was sleeping soundly, slipped out of bed and began to dress in the dark. It wasn’t much earlier than she normally got up anyway, so she might as well get busy.

Maybe if she acted as if it didn’t affect her one way or another, the . . . feelings would go away. That worked for most things. She was good at not wanting what she couldn’t have, and one thing was clear in her mind, no matter which way she looked at him, she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—have Flynn.

*   *   *

“I don’t understand why you wanted me to go with you to the park,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Of course, it’s very pleasant, but . . .” She darted him a cautious glance. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? About . . .”

“No,” Flynn assured her. “But you don’t mind if your father doesn’t know that yet, do you?”

“Oh, no. In fact while Papa thinks we’re still courting . . .”

“Exactly,” said Flynn, patting her hand. He’d remembered to wear his gloves today. They strolled along, bowing to some, stopping to chat to others. Lady Elizabeth, of course, knew practically everyone.

Flynn didn’t miss the silent glances exchanged. They’d love it when the news got out, damn their eyes. Not that he gave a snap of his fingers for their good opinion.

He watched the ton parading their wares in the park—their clothes, their style, their availability in some cases, and their unmarried daughters.

He glanced down at the woman on his arm, now so comfortable with him, because he no longer had expectations of her. He’d had a lucky escape there—only because he’d broken the rules of polite ton behavior, sneaking her outside to steal a kiss or two. Otherwise he’d never have known, not until he found himself shackled to a wife that couldn’t bear his touch.

The thought of embarking on another search for a highborn wife depressed his spirits. They stopped to chat briefly to an acquaintance of Lady Elizabeth’s, then moved on.

All these people had known each other practically from birth—they were related, or their families knew each other—had known each other for generations—or the men had attended boarding school together—it was a closed little group.

And they all, to a greater or lesser degree, cooperated in keeping outsiders out. Outsiders like him.

Oh, he could buy his way in and marry one of them. But he’d always be an outsider.

It hadn’t bothered him before, and it didn’t really bother him now—he’d been an outsider most of his life.

He had friends like Max and Ash, and now Freddy—real friends, not simply business partners. Friends and equals; he’d been friends with Max for years before he ever knew he was a lord.

Out there in the real world, it didn’t matter. A man was judged by what he was made of, not who he was related to.

He watched the brightly clad fashionable throng, strutting and bowing and strolling, seeing and being seen. English society was like a birdcage, a big, comfortable, elegant birdcage with invisible wires. Those inside knew the unwritten rules and those on the outside could only enter with permission.

Trouble is, he was now far more aware of those unwritten rules than he was when he’d first set out to find a highborn wife, and he didn’t much like them.

He strolled on, lending half an ear to Lady Elizabeth’s bland and predictable chat, responding when required, Lady Elizabeth’s dour maid, Muir, trailing grimly behind, giving Flynn silent dagger looks from the rear.

When he’d first arrived in London, he had this idea about fine ladies that they were delicate, innocent creatures, soft and gentle and in need of protection.

He needed that, somehow. He was in a position to protect and care for a wife and children now, not like before . . . when he hadn’t been able to help his family at all.

He cut off the painful thought. The past was the past. Nothing he could do about it now. He had a future and it was his to shape, as much as any man could shape the future.

Not only his future. He would protect Lady Elizabeth by not marrying her. Ironic, that.

He scanned the line of elegant carriages making their slow way around the park. No sign yet of Lady Beatrice. He hoped she hadn’t forgotten the little agreement they’d made the day before. If she had, the whole point of this walk with Lady Elizabeth and her maid would be lost and the wretched business would drag on for another day.

Lady Beatrice’s barouche approached. Finally. The instant she spotted him, the old lady poked her driver with her cane and the carriage slowed to a halt. She beckoned him over with an imperious wave.

He steered Lady Elizabeth through the gently milling throng of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen.

The old lady greeted them enthusiastically. “How do you do, my dears? Isn’t it a lovely day—one might almost believe that spring really is here to stay! Flynn, my dear boy, I do like those boots. Lady Elizabeth, you’ve snagged the finest looking man here, so I fear I must punish you for it!”

Lady Elizabeth blushed rosily. “P-punish me, Lady Davenham?” She was invariably punctilious about using Lady Beatrice’s correct form of address.

“I just set two of my gels down to stretch their legs”—she waved a vague hand, and Flynn saw Jane and Abby walking arm in arm some short distance away—“and I need someone to keep me company.” The old lady patted the seat beside her invitingly. “Flynn, help Lady Elizabeth up.”

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you.” Lady Elizabeth glanced back at her maid. “And Muir?”

“No, no, your maid can stay here and keep Mr. Flynn company. Can’t leave the poor man stranded and all alone, like a shag on a rock, can we? Now come along up, my dear, you’re holding up the traffic.”

Flynn hid a smile as he helped Lady Elizabeth into the barouche. The old lady was a master manipulator. The carriage drove on and he turned to Muir. “Shall we sit over there while we’re waiting for your mistress to return?”

Muir gave him a look of deep suspicion, but consented to accompany him to a bench some little distance away from the fashionable circuit.

“You’re very loyal to your mistress, aren’t you, Muir?” he said as they sat down.

“I am.” She gave him a disdainful look. “So don’t expect me to gossip about—”

“Far from it. Though,” he added in a coaxing voice, “I would like to know a little about her aunt. The one who lives in Italy.”

The maid sniffed. “Why would you want to know about her?”

Flynn gave her his best charming smile. “I’m trying to find out whether Lady Elizabeth’s aunt in Italy is someone she could turn to.”

Her eyes were chips of ice. “And why would you want to know that?”

“Because, you stubborn woman, I want to try and help the lass.”

“And why—”

“Because as you no doubt know—if you’re in your mistress’s confidence—I’m not going to make her an offer, which means—she tells me—that her father will force her to marry Lord Flensbury. And before you ask why I care, I don’t know, but I do. So, would this aunt in Italy take her in or not?”

There was a long pause while Muir thought about what he said. “She would,” she said finally. “In a heartbeat. But there’s no chance of—”

“Oh, look, Miss Muir,” Flynn exclaimed. “You’ve dropped your purse.”

Muir looked at the thick brown purse that had suddenly appeared at her feet. “That’s not mine.”

“Yes it is,” Flynn said. “You dropped it just now.”

“I didn’t. I’ve never seen that purse before in my—”

Flynn picked it up and shoved it in her hands. “You wouldn’t want to lose it. That’s the purse that contains the nest egg you inherited from your recently deceased cousin.”

Muir stared at him.

“Or perhaps it’s the sum you won in the lottery.”

‘But I never enter the lott—”

“I don’t care how you got it—you’re the one who has to convince your mistress. But five hundred pounds will get both of you to Italy in comfort and will support you for some time while you’re there, assuming the aunt doesn’t change her mind.”

“Five hundred p . . .” Muir fumbled with the fastening of the purse and peered inside. Her lips moved silently as she counted the notes bundled inside. She counted them twice then looked at him in stunned disbelief.

“But why would you—”

“I told you, I don’t want her misery on my conscience, and she’s too proud to accept any help from me. Do you think you could convince her?”

For a long time she didn’t respond. He couldn’t see her expression; she was staring down at the purse that she now clutched tightly to her bosom. Finally she said in a low voice, “You would trust me to use this money—for her? What would stop me from agreeing now and running off with it, leaving Lady Elizabeth to her fate? Five hundred pounds—it’s a fortune for the likes of me.”

“I know.” Flynn was well aware of the temptation. A lady’s maid might earn fifteen pounds in a year, and he was damned sure Lord Compton wouldn’t be paying Muir anywhere near that. “I’m gambling on what my instinct tells me.”

“And what does your instinct say about me?” she asked in a low voice.

“That you love your mistress and would do anything to help her.”

Her fingers tightened over the purse, and she sniffed, but it was quite a different kind of sniff. Flynn realized she was crying. He pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Thank you, sir, oh, thank you,” she whispered.

“No need to mention this to anyone,” he said gruffly. He hated it when women cried. “I don’t care what story you tell your mistress, just get her out of the country and away from that pathetic excuse for a father.”

“I will sir, oh, I promise you, I will,” Muir vowed. “And thank you! A thousand times, thank y—”

“There’s Lady Beatrice’s carriage. Now put that purse somewhere safe and let us go and meet your mistress.” He stood up, relieved to be able to put an end to it.