by Anne Gracie
Jane’s shepherdess costume for the masquerade next week hung by the door. Daisy had altered an old dress of Lady Bea’s and it had come up a treat. Perfect for a wear-it-once costume. Saved her a heap of time.
But . . . so many orders, so many promises she’d made.
Oh, Lady Bea had lent Daisy Polly and Ginny, her maids, to sew for her every afternoon. And Jane, Abby and Damaris knew about Daisy’s dream and did whatever they could to help.
But Abby and Damaris were married ladies now, and Jane had made her come-out and was promised, if not officially betrothed, and it was her job now to attend as many social occasions as she could and establish herself as a member of the ton. All the girls had other responsibilities. And it was them wearing Daisy-made clothes to fancy society events that was the reason she had so many orders now, so she wasn’t going to complain.
Daisy sewed every minute God sent—and more. But it still wasn’t enough.
She’d tried putting her prices up, quoting ridiculous prices, just to put people off and slow things down a bit, but it only made some ladies more determined than ever to have one of Daisy’s creations.
Rich people were mad. But that madness was going to make Daisy rich and famous.
Eventually.
If only she could make the clothes quicker. But how? She was barely scraping by as it was—she paid Polly and Ginny a bit whenever she could—on top of what Lady Bea paid them—but there was no extra money to employ anyone else.
Getting fabric was no problem—Max and Freddy, her brothers-in-law, owned a silk importing business—but things like lace and fancy bits and bobs cost money, and tradesmen wouldn’t hand over the goods unless she paid.
And toffs might be rich, but they took forever to pay.
Round and around her thoughts went, turning the same problems over and over in her mind, and as always, the only solution Daisy could come up with was to work harder. And longer. And faster.
Her needle flew.
* * *
Some time later, a knock sounded on Daisy’s door. She looked up and saw Lady Beatrice’s butler, Featherby standing in the doorway.
“What?” She glowered suspiciously at him. “If you’ve come to drag me off—”
He looked faintly shocked. “I have no intention of dragging you anywhere, Miss Daisy. I just wanted a quiet word. May I come in?”
She sighed. “Come in then, Mr. F.—and don’t call me Miss Daisy. Not when we’re alone. I ain’t forgotten—if everyone else in this bloomin’ house has—how we all met—me, Abby, Jane, Damaris, and you and William.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Featherby said smoothly, shutting the door behind him. “I thought maybe you had.”
She stared at him. “Whaddya mean? Of course I remember.” She patted the seat beside her in invitation. “We was in the attic of that half-wrecked place that was going to be knocked down, and you and William was livin’ downstairs.”
Featherby seated himself with a reminiscent sigh. “All of us living on the brink of disaster.”
“Yeah, but—”
“William was an ageing, broken-down prizefighter, getting pounded to mincemeat for a few shillings, and I was a disgraced former butler, dismissed without a character for drunkenness.”
“Drunkenness?” Daisy gave him a surprised look. “But I’ve never seen you touch even a drop.”
“Not now, I don’t. But it was pure luck”—he smiled—“chance, if you will—that you girls needed our help that day. And that Lady Beatrice took William and myself in, as well as you girls.” He gave her a long, steady look. “We’re secure now—or as secure as any servant with an elderly employer can be—and we have no intention of risking our position.”
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Are you sayin’ I’m threatening your security?”
“No, not at all,” Featherby said smoothly. “But—and I say this on the strength of our previous acquaintanceship, and not as a butler—or not only as a butler—do as the old lady wants, Daisy.”
“But it’s stupid—”
“Do it anyway. It matters to her that she teach you all the things a lady needs to know.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. How many more times did she have to say it. “But I ain’t never gunna—”
“Do it anyway,” Featherby repeated. “Because you love her. Because she loves you.”
Daisy was silent a moment. Lots of talk of love flying around this morning. She wasn’t used to it. Had no idea how to handle it.
She frowned, considering his words. She did love the old lady, she did. But . . . She gestured to the piles of garments in various stages of construction. “Look at all this, Featherby. I ain’t got time to waste ladifying meself for no good reason.”
“Make the time.”
“And how does me work get done, eh?”
Featherby shrugged. “Find another way. You’re talented and clever and resourceful. And you’re young. You have your whole future ahead of you, Daisy.” He lowered his voice for emphasis. “Lady Beatrice doesn’t. She’s old. And whatever her reason, this is what she wants for you.”
“Did she send you up here to talk me into—?”
Featherby looked slightly affronted. “No, she has no idea. I sought you out as a friend, not as a butler.”
Daisy believed him. She nodded, mollified.
Featherby waited a moment, then continued, “Lady Beatrice is the reason none of us is still living in a rundown slum, living from hand to mouth. She’s the reason you have this rosy future you’re working so hard for.”
There was a long silence. “You’re sayin’ I owe her.”
Featherby made a noncommittal gesture. “It’s your decision.”
Daisy heaved a sigh. “I know.” She hesitated, rubbing a finger back and forth along the seam of her skirt, then muttered. “But I feel like such a fool, Mr. Featherby, clumpin’ around practicing curtseys wiv me gammy leg, let alone trying to dance.”
“I know,” he said gently. A faint smile crossed his normally impassive features. “You should have heard William the first time he put on footman’s livery.”
Daisy looked up. “He didn’t like it?”
Featherby’s smile widened. “He loathed it. Swore he wasn’t going to go around all trussed up like a Christmas goose.”
Daisy laughed. Big, rough-hewn William wasn’t the smoothest of footmen.
“But he grew accustomed to it, and he found a way to make the role his own,” Featherby finished. “And so will you, Daisy. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
Proving, Daisy thought, that he’d heard the whole argument between her and Lady Bea. Still, Featherby wasn’t given to saying things he didn’t mean. “You reckon so?”
“I know so. So, will you attend the lesson tomorrow?”
Daisy sighed. “You know I will. You’ve made me feel that big.” She made a gesture with thumb and finger.
Featherby gave her an approving smile. “My dear, never think that I intended to diminish you in any way. You—all of you girls—have the biggest hearts in the world.” He hesitated, then added in a voice that was slightly husky, “Lady Beatrice and your sisters are not the only ones who love you, you know. I never did have children . . .”
Daisy blinked and a lump formed in her throat. Featherby was such a perfect butler that it was easy to forget he was a man with his own private thoughts and feelings. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cleared his throat and surged to his feet, and suddenly he was no longer the kindly friend who’d just deprived her of the power of speech, but a very dignified butler whose face never expressed emotion of any kind.
He moved towards the door.
“Mr. Featherby.”
He stopped and glanced back at her, one brow raised.
“Do you like bein’ a butler?” She’d never wondered that before, had t
aken it for granted. But now she was curious.
For a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, “Remember the situation when we first joined Lady Beatrice, the mess she was in, the disarray, the dirt, the chaos and discomfort?”
Daisy nodded. She did indeed.
The place was a pigsty and Lady Beatrice bedridden and helpless.
“Now, because of me, this household runs like the most perfect clockwork, seamlessly and invisibly.” Then Featherby grinned, positively grinned. “Do I like being a butler, Daisy?” He swept her a bow that combined grace, dignity and a fair degree of triumph. “I love it! I am to butlerdom what you are to dressmaking—simply the best there is. In fact—though I hesitate to boast—I am regularly offered large . . . shall we say, inducements—I shall not call them bribes—to enter the employment of other ladies and gentlemen.” He wrinkled his nose fastidiously.
Daisy’s eyes widened. “What? You mean people are tryin’ to steal you from Lady Bea? You’re not tempted, are you?”
Featherby drew himself up proudly. “Not for one instant. William and I will never leave Lady Beatrice. Never! Not while I have breath in my body.”
Daisy nodded. She felt like that too about the old lady.
“I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding, miss.”
Daisy shrugged. She’d take her sewing with her to the lessons; she could sew as well as listen. “I ain’t going to dance, though,” she called after him just as the door was closing. “You won’t get me on any blood—er, bloomin’ dance floor!”
Chapter Two
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Patrick Flynn leapt lightly from the hired hackney carriage, instructed the driver to wait, and rang the doorbell of Lady Beatrice’s home in Berkeley Square.
“Mornin’, Featherby,” he greeted the butler familiarly. When Flynn had first arrived in London, knowing only Max, Flynn’s business partner and Lady Beatrice’s nephew, the old lady had invited him to stay. He’d spent his first few weeks living here and it had set him on exactly the path he wanted.
“Miss Daisy ready, is she?” Flynn asked. It was still quite early in the morning, but he’d sent a note around the previous evening. They’d received word that one of his ships carrying a special cargo of silks was due to dock this morning. Since Daisy was making clothes for Max’s wife, Abby and her other two sisters, Max wanted him to give Daisy first pick.
“Not quite, sir, but I’m sure she won’t be long. In the meantime, I’ll take your coat and hat, and if you would care to wait . . .”
Flynn did not care to wait, but he had no choice. Women were invariably late.
As the butler took Flynn’s overcoat, his expression became more than usually blank. Flynn smiled at Featherby’s pained, feigned obliviousness, and stroked his waistcoat.
Featherby did not approve of Flynn’s colorful waistcoats. He wasn’t the only one. When Flynn took over Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen’s bachelor apartments, he’d also taken on his valet, Tibbins. Tibbins frankly and openly despised the flamboyant waistcoats and tried at every opportunity to convince his master to get rid of them.
Flynn cared not the snap of his fingers for his valet’s—or anyone else’s—opinions. He had no love for the current English fashion for dressing a man like a wet weekend in Wales; Flynn liked a bit of color.
He’d entered London society with a view to finding a fine, fashionable lady to take to wife, and wiser and more fashionable heads—well, Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, who was an elegant sprig—had persuaded him to dress more conventionally—for the moment, at any rate.
Today, not even such an arbiter of fashion as Hyphen-Hyphen could find fault with the immaculate buckskin breeches molded smoothly over Flynn’s thighs, his highly polished black boots, his fine linen shirt with its high starched collar, the elegantly tied neckcloth and the perfectly tailored dark blue coat made for him by the very exclusive Weston, tailor to the fine gentlemen of the ton.
No, Flynn would have been complete to a shade—a very dull shade in his opinion—except for his waistcoat, which had not been made for him by any gentleman’s tailor.
Today’s waistcoat was a riot of snarling black and yellow embroidered Chinese tigers on a scarlet and blue silk background. Their eyes were tiny crystals that glinted green or red when he moved.
He had half a dozen of these vividly colored waistcoats, mostly made of Chinese or Indian embroideries and all made by Miss Daisy Chance, who charged Flynn an exorbitant price for the privilege—with a cheeky grin that all but admitted it was bare-faced robbery.
“Tell the lass to shake a leg, will you, Featherby?”
Featherby inclined a regal head. “I shall inform the young lady, sir. In the meantime, Lady Beatrice would, I’m sure, be delighted to entertain you. She’s in the front drawing room.” With an imperious wave of his hand, Featherby indicated the room. “I will have tea brought in.”
“Oh, but I haven’t got t—”
But the butler had gone, damn him, disappearing through the green baize door that led to the servants’ domain. With a sigh, Flynn made his way to the drawing room, already half regretting that he’d agreed to take Daisy with him.
It wasn’t that Flynn minded Daisy’s company—he liked the girl fine—it was just . . . he preferred to inspect his cargo on his own. It was a private little ritual he enjoyed each time one of his ships docked, meeting with the captain, going over the cargo manifest, then poking quietly through the various stores and bundles, the boxes and the exotically wrapped items, and deciding what he would do with them all.
It was a reminder of how far he’d come, a small, private . . . all right, yes, a small, private gloat.
Flynn grinned to himself. And maybe not always so small.
Trading was in his blood. He never knew in advance exactly what his captains might bring. Oh, there was the bread-and-butter cargo, silks and tea and spices and what-have-you, depending on where the ship had been trading, but he encouraged all his captains to keep an eye out for anything special and unusual.
Rich people were prepared to pay handsomely for the rare and exclusive.
And this particular ship was the Derry Lass, whose captain, McKenzie, traveled with his wife, Mai-Lin, who was a born trader on both sides of her heritage—the Scottish and the Chinese. She’d never yet failed to surprise him with some rare and beautiful item. And as well as silks, she had a nose for fine jade. Flynn collected jade.
Still, if he had to take an outsider along with him—and a female at that—Daisy was a good choice. She had an eye for quality, that girl, and a knack for knowing the kind of things that ladies—and therefore merchants—would snap up.
He knocked on the sitting room door and entered.
The dowager Lady Davenham, who preferred to be addressed as Lady Beatrice, the title she’d been born with, was seated on an overstuffed armchair, her skirts arranged around her like a queen’s robes, leafing through the pages of an illustrated periodical in a bored fashion. She looked up and brightened.
“Mr. Flynn, my dear boy, come in, come in. Just the man I wanted to see. I am bored to death with the company of women! Oh, not my darling gels—you know me better than that—but morning callers—and when I heard the bell just now, I thought you must be one of them—though it is a ridiculously early time for morning calls and nobody with the slightest pretension to fashion would make a morning call before noon—though of course it’s quite a different matter with a gentlemen caller, particularly a handsome one like yourself. You are welcome at any time.”
She raised her lorgnette and raked her gaze over him, lingering over the fit of the buckskin breeches. “You look to be in fine fettle, dear boy. I do like those breeches. So many men just don’t have the wherewithal to fill a p
air of breeches properly.”
Flynn hid a grin. He was pretty sure he knew what she meant by wherewithal. She was an outrageous old bird.
Finally she dragged her gaze up to his face and beamed up at him. “So, what brings you here—do you want some tea? Of course you do—just tug on that bellpull, will you and—oh, here are William and Featherby now with the tea. Perfect timing as usual, Featherby. Be seated, dear boy, there where I can see you.” She gestured graciously.
Flynn sat.
The footman, William, set down the tea tray. Featherby poured while William put out a plate of dainty cakes and biscuits. As Featherby handed Flynn his teacup, he said, “Miss Daisy’s compliments, sir. She’s changing now and will be down in an instant.”
Lady Beatrice’s brows rose. “Will she indeed? That will make a change. You are honored, Mr. Flynn. The wretched gel hardly ever graces us with her company these days. Not for mere social occasions.” She snorted.
“Oh? And why would that be?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Sheer stubbornness.”
The footman and butler withdrew. Lady Beatrice drank a mouthful of tea, picked up an iced pink almond cake and said, “Now, dear boy, tell me, how is your matrimonial quest proceeding?”
“Well enough, thank you, m’lady.” He took a ginger biscuit, thought about dunking it in his cup of tea, reflected that the practice was frowned upon in elegant circles and crunched it down in two bites instead. He washed it down with a mouthful of tea. The ginger was good and spicy, the tea as weak as water. He preferred Indian tea, strong as it could come. Lady Beatrice invariably drank China.
She raised her lorgnette and said sharply, “Well enough? What does ‘well enough’ mean? Have you found a suitable young lady or not? Who have you met so far? How it is going?”
Flynn took another biscuit. “Excellent ginger nuts, m’lady. My compliments to your cook.”
