by Anne Gracie
Lady Beatrice was forever trying to winkle information out of Flynn concerning his plans and any potential courtships he might be considering. Ever since she’d met him, the old lady had been dying to match him up—and he was grateful for her introductions. But he’d always steered his own course, and he preferred to keep his own counsel until he’d made a final decision.
His reluctance to discuss the matter in detail fair drove the old lady mad. And to be honest, Flynn quite enjoyed teasing her.
She eyed him narrowly. “Finding you’ve aimed rather too high, have you? I did warn you. A lowborn, uneducated sea captain, Irish—and Roman Catholic to boot!” She shook her head.
“Lapsed, m’lady, and though all you say is true, I don’t believe I’m aimin’ too high,” Flynn said mildly. He was comfortable in his own skin and knew his own worth. “I’m also rich—a self-made man with a fleet of ships and a tradin’ empire that spreads from here to the four corners of the earth.”
Lady Beatrice sniffed. “Money acquired in trade.”
Flynn grinned, undeceived by her disparaging tone. “Aye, m’lady, lots of nasty vulgar money at me disposal which the poor lass who consents to become me wife will have to help me spend. ’Twill be a terrible burden for her, I’m thinkin’.”
Lady Beatrice’s finely painted lips twitched. “Undoubtedly. Modesty is not one of your virtues, is it Mr. Flynn.”
Flynn shrugged. He’d never seen the point of hiding his light under a bushel.
She picked up a dainty pastry bulging with cream and nibbled on it thoughtfully. “Max and Freddy have introduced you to a number of likely prospects, I know. As have I myself. But the Season has only just begun. Don’t give up hope yet, dear boy, there are plenty of eligible gels—”
“Oh, I have me eye on a likely lass,” he said unwarily.
He’d pretty much settled on Lady Elizabeth Compton, the daughter of the Earl of Compton. Lady Elizabeth looked to be everything he wanted in a wife—blue-blooded, pretty, young but not too young, and as far as Flynn could tell, sweet-natured. The only daughter of an impoverished earl, her father had subtly indicated he had no objection to a jumped-up lapsed Irish Catholic, as long as his fortune was fat enough, and Flynn’s was.
“Have you now?” Lady Beatrice leaned forward, her aristocratic Roman nose practically quivering, like a hound given the scent of a hare. “The finest young lady in London, you told me you wanted. This gel is a lady I presume?”
“To her fingertips, with a pedigree as long as your arm.”
“Who is she then? Do I know her?”
Flynn shook his head. “Nothing is settled yet.”
“I know how to keep my mouth shut, if that’s what’s worrying you,” she said tartly.
“To be sure, ma’am,” he said in a manner calculated to soothe her ruffled feathers. “But I’m a wee bit superstitious about speaking before any arrangements have been made. Once things are settled, I promise you, you’ll be the first to know. I’m truly grateful for the introduction.”
“Oho!” Lady Beatrice set her teacup aside, raised her lorgnette and leaned forward. “So I introduced you to the gel, did I? Which one is it, then? Is it—”
“I don’t intend to discuss it, m’lady,” Flynn said firmly. He was grateful for the introductions to various members of the ton that Lady Beatrice and Max had made, but he had no intention of letting the old lady—well-meaning as she was—oversee his courtship. Or blab it around before he’d even spoken to the girl.
She took no notice and began reeling off names, her beady gaze, intensified by her lorgnette, focused intently on him. “Is it Miss Harrington? Or the Grainger gel—forgot her name—the pretty one, with the unfortunate hair? No? Then what about the Sherry gel—Marianne? A little long in the tooth, but still perfectly eligible. No? Hmm, let me think, who else have I introduced you to?”
Flynn could have sworn he hadn’t moved a muscle, so how the devil did the old lady know it was none of the girls she’d listed? Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen claimed the old lady was some kind of mind-reading witch, and the rate she was going, a distraction was in order.
“It might be the daughter of a duke,” he confided, “and that’s all I’m going to say. I wouldn’t want it to get out.” He picked up a third ginger nut and chomped into it. Let the old girl muse on that little red herring.
“A duke’s gel?” Her brow knotted. “Not many of those left on the shelf—and none that I know of coming out this season, either. She’s made her come-out, this gel, has she?”
“Oh, yes.” Flynn sipped his tea and kept a straight face.
“The only duke’s gel that I can think of—the only unmarried one, that is—is Lady Pamela Girtle-Bute. But of course it couldn’t possibly be her.”
Flynn leaned forward with what he hoped was a guileless expression. “Why not?”
“Pammy Girtle-Bute?” The old lady snorted. “Frightful gel! Long past her prayers and no wonder. No looks to speak of—a perfect barrel of a girl—and those teeth!! And a crashing bore, to boot. Carries on a conversation as if she’s the only person in the room, can’t shut her up—and loud. Even the deaf are deafened. Add to that her propensity for keeping pet rats—d’you know, she took one once to a ball—carried it in her reticule—wretched creature got out, of course—you should have heard the commotion! And the smell . . .” Lady Beatrice waved her hand in front of her nose. “No, a man would have to be more than desperate to choose Pammy Girtle-Bute.”
“Oh.” Flynn sipped his tea with a downcast air. “I’m sorry you think so.”
The old lady stiffened. “You can’t mean it! Not Pammy Girtle-Bute!”
He shrugged. “She is the daughter of a duke.”
“But she’s utterly atrocious! You can’t possibly—”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Flynn said virtuously.
“But you cannot—”
“Delicious ginger nuts,” he said.
“There are plenty of gels almost as well born as Pammy Girtle-Bute, but a great deal more pleas—”
“As I said m’lady, I make me own choice.” With the air of a man who has finished talking, Flynn perused the cake plate, decided a fourth ginger nut would be too much and selected a large pastry, oozing jam and bulging with cream.
He lifted the pastry high for a careful bite, partly to ensure he did not drip any of the cream, and partly to hide his expression from the old lady. It was a tricky operation, but when he lowered the pastry, it was to find the old lady scrutinizing him through her lorgnette with a severe expression.
“You are a wicked, wicked tease, Mr. Flynn!”
He finished the pastry and wiped his hands and mouth, wiping away—he hoped—any trace of a smile. “If you say so, m’lady.”
“I do! You almost had me believing that appalling tale.”
“Surely not, m’lady. And you so fly to the ways of the world.”
She fixed him with a gimlet stare. “Don’t try to butter me up, you rogue! That atrocious tale could have caused me to have palpitations! Palpitations, I say!”
Flynn smiled. “Palpitations? Never say so m’lad—”
She thumped her cane on the floor. “I am a frail old woman and not to be lied to!”
“Ah, you’re as strong as an—”
“If you say ox Mr. Flynn, I shall—I shall hit you!” She gripped her cane meaningfully.
He chuckled. “No need for violence, ma’am. I was goin’ to say as strong as an er, an elf—yes, that’s it, strong as an elf—a delicate, elegant, canny, ageless wee elf.”
Lady Beatrice snorted. “You’re a silver-tongued rogue and a shameless rascal, Mr. Flynn.”
“If you say so, m’lady.”
“I do. I can’t imagine why I ever imagined that I liked you.” She gave him a long baleful stare that did its best to look stern.
He gave h
er a slow grin. “Well, milady, that would no doubt be me irresistible Irish charm.”
Her lips twitched. She pursed them ruthlessly back into an appearance of severity. “Irresistible Irish blarney, more like. Kissing that wretched stone or whatever it is that you Irish do.”
“Now why would I bother to kiss the Blarney Stone when there are so much more enticin’ things to kiss, milady?”
A reluctant chuckle escaped her. “You are quite, quite shameless.” Then a cunning expression came into her eyes. She wagged a bony finger at him. “You’re in need of a lesson, Mr. Flynn.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Am I indeed?”
“Yes, and you’ll have it, tomorrow at four o’clock sharp.” She pointed. “Upstairs.” She regarded him with a pleased expression.
She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant. “What kind of lesson?” he asked warily.
“A dancing lesson, Mr. Flynn. Now don’t argue—you’ll oblige me in this. Wicked man that you are, you owe it to me for the Dreadful Fright you gave me.”
She heaved herself to her feet, using her cane as a lever. Flynn leaped forward to help her but she batted his hands away impatiently. “Four o’clock sharp, d’ye hear me?”
“But I know how to dance.”
She gave a scornful snort. “Nonsense! You’ve been at sea most of your life—they don’t dance the hornpipe at Almack’s, you know!”
He opened his mouth to inform her that he might be a seaman, but he knew all the fashionable dances, but at that point Daisy arrived, buttoning her pelisse, a bonnet dangling by its strings from her arm. “Mornin’, Flynn. Sorry to keep you waitin’.”
Lady Beatrice leveled her lorgnette at Daisy. “You are dressed to go Out.”
Daisy nodded. “ ’S’right. I’m goin’ somewhere with Mr. Flynn.”
“Going somewhere? To where, pray tell?” When Daisy just grinned the old lady turned to Flynn. “You are honored, Mr. Flynn, honored, I say. The wretched gel has refused to accompany me anywhere of late! She refuses to make morning calls, turns her nose up at the most delightful events, and only occasionally will she even consent to walk in the park with the gels and me.”
“Pooh, you hardly ever walk anyway.” Daisy finished buttoning her pelisse, crammed her bonnet on and tied the strings. “You just sit in your carriage and take people up to gossip with. I ain’t got time to waste on that sort of thing.”
Flynn watched her tying the strings of her bonnet with no apparent care. The hat sat rakishly on her tousled brown locks, and yet the final effect was both stylish and flattering to her pale, angular, vivid little face. Her whole outfit was simple—plain with none of the frills and bits that other women seemed to like, but neat as a new pin, and somehow elegant. She was a tidy little package, young Daisy.
Daisy turned to Flynn, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Righto, Flynn, I’m ready.”
“Mr. Flynn hasn’t yet finished his tea,” Lady Beatrice pointed out acidly, disregarding the fact that she had herself been on the point of leaving the room.
Daisy frowned at him. “Did you come to drink tea? I thought you was in a hurry to get to the docks.”
“The docks?” Lady Beatrice repeated in a tone of faint horror. “You’re going to the docks?”
“One of my ships has just arrived, m’lady—”
“And he’s givin’ me first pick of the loot,” Daisy announced with glee. “Come on then, Flynn. No time to waste.”
* * *
Daisy stepped outside, pulling on her gloves. She glanced at the leaden sky. “Brr, call this spring? Still bloomin’ freezing!” Wisps of fog clung to the cold ground, a blanket of ethereal gray feathers. When she’d risen that morning and peered out of the window, the fog had been so thick the gas lamps in the street were barely visible, a mere glimmer in the dark.
Flynn had a hackney carriage waiting. The horses tossed their heads, snorting clouds of smoky breath in the chill air, and shifting restlessly, their hooves clattering on the cobbles.
Daisy climbed into the carriage, settled herself in the corner and grinned at Flynn as the carriage moved off with a jerk. “Thanks for askin’ me along, Flynn.”
He gave a shrug of acknowledgement. “It’s no trouble. Thanks for not keepin’ me waiting too long.”
“ ’S’all”—she broke the sentence with a huge yawn—“right.”
He smiled. “Wishing you were still in bed, are you? Hope I didn’t disturb your lie-in.”
“Lie-in?” She made a scornful sound. “I been up since four.”
“Four? In the morning? Good God, why?”
She shrugged. “I’m up at four most days. I don’t have time to lie abed like a fine lady.”
“Why on earth not?”
She shrugged. “Habit, mostly,” she lied. “I get bored lyin’ in bed ’til all hours.”
He raised one dark, winged brow in a way that suggested he saw straight through that one, so she added, “I’d’ve thought you of all people would understand, Flynn. I’m building a business here, and so I’m working every hour God sends.” And then a bit more.
“I see. Business is brisk, I take it.”
“Certainly is.” She forced a grin. “Can’t hardly keep up with the orders.” Couldn’t keep up with them at all, if the truth be told, but she wasn’t going to admit that to a soul.
“That’s grand then. If you’re so tired, grab a bit of kip. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He stretched out his long, booted legs, leaned back comfortably against the leather squabs and gazed out of the carriage window.
Daisy had no intention of dozing off when Flynn was right there beside her. She pretended to stare out of her window but watched him from the corner of her eye. He was one good-looking man, Flynn. His breeches fit nice and tight, his legs were long and powerful, and he smelled delicious—clean and manly, not like so many posh gents who drenched themselves in perfumes and smelled like a blooming flowerpot.
No, Flynn was all man. She fancied him rotten—always had, from the first day he’d come swaggering into Lady Bea’s parlor, as brash and confident as if he owned the place. Those bold blue eyes of his had summed up every female in the room, a perfect invitation to sin.
From the very first he’d been danger wrapped in shades of masculine elegance—he’d just come from Freddy Monkton-Coombes’s very exclusive tailor—all the while complaining about having to dress like a peahen—not a peacock—in drab colors. With a gold earring in his ear, like a bloomin’ pirate. He was wearing it today; it glinted in the dim light.
He’d flirted with her that first day, just a bit—and she’d flirted back.
Daisy sighed. In the old days she’d have gone after him like a shot, but she’d turned respectable now, and so had Flynn.
He was planning to marry the finest young lady in London, and Daisy was starting up a business of her own. They were on different pathways, and a romp between the sheets wasn’t on the cards for either of them. More’s the pity.
Besides, Flynn was her friend, the first man she’d ever been friends—real friends—with. The men she’d known in the past were users—pimps, predators, thieves and swindlers—all crooks of some kind.
Flynn was different, and she wasn’t going to risk spoiling their friendship with a bit of rumpy-pumpy, no matter how tempting it was. That sort of thing never lasted—and the breakup always ruined the friendship.
So it was look but don’t touch.
She eyed his long, muscular thighs in their gleaming boots, and smiled to herself. Lucky he was such a treat to look at.
The carriage wended its way through the streets. She could tell when they arrived at the docks by the smell—dank, wet, stinky, salty river mud. She shivered.
“Cold?” Flynn asked her.
“Nah, just . . . that smell.”
“Ah.” The carriage pulle
d up and they climbed down. While Flynn paid the driver, Daisy looked around. The fog was still thick here, lying like a sullen, dirty pall over the Thames. Beneath it she could hear the lapping of water, and above it the pip-pip-pip of some seabird. She pulled her pelisse more tightly around her.
Half a dozen big boats were moored along the wharf, their hulls caressed by the swirling fog, their masts etched sharp and dark against the silvery sky.
“Which one’s your boat?”
“Ship,” Flynn corrected her. “Out there.” He pointed to a distant shape, a ghost ship floating on fog. He put two fingers to his mouth and let out a long complicated-sounding whistle. From the depths of the fog, another whistle answered him.
Daisy frowned. “What’s it doin’ out there? I thought you said it was in port.”
“It is. I always inspect the cargo before we moor the ship.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it be easier to do it on land?”
“Aye, but quicker to do it on board, while we’re making arrangements for our men to unload and transfer the cargo to our own warehouses. I prefer to spend as little time on the docks as possible.”
Daisy could understand that—she hated the river and the docks, but Flynn was a sailor. They were supposed to like the stink of the sea. “Why?” she asked.
“Thieves.” Flynn sent out another whistle, shorter this time, then turned back to Daisy. “Gangs of thieves raid in the night—in the daytime, too, some of them—barefaced and brazen. And vicious. That’s the reason for those fences and the ditches there.” He gestured. “Not that you can see much in the fog. There’s also private guards patrolling, but when it comes to valuable cargoes, I prefer to use me own men. Last week one of the gangs set fire to a warehouse, so I’m takin’ no chances. The cargo isn’t spending a moment longer here than necessary.”
Daisy nodded. There were thieves everywhere. On the other hand . . . She eyed the expanse of water mistrustfully. Under the muffling blanket of fog, she could hear the lapping of water against piles. “So how do we get on board? Were you whistlin’ to tell them to land the boat?”
“Ship—a boat is smaller. No, we’ll go out in—yes, it’s here.” He strode towards the edge of the wharf, leaned over and spoke to someone Daisy couldn’t see.
