The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  Flynn laughed and ambled into the room. The two men shook hands. “Breakfast, is it? And here’s me thinking it was nearly dinnertime. But I’ll join you and gladly. That ham and those eggs look mighty good to a man who’s spent the last few months livin’ on salt beef and ship’s biscuits.”

  Tibbins hesitated, still clearly doubtful of the wisdom of admitting the stranger.

  “Tibbins,” Freddy said, “this exotically dressed gentleman is the founder of Flynn and Company Oriental Trading, a very successful company in which I hold a quarter share. He’s also one of Lord Davenham’s best friends.”

  “Twenty-two percent, not a quarter,” Flynn corrected him. “And as for ‘exotic’—what’s wrong with me clothes?” He stroked the dreadful waistcoat with a loving hand.

  Freddy glanced at Tibbins. “See? Perfectly harmless. So fetch the ale and eggs, if you please. And some more toast.” Tibbins, silent disapproval etched in every movement, set another place for the Irishman and left the room. Freddy gestured to Flynn to sit down.

  “So when did you arrive in England?” Freddy asked, carving generous slices of ham from the joint on the platter in front of him.

  “This morning.” Flynn snagged a morsel of ham. “Called in on Bartlett at the London office first.” The London headquarters of Flynn & Co. Oriental Trading. “Max left instructions with him. Gave me your direction, said I should call on you.”

  Freddy nodded. “He told me to expect you. He was sorry you missed his wedding. What delayed you?”

  Flynn swiped another sliver of ham and popped it in his mouth. “Delicious. Nothing like English ham. Unless it’s Irish ham. Or possibly Danish.” Freddy handed him a plate piled with ham and Flynn plowed into it with hearty appetite.

  “So Max is married, eh?” he said through a mouthful of ham. “That was quick work. The lass tired of waiting, did she?”

  “No, it wasn’t that girl. It was another.”

  “Hmmm?” Flynn’s brows rose, but he kept munching.

  “I suppose you could call her a connection of his aunt.”

  Flynn nodded. “Plannin’ to call on Lady Beatrice later today. Max left her direction with Bartlett too.”

  “Max married her oldest, er, niece, Abby.” Freddy knew perfectly well the girls were no relation of Lady Beatrice’s at all—and possibly not even to each other—but Max had been like a clam as far as sharing details even with Freddy, so it was best to say nothing at all.

  Tibbins arrived with a dish of scrambled eggs, a mound of toast and some more ale. Freddy watched Flynn attack the food with gusto and recalled that Max had told him the man was planning to enter society. It wasn’t only clothing advice he would need, but a little social polish. Or possibly, he reflected as Flynn ate a slice of toast in one giant mouthful, a lot.

  Flynn looked up from his plate. “Did Max tell you anything about me? Me intentions in coming to London, I mean.”

  “You mean about wishing to be married?”

  “To a fine, highborn English lady, yes.”

  Freddy hesitated, wondering how to put it tactfully.

  Flynn said, “If you’re thinkin’ you need to warn me that I’ve an iceberg’s chance in hell, don’t worry—Max told me that the English aristocracy has no love for Johnny-come-latelies—what do they call us? Mushrooms or cits or whatever?—let alone Irish-born Catholics, never mind how lapsed. I know all that, but I also know a tidy fortune will help the bitter pill go down. Besides, I’ve never met a lady yet who’s failed to warm to me Irish charm.” He grinned. “And I do enjoy a challenge.”

  “Good, then the first item on the list is to get you properly kitted out. Tibbins,” Freddy called to his manservant, “a bath, a shave and a haircut for Mr. Flynn. And then a trip to my tailor.”

  “Your tailor?” Flynn said as the valet went to arrange a bath. “I have plenty of clothes.”

  Freddy gave him a flat look. “A fine, highborn English bride, you said?”

  Flynn narrowed his eyes. “That’s right. Any objection?”

  “Not in the least,” Freddy said. “If you’re mad enough to want to step into parson’s mousetrap, it’s no business of mine. But if you want me to help you . . .” He waited.

  “Go on.”

  “Very well, then I’ll be blunt. Fine English ladies—and their fathers—might be able to overlook your Irishness; some won’t mind your being a Catholic—”

  “Lapsed.”

  “—and some will forgive the vulgarity of your being in trade; but none—no fine young English lady—will want to be seen in public with a man in a waistcoat like that. Nor a bright, pea green coat.”

  “I have a very fine purple coat.”

  “Burn it.”

  “But it’s my favori—”

  “Burn it,” Freddy told him. “You can dress like a circus banner or you can marry a fine English lady. But not both.”

  Flynn scowled. “I like bright colors.”

  “Like them as much as you want; have your underdrawers made in green, purple, pink and orange if you wish; your dressing gown and nightshirt can be as lurid as you want; but, in public, the only colors a gentleman wears—”

  “I’m not a gentleman—” Flynn began provocatively.

  “If you want to marry a lady you need to look like a gentleman,” Freddy told him. “And a gentleman wears muted colors—black, white and gray for evening wear, and for daywear, buff, black or brown breeches and a coat of brown, black, dark blue or green—dark green,” he clarified, seeing Flynn was about to argue the merits of his emerald coat.

  “What about red?” Flynn said hopefully.

  “Only on the hunting field, and then it’s called pink.”

  “Pink? A red coat is called pink?”

  “On the hunting field. Otherwise a red coat is what soldiers wear.”

  Flynn pulled a face. “Damned dull if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Freddy pointed out. “You asked me. Now, do you want my assistance or not? I don’t mind. I’m just as happy not to bother.”

  “I’ll do it,” Flynn said gloomily. “But I’ll not burn me purple coat.”

  “Keep it if you must, but never wear it in public.” Freddy rose. “Now, as soon as we have you shorn and shaved, I’ll take you to Old Bond Street and introduce you to my tailor. I advise you to put yourself wholly in his hands.”

  “To dress me up like an undertaker?” Flynn grumbled.

  “Nonsense.” Freddy was shocked by the man’s ignorance. “Undertakers dress quite differently. They wear black netting veils streaming from their hats, for a start. You would look ridiculous in a long black veil.”

  • • •

  “It would be best if you waited until you were more suit—er, fashionably dressed before you call on Lady Beatrice and the young ladies,” Freddy said, as Flynn stood with surprising patience being measured for a complete gentleman’s wardrobe.

  Freddy had to hand it to the man; once he made up his mind to cooperate with Freddy and the tailor, he went all the way, even to bringing his portmanteau with him, so that Freddy and the tailor could select what was to be kept, which was precious little.

  Flynn frowned. “I thought I’d call on them today.”

  Freddy shook his head. “It takes time to make a coat.”

  Flynn glanced at a rack containing a row of coats on hangers. “What about that lot? Would any of them fit me?” he asked the tailor.

  “It wouldn’t matter if they did,” Freddy told him. “They’re already bespoken—each is made to measure for a particular man.”

  “A particular man who’s used to waitin’ for his coat? Who’s ordered it but hasn’t paid for it yet?”

  “Exactly.”

  Flynn pulled a thick roll of banknotes from his pocket and eyed the tailor. “I wonder, now, would any of those coats fit me?”
He fingered the banknotes casually.

  The tailor eyed the banknotes. “I will enquire, sir.” He eyed Flynn’s colorful waistcoat with an opprobrious eye. “A waistcoat too, I think, sir.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Dammit, man,” Freddy said to Flynn in a low voice as the man went to look through the coats. “It’s not gentlemanly to bribe a tailor and steal another fellow’s coat.”

  Flynn was unperturbed. “I’m a businessman, not a gentleman. Max told me once most gentlemen in London take months to get around to paying their tailor’s bills, if at all. Can’t blame the fellow for preferring a cash payment.”

  The tailor returned with a smart dark blue coat and a gray brocade waistcoat and helped Flynn into them. They fitted perfectly.

  “Shall I dispose of these with the rest, sir?” the tailor murmured, lifting Flynn’s own waistcoat and the green coat fastidiously between finger and thumb. Flynn hesitated and the tailor added, “They really aren’t appropriate for a gentleman of your stamp, sir, being unfashionable, foreign made and badly cut.”

  “Unfashionable, foreign made and badly cut, eh? Oh, well, in for a penny . . .” Flynn sighed. “Go on, then, man, do what you want with them.” The tailor dropped them in the arms of his assistant, who bore the offending garments away.

  Flynn glanced in the looking glass and grimaced. “I look like a wet Sunday afternoon. I presume I’m fit now to meet Lady Beatrice and the young ladies?”

  It was a remarkable improvement, Freddy thought, from the unshaven, long-haired, garishly attired pirate who’d sauntered into his apartment that morning, to someone who almost looked like a gentleman. Almost.

  “Just remove that earring.”

  Flynn rolled his eyes but obeyed, pocketing the gold earring.

  Freddy gave an approving nod. “Excellent. Now you’re ready to meet the ladies.”

  • • •

  “You say this is the famous Captain Flynn Max has spoken of?” Lady Beatrice eyed him critically through her lorgnette. A sharp old bird, Flynn thought, the kind who didn’t miss much, even without that eyepiece.

  “Just Mr. Flynn, if you please, m’lady. I’m no longer captain of a ship. And I don’t know about famous. . . .”

  “Pish-tush! Max told us quite a bit about his friend.” She swiveled in her chair and said to Freddy, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure of what?” he asked.

  “That he’s Max’s Captain Flynn.”

  Flynn choked back a laugh. Bloody aristocracy, didn’t care what they said about the peasants, never mind that he was right here in front of her. “I’m Max’s partner, right enough,” he assured her.

  She sighed.

  “Why would you doubt it, Lady Beatrice?” the pretty blonde asked, giving Flynn a flirtatious smile. Jane, Flynn reminded himself. Angelically fair, and lookin’ like a fairy-tale princess. Next to her was Damaris, pale with dark hair pulled up in an elegant knot. She hadn’t said a word since they were introduced, but those dark eyes missed little, he’d wager. And then there was the little one, Daisy, sitting on a stool, sewing, taking in everything. Also sharp as a tack, he reckoned. All in all, Flynn thought with satisfaction, quite a collection of interesting females.

  The old lady sighed. “Max led me to expect somebody more . . . colorful. Flamboyant.” It was clear she was disappointed.

  “Hah!” Flynn turned an accusing eye on Freddy. “When I arrived on this shore, Lady Beatrice, I assure you I was a great deal more colorful. But since then I’ve been shaved, shorn, stripped of me finery and dressed with all the liveliness of a wet week in Lent, all in the name of lookin’ more like a gentleman.”

  “Max said you wore earrings.”

  “Just one, m’lady, but I was convinced to remove it.” Flynn produced the gold earring from his pocket.

  “Oh.” Lady Beatrice sat up. “Would you put it in, please?”

  Flynn inserted the ring in his ear.

  “Ohhh, yes.” Lady Beatrice smiled. Flynn glanced at the young ladies. Two were smiling. One wasn’t.

  “I was informed,” he said with a withering glance at Hyphen-Hyphen, “that no English gentleman would wear such an item.”

  Lady Beatrice nodded. “Quite correct, but you’re not an English gentleman, are you?” She smiled in a way that took the sting out. “And there’s no point disguising the fact, since the moment you open your mouth everyone will know you’re Irish.” She turned to the three young ladies. “What do you think, gels? Should Mr. Flynn give up his earring, or do we like the hint of pirate air it gives him?” There was no doubt what the old lady preferred.

  Jane nodded. “I think it’s very dashing.”

  Damaris inclined her head thoughtfully, then nodded. “If you’d asked me before, I would have thought that an earring would have detracted from a man’s masculinity, but now, seeing Mr. Flynn wearing one, it doesn’t detract at all, does it? It only adds to it.”

  Hyphen-Hyphen scowled and crossed his high-booted legs.

  “Daisy, what do you think?” Jane asked.

  Daisy glanced at Flynn and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like it. It makes ’im look like a common sailor from down the docks, or some bloke wiv an organ and a monkey.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Beatrice said briskly. “Mr. Flynn carries it off with an air. And no common sailor or organ-grinder could afford clothes like that, even if they are a little on the dull side.”

  “Dull?” Monkton-Coombes said indignantly. “He couldn’t possibly enter society dressed the way he was. Max asked me to ensure Flynn had access to the finest sartorial advice, and dash it, that’s what I did. Introduced him to my own tailor.”

  “And he looks almost as elegant as you, dear boy; you’ve done a fine job,” the old lady assured him, examining Flynn again through her lorgnette. “Only . . . I think Mr. Flynn needs something a little more . . . distinctive.”

  “Distinctive?” Both men spoke at once.

  She nodded. “Something to ensure the ton knows you don’t give the snap of your fingers for their good opinion.”

  “But I thought—” Flynn began.

  “I would advise you to keep wearing your earring, Mr. Flynn. It will bring you a little notice, a hint of notoriety.” She gave him a sharp look. “Will you mind that?”

  “No indeed, ma’am. I’m here to find meself a fine lady to wed, but I’m not ashamed of who I am or what I’ve done. And while I’m happy to have me manners polished up a bit, and to wear the kind of clothes Hyph—er, Mr. Monkton-Coombes advises, I’ll not be pretending I’m other than who I am.”

  “A fine lady, is it?” The old lady’s elegantly plucked brows rose.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Flynn said coolly. “The finest young lady in London. I’ve always aimed high in everything I’ve done, and I see no reason to change.”

  “You know that being Irish—and, I presume, Catholic—will count against you? And I understand from Max you have no family remaining alive, and what you had was wholly undistinguished.”

  She called a spade a spade, this old bird, and Flynn liked her the better for it. “Correct, m’lady. Still and all, I reckon I’m a bit of a catch. I’m a self-made man with a fleet of ships at my command. I’m clean, healthy and have all me own teeth. I’m loyal to me friends and I’ll be loyal to a wife. I reckon that makes me equal to some of your fine English gents.”

  “I suspect it does, Mr. Flynn, and better than many. And being a friend of my nephew, I suppose you expect me to introduce you to the finest young ladies in London, do you?”

  He flashed her a grin. “I don’t expect anything, m’lady, but that would be grand.” He bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  She laughed and waved him away. “You left something off your list of attributes, Mr. Flynn.”

  “And what would that be, m’lady?”

  “Cheek. And a measure of raffish char
m.” Lady Beatrice grinned and clapped her hands. “I’m so pleased Max sent you to me, Mr. Flynn. I adore matchmaking.”

  Behind him Monkton-Coombes made a hastily muffled choking sound. She heard, and turned on him with a severe look. “And, Freddy Monkton-Coombes, there is nothing more gratifying than working with a man who knows what he wants.”

  Monkton-Coombes rose from his seat saying, “Well, since you’ve all got plans to make, I’ll take my leave. Devastated to depart this jolly gathering, Lady Beatrice—matchmaking, what fun indeed, can’t imagine anything more delightful—but I have an urgent appointment with, er, my bootmaker. Flynn, all right if I leave you in the ladies’ hands?” It was clear he couldn’t wait to be gone.

  “Very much so, thank you,” Flynn said, repressing a grin. “And would you mind sending a note to that tailor of yours to return me old clothes? If Lady Beatrice says I can wear colors—”

  “Too late,” Monkton-Coombes said with ill-concealed satisfaction. “His apprentice put them on the back step. They’ll have been snapped up by the first beggar that came along. You’ll just have to put up with looking elegant and fashionable instead. Let that earring give you the distinctiveness you apparently need. Lady Beatrice, Miss Chance, Miss Jane, Miss Daisy, I’ll see you all tomorrow.” He gave an elegant bow and left.

  Flynn spent another half hour talking with Lady Beatrice and the girls, but the old lady soon tired. “Time for my nap, I’m afraid, Mr. Flynn. But come to dinner this evening at eight and we shall talk more. And come to my literary salon tomorrow afternoon, sir—and wear your earring. Let’s see how you dazzle the fine young ladies there.”

  Flynn took his leave and was ushered out by the butler. The little one called Daisy followed him into the hall, her basket on her arm. She waved the butler away and turned to Flynn.

  “You’re not happy wiv your new clothes, Mr. Flynn?”

  Flynn shrugged. “Never figured meself for the role of peahen, that’s all.”

  She frowned. “Peahen? Don’t you mean peacock?”