The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (3 page)

“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 her 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.”

*   *   *

D
aisy 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 pulled 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.

Daisy followed him and looked down. There bobbing away in the fog was a small rowboat with a man seated in it. “Go out in that little thing?” she exclaimed. “Not on your life!”

“It’s perfectly safe,” Flynn assured her.

“It bloody well isn’t!” Daisy backed away. She’d nearly drowned once. Every time she smelled that stinky dank river smell, she remembered that panic, the sense of the waters closing over her head, of choking on the filthy stuff . . .

Flynn smiled, as if amused. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall in.”

“You won’t get the chance!”

“I thought you wanted first pick of the goods. If you don’t . . .” He shrugged.

Daisy thought of all those gorgeous things hidden away in that big boat.
First pick
 . . . She swallowed. “All right, but I’m warnin’ you, Flynn, if that thing tips over—”

“It won’t, and even if it did, I wouldn’t let you drown. Unlike most seamen, I can swim like a fish, so you’re
perfectly safe with me.” He held out his hand. With a deep breath, and hoping he couldn’t feel how much she was shaking, Daisy took it. It was warm and strong.

The only way to get into the nasty little boat was by climbing down a wooden ladder built into the wharf.

“A gentleman would let you go first,” Flynn said.

“Don’t even think of it,” Daisy told him. Modesty be buggered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere unless you’re there to break me fall.”

With a soft chuckle, Flynn disappeared over the side, landing with a small thud in the boat. “Your turn, Miss Daisy.” The little rowboat rocked and bobbed around madly. Flynn stood looking up at her, as calm as if he was on solid ground.

First pick of the goods . . .
Taking a deep breath, Daisy turned her back on the river, hooked her skirts up a bit, and started down the ladder, one careful step at a time, hanging on for dear life.

Fog swirled around her, waves slapped nastily against the flimsy little boat and the weed-ridden piles of the wharf. Overhead, river birds shrieked like lost spirits. Daisy took a breath to settle her nerves . . . and the scent of the river closed over her.

She froze.

“Daisy?” Flynn’s deep voice came from somewhere far away.

Daisy didn’t move—couldn’t move.

A pair of strong hands seized her by the waist. “Let go, I’ve got you.”