The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (8 page)

“Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

“F
orgive the interruption, sir, but there is a . . . a person wishing to speak with you.”

Freddy looked up from his breakfast and frowned at his manservant, Tibbins. “What kind of person?”

“An
Irish
person, sir, rather rough looking.”

Freddy swallowed a mouthful of ham. He didn’t know any Irishmen. And he didn’t want to be disturbed at his breakfast. Even if it was one in the afternoon.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know, sir. He wouldn’t say.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, sir.”

“Did he give you a card?”

“No, sir.”

“Then send him away.”

“I tried, sir, but he, er, refused to go.”

“Then throw the impudent fellow out.”

“He tried,” said a deep Irish voice from the doorway, making the valet jump. “But he’s a puny wee laddie, and I’m a mite stubborn.”

Freddy glanced up from his breakfast. A tall, roughly bearded ruffian lounged in his doorway. He gave Freddy a half grin, insolent and knowing, as if daring Freddy to throw him out. A gold earring glinted in a tangle of overlong black hair.

Freddy eyed the man’s violently colored waistcoat and green coat thoughtfully. He drained his tankard of ale, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said in a dry voice, “Blackbeard the pirate, I presume. Max warned me to expect you.”

The grin widened. “Patrick Flynn, at your service. And you’ll be the Honorable Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, I take it.”

“Insolence!” Tibbins gasped and said to Freddy, “Shall I fetch help to eject him, sir?”

“No,” Freddy said with a faint smile and rose from the table. “Fetch another jug of this excellent ale and another tankard and plate. And scramble some more eggs. Mr. Flynn will be joining me for breakfast.”

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.”

 • • • 

“I
t 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.”

 • • • 

“Y
ou 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.