The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (9 page)

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 charm.” 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?”

“In this?” He looked down at himself disparagingly. “There’s more color in a muddy puddle.”

She moved closer and said in a confiding voice, “I could make you a lovely colorful waistcoat if you liked.”

Flynn eyed her. Was the lass flirting with him? He gave her a slow smile. “Could you indeed?”

She nodded and produced a piece of gorgeously embroidered fabric from her basket. “I’ve got some lovely material ’ere. Make a fine gentleman’s waistcoat, it would. Give you that bit of distinctiveness Lady Bea was talkin’ about. You could become known for your waistcoats. A hint of flamboyance, but nothin’ vulgar. A snap of your fingers to the drabness of male fashion.”

Flynn examined the fabric. Chinese silk—good heavy quality too—embroidered green dragons and golden firebirds on a crimson background. Exactly the kind of thing he liked. Hyphen-Hyphen and the tailor would probably loathe it. A point in its favor.

She leaned closer and lowered her voice enticingly. “How ’bout I make this into a beautiful waistcoat, just for you?”

Flynn smiled down at her. She was a pretty little thing. Oh, but a man missed flirtin’ in those long months at sea. Not to mention other feminine attributes. “And why would you do that for me?” he asked softly.

She gave him an odd look. “For money of course,” she said. “Why else?”

He threw back his head and laughed. It wasn’t his body she had her sharp little eye on, it was his wallet. “How much?”

She pointed to his new waistcoat. “How much did you pay for that?”

He told her.

“Mine’ll cost you double,” she said.

“Double?”
It was outrageous, even at London prices.

She shrugged. “You’ll like it twice as much.” She darted him a speculative glance. “Maybe even three times as much.”

He laughed again. “All right, make it up, and if I like it half as much as you reckon I will, I’ll pay you double. But I warn you, I’m very particular.”

She snorted. “So am I. I’ll make you the finest waistcoat in London, just see if I don’t. You might even set a trend, if”—she gave him an assessing look, which dwelt for a disparaging moment on the earring—“you can carry it off.”

 • • • 

“I
t’s not your ordinary literary society,” Freddy explained to Flynn as he rang the doorbell of Lady Beatrice’s home on Berkeley Square. “You won’t be expected to know anything.”

Flynn gave him a dry look. “I do read, you know.”

“Of course, but—oh, here we are. Featherby.” He nodded to the butler.

“Mr. Monkton-Coombes, Mr. Flynn.” Featherby greeted them as he took their coats, hats and gloves and passed them to an underling. “You’ve timed it well, sir. We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”

“Much of a crowd this afternoon?” Freddy asked.

“Yes, sir, attendance grows daily. Especially of the younger men. Lady Beatrice is delighted.”

The younger men, eh? He’d noticed the trend himself. “I see,” he said grimly.

As they mounted the stairs, Flynn murmured, “Problem?”

Freddy shook his head, not yet ready to share his concerns with a man who, after all, he’d only just met, even if he was a friend of Max.

They entered the salon and Lady Beatrice immediately waved them over. “Freddy, dear boy; Mr. Flynn, how delightful; let me introduce you to my friends. . . .” A few minutes later a little silver bell tinkled.

Flynn joined him at the back of the room. “Interesting collection of people,” he murmured, then a hush fell as Jane began to read.

“Emma and Harriet had been walking together one morning, and, in Emma’s opinion, had been talking enough of Mr. Elton for that day. . . .”

Freddy quite agreed. He would be happy if he never heard another thing about Emma, Harriet, Mr. Frank Elton or any of them.

He glanced at Flynn to see how he was taking it. The Irishman was leaning against the wall, arms folded, and appeared to be listening with every evidence of appreciation.

Freddy scanned the audience. There were more young men here. Why? Surely they couldn’t all have developed a sudden taste for literature.

And several of them, while not actively hunting for rich brides, were known to be in need of a topping-up of the family coffers. What could have brought them here? These girls hadn’t a penny but what the old lady gave them.

He glanced across the room at the old lady. She caught his eye and winked, looking inordinately pleased with herself.

A cold, prickling feeling slid down his spine. Oh, God, what was she up to now?

In the break between chapters, Freddy sent Flynn over to keep an eye on the girls while he did some delicate investigation. He spied Lady Beatrice in the center of a small group of ladies and sidled up behind them, unseen, to eavesdrop.

“. . . Of course it’s so difficult chaperoning heiresses,” she was saying. “Especially with Max away. And when fortune hunters start circling . . .”

A lady leaned forward and asked in a low, excited voice, “So it’s true what I heard. Your nieces are heiresses?”

Blast the old lady and her tricks
, Freddy thought. “No,” he said in a loud, firm voice. “They’re not.”

“Oh!” Lady Beatrice glanced at him and clapped a hand over her mouth in stage-worthy dismay. “I forgot! I’m not supposed to—” She broke off with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, dear boy,” she whispered quite audibly.

She turned to her companions and recited like a well-rehearsed schoolgirl, “He’s quite right. I know
nothing
of any heiresses or fortunes. And I know nothing
at all
about the Chancealotto inheritance.”

Freddy ground his teeth.

“The Chancealotto inheritance?” The ladies breathed in unison.

“
Never
heard of it,” Lady Beatrice said firmly. “That’s right, isn’t it, Freddy, dear boy?” Her eyes were dancing with mischief.

Freddy scowled at her, silently cursing the old lady, and Max for saddling him with her. What the devil was he supposed to do now?

“I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception originated.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

“A
word in private, if you please, Lady Beatrice.” Freddy had waited behind until the last of the literary society guests had departed.

The old lady smiled and patted his cheek. “Oh, I do love it when a man gets all stern and masterful. Soooo attractive.” Sitting herself down on the nearest chair, she waited with a mischievous expression. “Go ahead, dear boy. Are you going to spank me?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, and of course it completely ruined the speech he’d been rehearsing in his mind for the last half hour. He sat in the chair opposite her. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Spread the rumor that the girls were heiresses.”

“But I didn’t, dear boy. You heard me. I told everyone that I’d never heard of the Chancealotto inheritance, and that there was no such thing.”

“Yes, but you must have started the rumor in the—”

She gave him an indignant look. “I most certainly did not! I
denied
it from the very beginning—there’s a big difference. I promised Max before his wedding that I wouldn’t tell any more lies about the girls, and I haven’t,” she said with a virtuous expression, quite ruined by the glee that sparkled in her eyes.

“Don’t give me that. You knew exactly what you were doing,” Freddy said severely. “And if Max strangles you when he gets home, at the trial I will testify on his behalf that it was entirely justified.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter.

“But why would you do something so . . . so . . .” Words failed him.

“Clever? The gels needed practice.”

He frowned. “What sort of practice?”

“On men. Only men of my generation come to my literary society and, while they’re perfectly happy to flirt with my pretty nieces, the gels really need to practice on young men, so they’re prepared for their come-out. Inexperienced gels can usually handle older men, but they’re more apt to get flustered by the attentions of a handsome young devil. So I enticed in a few younger men for them to practice on.”

Freddy couldn’t believe his ears. “Were the girls party to this—this strategy?” He couldn’t imagine Damaris agreeing to such an outrageous thing.

“No, of course not, dear boy. They worry too much, those gels. Max does too, poor boy.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

She laughed. “Pooh, what’s the point of life if you don’t make it a little interesting?”

“Have you thought about what would happen if one of the girls fell for a fortune hunter? What then?”

She gave him a serene smile. “My gels won’t be taken in by men of that ilk. And in the meantime, they can practice on ’em.”

He groaned. She was impossible. The sooner Max came home the better.

 • • • 

I
t was dark, pouring with rain, and freezing cold. He was mad, Freddy thought blearily as he dressed. Wretched, stubborn, prideful girl.

He glanced in the looking glass and ran a hand over his stubbled chin. He wasn’t going to shave for her, not at this hour. Tibbins was already exuding silent disapproval of this change in their routine.

Tibbins was not what anyone would call a joyful morning riser, but he never voiced his displeasure in words, only through a series of sniffs and sighs and lugubrious glances. Freddy was well versed in their meanings.

“Think of it as the end of a long night,” Freddy advised him.

Tibbins sighed and handed Freddy his neck cloth. “But it isn’t, sir, is it?”

“I often used to return at this hour and it never bothered you then.”

“It is not the same, sir,” Tibbins said in an austere voice.

“No. Then I was coming home after a night of pleasure and now I’m leaving a warm and cozy bed purely out of duty. Other than that, it’s the same thing.”

Tibbins sniffed.

Freddy frowned. Bad enough it was a freezing wet morning; he wasn’t going to be sniffed at by his valet as well. “It’s not that I
want
to get up before the crack of blasted dawn, but I made a promise to Lord Davenham I’d look after his sisters-in-law. I have no choice, blast it—I gave my word.”

“Duty, is it, sir?” Tibbins sniffed again. “I see, sir.” The words said one thing, the tone another. He passed Freddy his hat and an umbrella. “Good morning, sir.”

Freddy ran down the stairs, paused on the front step and contemplated the dismal scene outside. Filthy blasted weather. He must be mad to go out in it. But she left him no choice.

Of course, any sensible woman would stay in bed on a morning like this. But oh, no, she was a stubborn wench—she’d be out in the freezing cold rain, tramping through the muddy streets, catching her death.

He put up the umbrella and stepped out into the driving rain. Tibbins was a fool. Why else would he be doing this, except out of duty? He’d given his word.

A carriage drove past, splashing his buckskins with muddy water. He brushed it off irritably. Blasted Max. It was all his fault.

He waited for her in the lane until she emerged from the side entrance. She looked fresh and glowing and gave him a sunny smile, apparently not the slightest bit bothered by the filthy weather. At least she’d availed herself of an umbrella, even if it was a dainty feminine useless thing with a frill that was bound to drip on her. His umbrella was large and black and far more efficient. He held it over her. “Here. No sensible female would go out in weather like this.”

“I have a job,” she said tranquilly. “People don’t stop working simply because the weather is a little wet. And good morning to you too.”

He ushered her to the end of the lane, where he had a cab waiting. She stopped. “A cab?”

“Of course a cab,” he said crossly. “Do you think I’m going to let you walk through the filthy streets in this filthy weather? You’ll get splashed and wet and dirty and then you’ll sit inside that wretched pottery all day in wet clothes. Max wouldn’t allow it and neither will I. Now, will you stand about arguing all day and drowning us both, or will you get in the blasted cab?”

She got in the blasted cab without a word, an odd little smile on her face.

He gave the cab the direction of the pottery and the cab set off. She still had that little smile.

“What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing much, just a small irony.”

Freddy scowled. “Irony? What irony?” People should know better than to fling words like
irony
around at this uncivilized hour, let alone in weather like this.

“Just that the cost of this cab is probably more than I’ll earn in a day at the pottery.”

“Irony? That’s not irony—it’s plain female stupidity and stubbornness.”

Her smile widened. “My, but you are in a charming mood this morning.”

He glowered. “Blame Max.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. The cab rumbled along, twisting and turning through the streets. “You won’t need to worry about that fellow Blenkinsop,” he said after a while.

“Oh?”

“I’ve warned him off.”

“Oh.” Her expression was perfectly inscrutable.

Blast it, what did
oh
mean? Was it
oh
, meaning good, well done?
Oh
, thank you Mr. Monkton-Coombes for ridding me of a pestilential knave? Or
oh
, but I enjoy the attentions of idiots like Blenkinsop?

“If he bothers you again, let me know.”

“Thank you for your concern, but he doesn’t bother me. I’m quite able to deal with Mr. Blenkinsop.”

So it was
oh
, stay out of my affairs. Freddy folded his arms and glowered out the window. Blasted stubborn independent female.

 • • • 

“L
etter just arrived for you, sir.” The porter at Freddy’s bachelor lodgings indicated the letter on the sideboard. Freddy picked it up, grimaced as he recognized his mother’s writing, pocketed it and continued up the stairs. No doubt she was coming to town and wanted his services as an escort. That was the usual reason she wrote: to drag him somewhere to meet some muffin or other.

He entered his rooms, shrugged off his coat and tossed it to Tibbins, his manservant, poured himself a brandy and sat down to read his mother’s missive.

My dear Frederick,

The time has come for you to do your duty. Your father is not getting any younger and the future of the estate and the perpetuation of his family name preys greatly on his mind. As the only remaining Monkton-Coombes son, it is incumbent on you to marry and beget heirs. Your father and I have been very patient but it is clear to us that you have no interest in giving up the frivolous life you lead in order to embrace your responsibilities. Nor have you made any serious attempt to find a suitable bride.

To that end, and since the only time you deign to visit us at Breckenridge is in early December, we have arranged a small house party at that time where a selection of suitable young ladies will be assembled for you to choose from. At the end of the house party your father will announce your betrothal. A spring wedding will follow and by this time next year we hope an heir for Breckenridge will be on the way. Your cooperation in this matter will perhaps enable your father to forgive you, and bring about the reconciliation with him that I have so longed for. We look forward to seeing you at Breckenridge on the fifth.

Your loving mother,

Louisa, Viscountess Breckenridge

He stared at the letter. A house party at Breckenridge—in early December. He couldn’t believe she’d stoop so low. . . .

She’d trapped him, dammit. Hoist him with his own petard.

The fifth of December was the one day of the year—the only day—he visited the family seat. In sixteen years he’d never missed and his mother knew damned well why—and it wasn’t to see her or his father.

Now, to hold a house party on the occasion. It was . . . it was
desecration
, dammit.

He wouldn’t stand for it. He wouldn’t go.

He
had
to go. He’d never once missed the annual service held in the little family chapel. His annual atonement.

He glanced down at the letter again. Oh, she could twist the knife, could Mama.
As the only remaining Monkton-Coombes son.
And we all know whose fault that is, don’t we, Mama?

His mouth twisted and with a muttered curse he crushed the letter into a ball and hurled it into the fire. It smoked, blackened, then burst into flame.

His loving mother. Indeed. Sacrifice himself on the altar of marriage to a muffin on the off chance of a possible reconciliation with his father?

As if he hadn’t tried for years. It wasn’t Freddy who’d set his mind and heart against his only remaining son.

He shook his head. After sixteen years of bashing his head—and pride—against the brick wall that was his father, he was inured against the hurt.

He rose and paced the room, tight with anger and frustration. He was accustomed to the hints, the tears, the nagging, but this—this was a new low, turning an occasion that
mattered
, dammit, into a house party with a bunch of muffins jockeying for position.

He would
not
dance to their tune. He was a grown man of eight and twenty, and he’d take a bride when he was damned well ready to—if he ever was. And the more they harped on marriage the less inclined toward it he became.

In the grate, blackened shreds of crested, linen-weave paper twisted gently, ghostly writing still faintly visible, taunting him. Freddy flung the brandy glass into the fire. There was faint satisfaction in the sound of smashing glass and the hiss and flare of the brandy hitting the flames, but not enough.

The noise brought his manservant running. “Sir?”

“Fetch my coat,” Freddy said curtly. “I’m going out.”

“Anywhere special?” asked a voice from the doorway. It was Flynn.

“I was about to announce him, sir,” the valet said. Freddy waved him away.

“Bad time, is it?” Flynn asked.

Freddy harnessed his temper. “Not really. I’d just decided I needed a bout or two at Jackson’s boxing saloon.”

Flynn’s brows rose. “Boxing, is it? Mind if I come along?”

Freddy shrugged. “Be my guest. But I warn you, I’m in a mood to give someone a thrashing.”

“Fine. I wouldn’t mind a bit of exercise meself.”

Freddy grabbed his coat and headed for the door. The landing outside was busy with workmen carrying boxes and trunks and bits of furniture.

“The set of rooms upstairs is being vacated. Poor fool is getting married,” Freddy explained as they waited for a large trunk to be wrestled around the bend in the stairs. He glanced at Flynn. “Tibbins says it hasn’t been let yet. If you were interested, I could have a word with the landlord.”

Flynn shook his head. “Thank you, but no—I’ve made me arrangements.”

“That was quick.”

Flynn grinned. “After dinner last night Lady Beatrice invited me to stay as long as I want.”

Freddy’s brows rose. “Indeed?” Flynn had been invited to stay? Indefinitely? Of course, Lady Beatrice would do anything for Max, but still, the Irishman must have a way about him to receive an invitation like that. Freddy knew for a fact that Max had no plans to house Flynn with his aunt; he’d mentioned to Freddy that Flynn would need to find bachelor quarters.

Flynn shrugged. “She said she’d feel safer in the house with a man living there.”

Freddy snorted. “I could have sworn she already had a butler, a giant footman who used to be an ornament of the ring—he once fought against Jackson, you know—and two other strong young footmen.”

“Ah, but none of them is Irish.” Flynn grinned. “And Lady Bea told me herself, servants are all very well, but they’re just not the same.”

Freddy wasn’t going to argue. These new arrangements suited him perfectly. If Flynn was staying at Lady Beatrice’s, he could take over some of Freddy’s guard dog duties, starting with escorting the girls to parks filled with lurking blasted muffins.

The thought sparked the anger in him again. “Come on, let’s go.” He needed to punch someone; he didn’t much care who.