The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (17 page)

“And Lady Beatrice?”

“Knows all about me. I told you, I don’t tell lies, and I wasn’t goin’ to lie to a helpless old lady.”

Flynn snorted. “Nothing helpless about her that I can see.”

“She was helpless then, believe me,” Daisy said softly, remembering the state they’d found the old lady in. “She’d been sick.” And neglected and abused by her pigs of servants, but she wasn’t going to talk about that either—the old lady had her pride and those dark and desperate days were long past.

“So that’s it, me scandalous past. I’ve had two lovers before y—” She broke off. Calling Flynn her lover wouldn’t be smart.

He swooped in on it. “Before me, which makes it third time lucky.”

“You ain’t my lover, Flynn,” she said quietly.

He gave a slow, sleepy-eyed smile. “I beg to differ.” His gaze dropped to her chest where her blasted nipples were probably sitting up beggin’ him to take notice.

She folded her arms. “Look, apart from all that, I can’t be your wife. I’m not any kind of lady, I don’t know how to run a house or be a hostess to grand people—”

“I’ve seen you—”

“You’ve seen me pour ’em cups of tea and talk to them—yeah. Not hold a ball or plan a dinner party or organize a
soirée
or a Venetian breakfast—whatever that is. I don’t know the first thing about how to run a household. And I could never bring meself to play Lady Bountiful to your poor folk.”

He frowned. “What poor folk?”

“The ones on your estate.”

“Oh, those ones.” He nodded.

“See, Abby and Jane and Damaris could. They’ve never been one of the poor.”

“But—”

“Oh I know they had nothin’ and no one and were in danger of starvation—we all were.” His brows shot up in surprise, and she realized she hadn’t told him that bit.

“And that’s for your ears only, so don’t blab about it. Their poverty was just accidental, anyway. They fell into it. It’s not the same as being born poor, like me—the real proper poor, I mean.”

“Why? Poverty is poverty no matter who you are.”

“No, it’s not.” She thought about how to explain. “For
some folks, poverty is a . . . is an attitude. If you think you’re poor, you’ll always be poor, and even if you get rich, some little part of you always remembers bein’ poor, and still feels poor inside. Abby and Damaris and Jane—they had posh parents and fell into poverty by accident—so they’d be good at playin’ Lady Bountiful. Though Jane, I reckon, still feels poor inside at times . . .”

She shook her head. She’d gotten off the track. “But I could never play Lady Bountiful, taking baskets of food and clothes . . . and stuff like that to the poor—the real poor—people like me, I mean. It’d feel all wrong. As if I was lording it over them or summat. You got to be born to do that kind of thing, I reckon.”

There was a long silence. “I see,” he said at last.

“So you understand me point of view?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“So you see now why I’m the wrong sort of girl for you?”

“No.”

“What? But I just explained—”

“You’ve explained why you don’t want to play Lady Bountiful. And that you were born into poverty. In that, I reckon we’re well matched. I was poor—real proper poor—too, and I have that little corner in me. It’s a kind of hunger, that’s always there, reminding you. Haunting you.”

She nodded. That was it, all right.

“But as for Lady Bountiful, I don’t have any poor who need visiting or baskets of food. I don’t have any poor at all. At the moment my ‘estate’ is a set of rented rooms in St James that was once occupied by Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, and the only other inhabitant is my valet, Tibbins.”

“But—”

“It’s true I want a big house—you must have heard me talk about it a dozen times—but I have no plans for a large country estate with tenants—poor or otherwise. I might buy a house in the country—maybe somewhere near Max’s place, looking out over the sea—but my main home will be in London.”

He added, “Of course, you could always take baskets of food to Tibbins, though I don’t know how he’d—”

“You’re laughing at me!”

He smiled. “Just a little. You’re inventing reasons, sweetheart. Nothing you’ve told me has changed my mind in the least. All of those things you’ve mentioned you could learn if you put half a mind to it. Running a household must be a damn sight easier than running a business, but the prospect of that doesn’t bother you at all.”

And that was the nub of it.

“Yeah, I probably could—if I wanted to.” She took a deep breath. “But the thing is, Flynn, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be anyone’s wife. It’s not you. I like you, Flynn, like you a lot, in fact—”

“In fact?” he prompted.

She shook her head. “The point is, if I was goin’ to marry anyone, it’d probably be you.”

“Only probably?” He leaned forward but she held up her hands to ward him off. His eyes were so very blue, it took every bit of strength she had to say what she knew she had to say.

“I told you before, I don’t want a husband. I don’t want to have kids. I got plans for me life—plans that don’t include marriage. So . . .”—she swallowed and forced the rest out. “I thank you for the offer. I’m very honored you asked me, but I’m sorry, the answer’s no.”

There was a long silence. Then he took a deep breath and stood up. “I suppose I’d better take myself off, then.”

“Sorry, Flynn,” she said again. She felt terrible. It was the worst thing in the world, being told someone didn’t want you. Especially since she did.

She wanted Flynn something fierce.

She just didn’t want to be a wife.

He turned. “I might have lost the first round, but I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel.” He gave her a swift smile. “I’ll be back. I don’t give up that easy, Daisy-girl.”

He let himself quietly out of her room, closing the door after him with a soft click.

Flynn walked slowly downstairs. He didn’t understand.

He was a good catch, if he said so himself. Hell, he was
a great catch: fit, strong, rich, lusty, with all his own teeth and hair.

Women liked him—ladies of Langwhatsit aside—and he’d had plenty of invitations to prove it. But he didn’t go messing around in anyone’s marriage bed—he didn’t hold with infidelity. He’d be a good and faithful husband, he knew.

He knew in his bones, in his blood that Daisy fancied him as much as he fancied her.

So why was it so apparently unthinkable? So bloody
daft
?

She’d given him a string of reasons, none of which prevented them from marrying, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t care about her past, it was her future he cared about—her future with him.

So what was wrong with the girl?

Featherby stood waiting in the hall. He’d known Flynn’s intention—it was why he’d let him see Daisy alone. He didn’t say anything—it was not a butler’s place to ask—but a faint lifting of his brow was enough.

“She turned me down,” Flynn told him.

Featherby’s brows shot up. “You did ask her to marry you, didn’t you, sir? I mean, she knew what you were offering?”

Flynn nodded. “She knew. I was more than clear. She called it a ‘daft notion.’”

Featherby stared at him. “What maggot’s got into her head now?” he murmured half to himself.

“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “But I aim to find out.”

*   *   *

D
aisy waited until she was sure Flynn was gone.

Then she burst into tears.

He hadn’t been bothered by her lack of virginity, her job in the brothel—anything.

But he needed a different sort of woman to run his home and have his kids. He might think he wanted Daisy now, while he was hot for her body—and who was the fool who’d kissed him and started that? Who’d led him on? Who’d wrapped her legs shamelessly around his waist and let him do whatever he wanted? She’d wanted it too.

But once the heat wore off he’d be wondering why he’d married her, and comparing her to the kind of proper lady he could have had.

She knew she’d be found wanting.

She wasn’t the marrying kind. She wanted to be a famous dressmaker patronized by rich folks, not a wife and a mother—that was for other women, not her. She’d never wanted kids, never dreamed of having them, the way Abby and the other two did.

Even Lady Bea felt her life had been blighted by not being able to have a child of her own. Not Daisy.

Flynn wanted a quiverful of kids.

Refusing him was the right thing for both of them, she knew.

But oh, how it hurt to have to tell him no.

There was a sweetness in the man that she’d never encountered in any man before, especially not a man who was also tough and strong and masculine. And gorgeous.

And rich.

And gorgeous.

If she’d been born different . . . No there was no use going down that pathway. Some things in life you could have and others it was best not to even think about.

*   *   *

A
short time later Featherby brought up a tea tray. Daisy, who at his knock had snatched up some sewing to give the impression she was working, set it aside, hoping he wouldn’t notice her red-rimmed eyes. Or if he did, that he wouldn’t ask about them.

He glanced at her once, then fussed about quietly, setting out little cakes and a pot and teacup. Strong India tea, just the way she liked it. Her favorite cakes. Not saying a thing.

He knew. Featherby always knew.

He bowed himself out and closed the door carefully behind him. The same way Flynn had.

I’ll be back. I don’t give up that easy, Daisy-girl.

More tears came then. She blinked them away. She poured
her tea and as she stirred in the sugar she found herself staring at the sugar lumps piled up in their little silver dish.

She was like one of these lumps of sugar—all hard and like a rock . . . until you dropped it in a cup of hot tea. Then watch it soften and melt and fall apart.

But sometimes, there was a little core of hardness that refused to dissolve, no matter how hard you stirred it.

She had to be that hard little lump from now on.

Else she’d lose herself.

It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PERSUASION

L
ady Beatrice had summoned them all to dine that evening—just a family dinner before they went off to attend their various engagements: Max and Abby and Freddy and Damaris were going to the theater, and Lady Bea was taking Jane to a
soirée musicale
—which was like a concert, only in somebody’s home.

Daisy had been to a few
soirées
in the early days of living with Lady Bea. They were all right if the people playing or singing were talented, but sometimes they weren’t.

Lady Bea, who was utterly thrilled by what she called
Abby’s delicate situation
and sometimes her
interesting condition
and occasionally
the impending happy event
—apparently proper ladies didn’t say
pregnant
, or
up the duff
or
having a bun in the oven
—was using it as an excuse to gather her gels around her more frequently than ever.

Tonight it particularly suited Daisy; she’d thought long and hard about Mrs. Foster’s offer, and now she was ready to talk to Max and Freddy about silent partners and what they did or didn’t do.

Luckily, Flynn hadn’t been included in the dinner invitation. She wasn’t sure why, but she suspected Featherby had said something to Lady Bea.

It would have been impossible trying to talk to him with the whole family looking on. And she didn’t want him to know about any silent partner possibility, yet. He’d be hurt that she’d rather accept help from a stranger than from a friend.

He didn’t understand: She was trying to protect him, trying to protect their friendship. If they even had a friendship now.

She pushed it out of her mind and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand: the silent partnership.

She liked both her brothers-in-law. Freddy was fun and easy to talk to, but she was a little in awe of Max; he was graver and more thoughtful. Very much head-of-the-family. Tonight Freddy was seated beside her, which made things easier.

“Freddy,” she said after the first course had been removed and while the dishes for the second were being brought out. “Can you tell me a bit about what happened when you became a silent partner in Flynn and Co.?”

“Daisy, my dear gel,” Lady Beatrice interrupted. “One does not talk about such vulgar topics at the dinner table.”

“I’m not being vulgar,” Daisy explained. “I’m asking about business.”

“Which is a vulgar topic,” the old lady said. “Anything to do with money is. Abby dear, tell me more about this play you are attending tonight. Who did you say is performing?”

Daisy rolled her eyes. The list of things a lady wasn’t allowed to say was never-ending. She was bloody glad she wasn’t going to be one—she’d never be able to open her mouth.

As Abby talked about the play, Freddy leaned towards Daisy and murmured, “After dinner. Meet you in the front parlor. Explain then.”

Daisy grinned. “Thanks, Freddy.”

*   *   *

“B
ut why do you need to know all this?” Max asked. He had come with Freddy, and the two of them had spent the last fifteen minutes being peppered with questions about how Freddy had come to be a silent partner in Flynn and Co. and how the partnership had worked.

“I’ve been thinking about taking on a silent partner meself,” Daisy told him. “Get the money I need to open a shop.”

“We’ll fund you,” Max said. “You should have mentioned it sooner.”

“Yes, of course,” Freddy said. “Or if you don’t want Max and me, the girls would love to invest in your business, I’m sure. In fact, come to think of it, didn’t Damaris ask you about it a while back?”

“Yeah, she did, and I turned her down.” Daisy turned to Max. “And thanks for offering, Max. I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t want to involve family.”

He frowned. “But that’s what family is for.”

“Not for me it isn’t,” she said firmly. If it all went belly-up she didn’t want her family involved. She’d only just gotten herself a family and she valued it too much—valued them too much to risk them in any way.

This way it was only money. Money came and money went.

Of herself and her ability to make beautiful clothes, she was confident. The ability to manage bigger amounts of money, and employ staff? And attracting the right sort of customers? And making sure they paid their bills? In those areas she was still to be tested.

“Ask Flynn, then,” Freddy said. “He’d be in it like a shot. Always has an eye out for a good investment.”

“No, not friends neither. I don’t ask people for favors.”

Freddy snorted. “You’re too stiff-necked for your own good, young Daisy. Business is all about trading favors.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like owing people. And I won’t take charity.”

Max said dryly, “Freddy and I already have ample evidence of your pride and self-reliance. In some cases that’s admirable, but—”

“The thing is, I’ve got someone who’s interested. She’s not a friend—more a customer, and an acquaintance—and she’s got a nest egg, an inheritance from an aunt, just like you had, Freddy, and she’s interested in what she calls ‘investing.’ So I thought I’d ask for your advice.”

“What do you know of this woman?” Max asked.

“Not much. She’s a widow—her husband was related to Lady Gelbart’s husband. Lady Gelbart introduced us—she brought her to the literary society. Mrs. Foster—that’s her name—said her husband left her very well off. She called the inheritance
free money
and wants to . . . I dunno, play at being a businesswoman, I suppose.”

She liked Mrs. Foster, and she’d do her damnedest to make the business a success, but this way it wasn’t personal. Only money.

She gave a silent snort. Hark at her thinking
only money
as if it grew on trees.

Max and Freddy exchanged glances. “How much does this woman want you to put up?”

“Nothing. She said she’d give me the money to get everything set up.” She told them how much Mrs. Foster was willing to invest and they exchanged glances a second time. “She said we’d have to get papers drawn up, to protect both our interests, but that I’d own fifty-one percent of the business.” She sat back. “So what I want to know from you two is, what’s the catch?”

There was a long silence, finally Freddy shook his head. “Can’t see one myself—not from what you’ve told us.”

Max nodded. “It will all depend on the paperwork—the legal agreement she mentioned. Get Bartlett, our man of business, to arrange it. He’s one hundred percent trustworthy, and he’ll make sure there are no nasty hidden clauses to catch you out.”

He added, “And don’t look like that. You’re not the only
one who worries about the family, you know. I accept that you don’t want us involved, but I won’t have Abby worrying—”

“Or Damaris,” Freddy interjected.

“That’s right,” Max continued. “You’re our sister too and we protect what’s ours.”

He fished his card case from his pocket, scribbled something on the back of a card, and handed it to her. “Give Bartlett that. It will ensure his full cooperation. And when the paperwork is drafted, bring a copy to me before you sign anything.”

“I’ll look at it too.” Freddy rose from his seat. “And that’s not a favor, Daisy-girl—that’s what brothers-in-law are for.”

*   *   *

T
hings moved very quickly after that. Max arranged for Bartlett to call on Daisy the very next day—he didn’t think it suitable for Daisy to go to Bartlett’s place of work, which was the headquarters of Flynn and Co.

Daisy wasn’t so sure about that—she would have liked to see inside the offices of a worldwide trading operation—but of course, she wasn’t about to argue. Max was doing her a favor, after all.

But it did cross her mind that Flynn wouldn’t be so stuffy about it.

She hadn’t breathed a word of any of it to Flynn. She didn’t want to tell him until everything was finalized, and that would depend on whether the silent partnership with Mrs. Foster went ahead or not.

True to his word, he’d been back, and back, visiting her as frequently as ever. Not to pester her, which she couldn’t have borne, but because he told her, “I don’t aim to lose my best friend over this.”

Best friend
. She felt a glow at his words.

“But don’t think I’m givin’ up,” he’d added. “I’ll ask you just once, every day, in case you change your mind.”

She wouldn’t, but she was glad to know she’d be able to keep seeing him. Even though it hurt. And even though she wanted him fiercer than ever.

But it couldn’t be. When it came to Flynn, it was look but don’t touch.

*   *   *

B
artlett called on Daisy first thing in the morning—Lady Beatrice wasn’t even awake. He talked to her about the partnership, what she wanted out of it, how she wanted to run her business and took her through every angle and permutation, peppering her with questions until she was quite dizzy.

He told her he’d call on Mrs. Foster’s legal man next. “But don’t look so worried, Miss Chance,” he said as he tucked his meticulous and copious notes into a leather-bound folder. “We’ll protect your interests. It all looks quite straightforward, but I’ll make sure everything’s tied up nice and tight.” He smiled. “I must say, it’s quite a change to be in on a business enterprise at the beginning. I look forward to watching your business grow.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Daisy said fervently. “Thanks, Mr. Bartlett.”

He paused at the door. “Will you be wanting any assistance with finding a suitable premises? Because if you were, I’d be delighted to assist you.”

She hesitated, not wanting to ask for too much.

He added, “I found this house for Lady Beatrice, and I also found the property that’s Lord and Lady Davenham’s London residence. Property is something of an interest of mine, so if you’d like . . .”

“It’s very kind of you, Mr. Bartlett, but I dunno.” Bartlett might be good at finding posh houses for rich folks, but a shop was a different matter altogether.

“What if I take a look at what’s currently on offer and send you a list of possibilities? You could waste a lot of time, otherwise.”

Daisy considered it. It would cost her extra, no doubt, but if it saved her time . . . “Won’t it take you away from your work—your proper work, I mean? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble or nothing.”

Bartlett smiled. “It won’t get me into trouble—Lord Davenham himself suggested it. Besides, I have assistants who can deal with whatever comes up. Believe me, I’d enjoy the change.”

“Then thanks, Mr. Bartlett, I’ll take you up on that. Let me know what I need to do.”

“I’ll stay in touch.”

“And Mr. Bartlett, would you mind not mentioning any of this to Mr. Flynn? I’d like to keep it a secret for a little while.” Bartlett looked a bit uncomfortable—Flynn was his employer after all—so she added, “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

Bartlett gave a short, clipped bow. “Trust me.”

*   *   *

W
ithin a few days, the silent partner agreement between Daisy and Mrs. Foster had been hammered out, the documents signed by both parties and a business account opened at the bank Bartlett recommended. Since it was the one that also dealt with Flynn and Co., Daisy was happy to go along with it.

Truth to tell, it was all rather intimidating. She’d hardly understood a word of the legal papers, outlined on thick legal paper, embossed and witnessed and sealed with red wax. And the sums involved were frightening to say the least. And the speed with which it all took place, it quite took her breath away.

But Bartlett explained everything in words she could understand, and at the end of it all . . . she owned a business. Money in the bank and all.

Bartlett had even arranged for one of his assistants—who turned out to be his nephew—to set up proper books and show Daisy how to keep track of money in and money out. It was a far cry from her stash under the floorboards in the attic at Mrs. B.’s. And different again from the bank account she’d opened under Max’s guidance six months ago, when he’d learned she kept her money under her mattress.

So now she was ready to start. She’d prefer to hire
seamstresses first—Flynn had been right the night of the masquerade ball when he pointed out to her that anyone could do the sewing, and that her talent was in design.

She’d have to interview women and see samples of what they could do but before that she needed to find suitable premises. She could imagine Lady Beatrice’s face if Daisy arranged for a stream of seamstresses to line up for interviews outside the Berkeley Square house. It was bad enough that Lady Beatrice’s own friends came to call for fittings.

She couldn’t wait to get a shop.

She felt a bit guilty, keeping all these exciting developments from Flynn, especially since Bartlett was helping her so much and Bartlett worked for Flynn. But he also worked for Max and Freddy, which made her feel a bit better.

And with the best intentions in the world, Flynn would want to stick his bib in. He’d want to help and advise, and he’d end up taking over—just to help her, not meaning anything by it—and she didn’t want that. This was hers, her very own business. Daisy Chance, who’d never owned anything.

So she wasn’t going to tell him until she had all her ducks in a row.

*   *   *

“I
’ve got a phaeton waiting downstairs,” Flynn said a few days after Daisy had signed the papers. “I’ve come to take you for a drive.”

“Sorry, Flynn, no time.”

He made an exasperated sound. “Look at you—you’re all worn out from workin’ long hours, sewing your fingers to the bone and worryin’.” He cupped her cheek and his voice softened. “You’re gettin’ thinner by the minute and you’re as pale as paper. It’s a beautiful sunny day—the kind of day you Londoners hardly ever see, so let’s not waste it. Come for a drive in the park with me, just for an hour, and we’ll put some roses back in your cheeks.

She shook her head. “Thanks, but I got to finish this.”