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About the Author

As a psychiatric social worker, DIANE GASTON spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read.

The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house with three very ordinary housecats. Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

REGENCY

Improprieties

Innocence and Impropriety

The Vanishing Viscountess

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Innocence and Impropriety

Diane Gaston

To the ‘Roses’ in my life:

My sister, Marilyn Rose

(though she was never fond of her middle name)

and my sister-in-law, Rosemarie

Chapter One

London—July 1817

Vauxhall Gardens was not a place Jameson Flynn would have chosen to spend his night hours, but his employer, the Marquess of Tannerton, required his presence.

To Flynn, Vauxhall was all façade. Mere wooden structures painted to look like Greek temples or Chinese pavilions. Revellers were equally as false, wearing masks to disguise whether they be titled, rich, respectable, or rogue, pickpocket, lady of ill repute.

‘Have some more ham.’ Tannerton handed him the plate of paper-thin ham slices, a Vauxhall delicacy of dubious worth.

Rich as Croesus, Tanner—as he liked to be called—ate with as much enthusiasm as if he were dining at Carlton House instead of a supper box at Vauxhall. Flynn declined the Vauxhall delicacy but sipped his arrack, a heady mixture of rum and Benjamin flower that redeemed Vauxhall only a little in his eyes. It was not unusual for Tanner to seek Flynn out for companionship, but Flynn had no illusions. He was Tanner’s secretary, not his friend.

To look at them, you might not guess which one was the marquess. Flynn prided himself on his appearance. His dark brown hair was always neatly in place, his black coat and trousers well tailored. Tanner, a few years older and lighter in colouring, took less care, often giving the impression he’d just dismounted from his horse.

Flynn placed his tankard on the table. ‘You brought me here for a purpose, sir. When am I to discover what it is?’

Tanner grinned and reached inside his coat, pulling out a piece of paper. He handed it to Flynn. ‘Regard this, if you will.’

It was a Vauxhall programme, stating that, on this July night, a concert of vocal and instrumental music would be performed featuring a Miss Rose O’Keefe, Vauxhall Garden’s newest flower.

Flynn ought to have guessed. A woman.

Ever since returning from Brussels, Tanner had gone back to his more characteristic pursuits of pleasure in whatever form he could find it. Or, Flynn might say, from whatever woman. And there were plenty of women willing to please him. Tanner had the reputation of being good to his mistresses, showering them with gifts, houses, and ultimately a nice little annuity when his interest inevitably waned. As a result, Tanner usually had his pick of actresses, opera dancers and songstresses.

‘I am still at a loss. I surmise you have an interest in this Miss O’Keefe, but what do you require of me?’ Flynn usually became involved in the monetary negotiations with Tanner’s chère amies or when it came time to deliver the congé, Tanner having an aversion to hysterics.

Tanner’s eyes lit with animation. ‘You must assist me in winning the young lady.’

Flynn nearly choked on his arrack. ‘I? Since when do you require my assistance on that end?’

Tanner leaned forward. ‘I tell you, Flynn. This one is exceptional. No one heard of her before this summer. One night she just appeared in the orchestra box and sang. Rumour has it she sang again at the Cyprian’s Masquerade, but that is not certain. In any event, this lady is not easily won.’

Flynn shot him a sceptical expression.

Tanner went on, ‘Pomroy and I came to hear her the other evening. You’ve never heard the like, Flynn, let me tell you. There was nothing to be done but try to meet her.’ He scowled and took a long sip of his drink. ‘Turns out she has a papa guarding her interests. I could not even manage to give the man my card. There were too many ramshackle fellows crowding him.’

Flynn could just imagine the top-lofty marquess trying to push his way through the sorts that flocked around the female Vauxhall performers. ‘What is it you wish of me?’

Tanner leaned forward eagerly. ‘My idea is this. You discover a way to get to this father and how to negotiate on my behalf.’ He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. ‘You have the gift of diplomacy, which you know I do not.’

Flynn suspected all the negotiating required was to have said, ‘How much do you want?’ and the lady would have fallen, but he kept that opinion to himself. He would act as broker; he’d performed such tasks for Tanner before, but always after Tanner made the initial conquest. The way Flynn looked at it, he was negotiating a contract, not so different from other contracts he negotiated for Tanner. Flynn negotiated the terms, the limits, the termination clause.

The orchestra, playing some distance from their supper box, its strains wafting louder and softer on the breeze, suddenly stopped. Tanner pulled out his timepiece. ‘I believe it is about time for her to perform. Make haste.’

Flynn dutifully followed Tanner’s long-legged stride to the Grove in the centre of the gardens where the two-storeyed gazebo held the orchestra high above the crowd. Tanner pushed his way to the front for the best view. He was filled with excitement, like a small boy about to witness a balloon ascent.

The music began, a tune familiar to Flynn, and, amid cheers and applause, Miss O’Keefe took her place in front of the orchestra. She began to sing:

When, like the dawning day

Eileen Aroon

Love sends his early ray …

Her crystalline voice filled the warm summer air, silencing the revellers. Flynn lifted his gaze to her and all the glittering lamps strung on the gazebo and throughout the surrounding trees blurred. Only she filled his vision, dressed in a gown of deep red that fluttered in the light breeze.

Her hair, dark as the midnight sky, dramatically contrasted with skin as pale as clouds billowing over mountaintops. Her lips, now open in song, were as pink as a summer garden’s rose.

This was Rose O’Keefe, Vauxhall’s newest singing sensation? She seemed more like some dream incarnate. Flynn watched as she extended her arms towards the audience, as if to embrace them all. Hers was a graceful sensuality, but earthy and deeply arousing.

Were she no longer true

Eileen Aroon

What would her lover do …

Flynn swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. The Irish tune—’Eileen Aroon’—sung with the tiniest lilt, created a wave of emotion such as he’d not felt in years. He squeezed shut his stinging eyes and could almost see his mother at the old pianoforte, his father by her side, his brothers and sisters gathered around. He could almost hear his father’s baritone booming loud and his sister Kathleen’s sweet soprano blending in harmony. He could almost smell the rich earth, the fresh air, the green of home.

He’d not crossed the Irish Sea in the ten years since he’d sailed for Oxford, filled with ambition, but this singing temptress not only aroused his masculine senses, but also gave him an aching yearning for just one evening of song, laughter, and family.

‘Is she not all I said she would be?’ Tanner nudged him on the shoulder, grinning like a besotted fool.

Flynn glanced back to her. ‘She is exceptional.’

… Never to love again … Eileen Aroon …

Tanner also gaped at Rose O’Keefe, unmindful that his frank admiration showed so plainly on his face. Flynn hoped his own reaction appeared more circumspect, even though the heat of frank desire burned more hotly with each note she sang.

She seemed to represent all Flynn had left behind. Country. Family. Joy. Pleasure. It made him wish he’d answered his mother’s monthly letters more than three times a year, wish he could wrap his arms around her and his father, roughhouse with his brothers, tease his sisters. He missed the laughter, the gaiety. How long had it been since he’d laughed out loud? Embraced a woman? Sung ‘Eileen Aroon’?

Flynn’s ambition had driven him away from his past. He’d been the marquess’s secretary for six years, but the position was a mere stepping stone. Flynn aimed to rise higher, in government, perhaps, or—his grandest aspiration—to serve royalty. Tanner supported his goals, taking Flynn with him to the Congress of Vienna and to Brussels, where powerful men learned Flynn’s name and recognised his talent. The marquess assured him the time would soon come for a position suitable to Flynn’s ambitions.

Which was why Flynn was shocked at his reaction to Rose O’Keefe. She propelled him back, not forwards, and her clear, poignant voice left him very aware of his manhood. Carnal desire and thoughts of home made an odd mixture indeed, and a thoroughly unwanted one. Still, at the moment, he seemed helpless to do anything but let her voice and vision carry him away.

Later he would plant his feet firmly back on the ground. He must, because this woman who had temporarily aroused his senses and unearthed a buried yearning for home was also the woman he must procure for his employer.

Rose glanced down at the crowd watching her, so silent, so appreciative! Her audience had grown larger with each performance, and she had even been mentioned favourably in the Morning Chronicle. She loved hearing her voice rise above the orchestra, resounding through the summer night air. The magic of Vauxhall seemed to charm her as well, as if singing an Irish air in this fanciful place were merely some lovely, lovely dream.

Mr Hook himself watched from the side of the balcony, smiling in approval. Rose tossed the elderly musical director a smile of her own before turning her attention back to her audience. She was so glad Miss Hart—Mrs Sloane, she meant—had seen her perform before leaving for Italy on her wedding trip. Rose’s brief time living with Miss Hart had taught her many lessons, but the one she treasured most was to be proud of who she was. And Rose was very proud this day. Proud enough to feel all her dreams were possible. She believed that some day she would be the celebrated singer all of London raved about. She would sing at Covent Garden, at Drury Lane or—dare she hope?—King’s Theatre.

Rose scanned her audience again. Most of the faces lifted toward her in admiration were masculine ones. Since she’d been ten years old, men had been staring at her. At least now she knew how to hold her head up and be unafraid of their frank regard. She’d learned how to talk to gentlemen, how to encourage their interest—or, more importantly, how to discourage it.

Rose’s eye was drawn to two gentlemen in the audience below her. They stood close to the balcony, so that the lamps illuminated them. One was very tall, at least as tall as Mr Sloane, but it was not he who drew her attention as much as the one who stood so still, gazing up at her. This man’s rapt expression made her heart skip a beat.

She sang the last bar.

Truth is a fixed star. Eileen Aroon …

Applause thundered skywards as the music faded. Rose stole a peek at the gentleman who had captured her interest. He continued to stand, statue-still, his eyes still upon her. She felt her cheeks go warm.

She bowed and threw a kiss, eyes slanting towards her quiet admirer, before beginning her next song. As she continued through her performance, her gaze roved over all her admirers, but her eyes always returned to him.

Soon the orchestra began her final tune of the evening, ‘The Warning’.

‘List to me, ye gentle fair; Cupid oft in ambush lies …’ Rose began softly, animating her facial expressions and her gestures. ‘Of the urchin have a care, Lest he take you by surprise …’

She let her voice grow louder and had to force herself not to direct the song at the mysterious gentleman, who still had not moved. She could neither distinguish his features nor see what colour were his eyes, but she fancied them locked upon her, as she wished to lock hers upon him.

Flynn tried to shake off his reaction to Rose O’Keefe, tried to tell himself she was merely another of Tanner’s many interests, but he could not make himself look away from her. Had his grandfather been standing next to him and not in his grave these last twenty years, he’d have said, ‘‘Tis the fairies t’blame.’

Perhaps not fairies, but certainly a fancy of Flynn’s own making. It seemed to Flynn that Rose O’Keefe was singing directly to him.

An illusion, certainly. There could be nothing of a personal nature between him and this woman he had not yet met. All he experienced while listening to her was illusion, as fanciful as believing in fairies. His role was clear. He must approach Miss O’Keefe’s father and convince the man to allow him to plead Tanner’s suit directly to the daughter. Perhaps he would also be required to deliver gifts, or to escort her to Tanner’s choice of meeting place. He’d performed such errands in the past without a thought.

It was unfortunate that this rationality fled in the music of her voice, the allure of her person. She sang of Cupid, and Flynn understood why the ancients gave the little fellow an arrow. He felt pierced with exquisite pain, emotions scraping him raw.

With one more refrain, her song ended, and, as she curtsied deeply to the applause that erupted all around him, he roused himself from this ridiculous reverie.

‘Bravo!’ shouted Tanner, nearly shattering Flynn’s eardrum. ‘Bravo!’

A moment later she had vanished as if she’d been only a dream. Tanner clapped until the principle performer on the programme, Charles Dignum, began singing.

Flynn stared at Tanner, feeling suddenly as if this man who employed him were Cromwell come to seize his lands and take his woman, an even more ridiculous fancy. Flynn’s mother was English, though she’d spent most of her life in Ireland. He had as much English blood in his veins as Irish. What’s more, Flynn embraced his Englishness. England was where his life was bound. England was where his ambitions lay.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of this madness. Rose O’Keefe had been a mere fleeting reminder of home, nothing more.

He pressed his fingers against his temple. He would soon recover his sanity and return to serving Tanner with dispassionate efficiency.

But as Tanner grabbed his arm and led him back to the supper box, the sweet voice of Rose O’Keefe lingered in Flynn’s ear, an echoing reverie:

List to me, ye gentle fair; Cupid oft in ambush lies …

Chapter Two

Rose peeked through the curtain at the throng of men outside the gazebo, some carrying flowers, others waving their cards, all calling her name. There were so many, she could not see them all. If he was there, the man who had watched her with such rapture, she could not see him.

She turned to her father. ‘There are more tonight.’

‘Are there now, Mary Rose?’ Her father placed his oboe in its case.

The woman at his side, a robust creature with ample dé-colletage—the woman who shared his bed—added, ‘We have our pick, I’d say.’

Rose frowned. ‘I do not wish to pick, Letty. I am content merely to sing.’

She had known nothing of Letty Dawes when Rose had surprised her father by appearing on his doorstep four months ago. The letters her father had sent to her at the school in Killyleagh made no mention of Letty, but then his letters had never been very informative.

Her father had been very surprised and perhaps somewhat disappointed to see that Rose had come to London with the ambition to sing. He had always told her to stay in Ireland, to remain at the school he’d sent her to after her mother died, the school that had kept her on as a music teacher. But teaching was not for her. Rose burned with the passion to perform, to sing.

Like her mother.

Rose’s most treasured memories were of sitting by her mother’s sickbed, listening to her tales of the London stages, the excitement of the music, the lights, the applause, the glory of her finest hour, performing at the King’s Theatre. Even seven years of schooling and four more of teaching could not extinguish the fire that had been ignited so early within Rose to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Rose had saved her pennies until she had enough to make the journey to London.

But any fantasies she’d had about a loving reunion with her father had been thoroughly dashed in those first few minutes of his surprised hugs and kisses. Letty Dawes had appeared from behind him, lamenting the sacrifices they would have to make to house and feed her, laughing at her desire to sing on the London stage. What theatre would employ an Irish country lass? Letty had said.

At first Rose thought her father had married again, but her father explained that entertainers lived by different rules from those she learned in school. He and Letty did not need marriage to share a bed. Then her father offered to pay Rose’s way back to Ireland, and Letty exploded in rage at how much it would cost. A huge row broke out between them, and Rose walked out to escape hearing it, knowing she had caused it. She was glad now that she had walked out, because otherwise she would never have met Miss Hart.

It was Miss Hart who brought her to Vauxhall Gardens that glorious night when Rose had another tearful reunion with her father, and he introduced her to Mr Hook. Mr Hook let her sing one song and, seeing as she was not yet twenty-one, asked her father if he might hire her. So when it came time to leave Miss Hart’s house, Rose returned to her father and Letty, who suddenly perceived her as a source of more income. To sing at Vauxhall, Rose would endure anything, even living with Letty.

It seemed she must also endure this frenzy of interest from gentlemen, all pressing her father to meet her. It was all part of the profession, her father told her.

He glanced out of the window. ‘Perhaps there will be some titled gentlemen among these fellows. That is who you must court if you wish to move ahead.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Letty added, putting an arm around Rose’s shoulders as if in affection. ‘A titled gentleman would be grand. There is no telling how much you might make, Rose. Why, some men even buy houses for their.’

Rose wrenched away. She knew much more about what men expected of women who performed on stage than she had when she first arrived in London. But what of love? Of romance? That was what Miss Hart had found with her Mr Sloane. That was what Rose coveted for herself.

‘What men are expecting in exchange for those houses, I have no wish to give,’ she told Letty.

Letty broke into shrill laughter. ‘Give? If you don’t give it, men will just take it anyway. Better to profit, I always say.’

Her father walked up to her and tweaked her chin. ‘Never fear, Mary Rose.’ He spoke gently. ‘Your papa will make certain you are set up like a fine lady. I wouldn’t let my little girl go with some penniless rogue, now would I?’

Rose pressed her hand against her throat. All part of the profession, her father had told her.

He hurried away, and she heard him shout, ‘Give me your cards, gentlemen.’ before the door closed behind him.

Letty shook a finger at her. ‘You obey your father. He has your best interests at heart.’

To escape having to talk to her further, Rose peered through the curtain. The men outside flocking around her father appeared spectre-like in the dim light, like a flock of bats in a moonlit sky. She shivered. She loved her newfound singing success. After Vauxhall’s season was over, she was certain she could find more employment. She could support herself. She could afford to wait for love to find her.

Rose gripped the curtain in determined fingers. Until she discovered for herself the sort of true love she’d witnessed at Miss Hart’s, she must merely sing her songs and fend off all other plans her father and Letty had for her.

As she stared through the gap in the curtain, she wondered if one of the shadowy figures would materialise into the man who’d drawn her attention when she’d performed. Would he be the one? she wondered. The one who might love her? But as her father collected the cards and gifts, she didn’t see anyone who could be him.

Letty walked up behind her and opened the curtain wider. ‘Your father is a smart man to put them off. They’ll be willing to pay more if they must wait to win you.’ She paused as if wheels turned slowly in her head. ‘But not too long. Too much waiting and they will lose interest.’

Her father’s arms were filled with small packages and bouquets of flowers. One hand was stuffed with cards. He turned to come back in, but another man stepped forward. Rose could not make out the man distinctly in the dim light, but he was dressed in a dark coat and seemed of similar size to her man in the audience.

She had a melting feeling, like when she’d watched Miss Hart with her Mr Sloane.

Her father and the shadowy gentleman spoke a few words before the man bowed and walked away, and her father re-entered the gazebo.

He dropped the heaps of fragrant flowers and small, ribbon-wrapped packages on to a nearby table and turned to Rose. ‘Mary Rose, pull this last card from my hand.’

She pulled the card sticking out from the stack and read, ‘The Marquess of Tannerton.’

He let the other cards cascade on to the table. ‘I told the fellow he could call tomorrow at four o’clock.’

Letty’s eyes lit up. ‘That was the Marquess?’

‘I’m not sure of it.’ Her father smiled sheepishly. ‘I was half-stunned, to be sure. Didn’t heed what the fellow said, but I heard “marquess” and told the man he could call.’ He gave Rose a patient look. ‘You must see a marquess, Mary Rose.’

It should hearten her that the marquess might be the man who so captivated her, but somehow it did not. Whatever could exist between a marquess and a songstress would not be love.

Rose sighed. She would just have to discourage this man. She was confident she’d learned enough about gentlemen to fend off unwanted attention. Her priority at the moment was to finish out her summer singing at Vauxhall, and to have Mr Hook put her forth with the highest recommendations to others who might hire her. Rose wanted to keep singing, perhaps on a proper stage this time, part of a real theatre. She wanted to rise some day to the principal roles, to have her name always in the newspapers, her image on playbills, theatre managers clamouring for her to sing for them.

In the meantime, she wanted coin enough to pay her keep so Letty would not complain that her father allowed her to stay. Until she found where she truly belonged—or with whom—she would not settle for less. She would not engage her heart to a marquess who wanted her for mere amusement. Even if he was handsome. Even if her blood stirred when he looked upon her.

She merely would let her father believe otherwise.

‘I will receive the marquess, Papa,’ she said.

Flynn stepped out of the hackney coach and walked the short distance up Langley Street to the lodgings where O’Keefe had directed him, a plain enough building from the outside. He took a deep breath and nodded, telling himself again that the previous night’s infatuation with a Vauxhall singer had been due to too much arrack. He was clear headed now.

Rose O’Keefe, like Tanner’s many other conquests, would be a woman of business, savvy enough to work out that making herself into a hard-won prize would drive up the price. It was Flynn’s job to see that Tanner did not pay one pence more than she was worth—and she ought to be worth no more than the others had cost the marquess.

Flynn stared at the door of the building and tugged at his cuffs, straightening his coat. Appearances were always important in negotiations, he told himself. He cleared his throat and opened the door, stepping into a dark hall.

Letting his eyes adjust to the dim light, he waited a moment before ascending the wooden staircase. One flight up, he turned and knocked upon a plain wooden door. As its knob turned and the door began to open, his chest tightened, exactly as if he had run from Mayfair to Covent Garden.

But the sensation passed when Mr O’Keefe admitted him into a small parlor with threadbare furniture, adorned by luxurious bouquets of flowers on almost every surface. Flynn congratulated himself for forgoing a bouquet of rare blooms. He patted the inside pocket of his coat that held Tanner’s offering.

‘Good day to you, sir.’ Mr O’Keefe bowed repeatedly. ‘Good of you to call.’

‘How do you do, sir.’ A garishly dressed woman curtsied deeply.

Mr O’Keefe took his hat and gloves and gestured to the woman. ‘This is Rose’s very dear friend and mine, Miss Dawes.’

She curtsied again.

Their deference was extreme. It dawned on him that they thought he was Tanner. ‘I did not give you my name last night. I am Mr Flynn, the Marquess of Tannerton’s secretary—’

Mr O’Keefe suddenly relaxed. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said in an almost normal voice. He thrust his hand out to Flynn. ‘Good of you to come.’

Flynn accepted the handshake. ‘It was good of you to allow me to call.’

O’Keefe gestured to the sofa. Flynn indicated that Mr O’Keefe must sit as well, and the older man, thin as a reed and a good head shorter than Flynn, lowered himself into an adjacent chair.

‘I come on the marquess’s behalf,’ Flynn began. ‘The marquess has had the pleasure of hearing your daughter’s lovely voice. He is most anxious to meet her.’

Mr O’Keefe nodded, listening intently.

Flynn continued, ‘I should like to convey the marquess’s high regard to Miss O’Keefe directly, if that is possible.’

‘I’ll fetch her,’ Miss Dawes piped up. ‘I have no idea why she has not showed herself.’

‘I would be grateful.’ Flynn watched her bustle through an interior door.

‘Rose!’ he heard Miss Dawes say sharply.

Flynn frowned.

‘She’ll come,’ Mr O’Keefe said in a reassuring tone.

Flynn did not wish to negotiate with the father. Experience had taught him that it was preferable to deal with the woman herself.

‘Here she is,’ chirped Miss Dawes from the doorway. She quickly stepped aside.

Rose O’Keefe entered the room, so graceful she seemed to glide above the floor. Up close, with daylight illuminating the room, her beauty robbed his lungs of air. Her face, so fair and fine, was framed by raven-black tendrils, her skin translucent. But it was her eyes that captured him and aroused him again. They were as green as the rolling hills of County Down.

He stood.

Before he could speak, she said, ‘You are?’

Her father rose from his chair and walked over to her. ‘Mary Rose, Mr Flynn is secretary to the Marquess of Tannerton.’

Her glorious green eyes widened slightly.

Flynn bowed. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’

She seemed to recover from any surprise, saying coolly, ‘You were wanting to speak to me, sir?’

Flynn heard the lilt of Ireland in her speech, not quite as carefully eradicated as his own. He began, ‘I come on behalf of the marquess—’

‘I see,’ she interrupted. ‘What is it a marquess wants of me that he cannot be asking himself?’

Flynn blinked.

‘Mary Rose!’ her father pleaded. ‘Mind your tongue.’

‘Obey your father!’ Miss Dawes scolded.

Miss O’Keefe darted Miss Dawes a defiant glance. This was going badly, Flynn thought. It was beginning to seem as if her father and this Dawes woman were forcing her into this. Tanner never desired a woman be compelled to share his bed. Flynn needed to deal directly with Miss O’Keefe. He must be assured she would be a willing partner.

And, at the moment, Miss O’Keefe looked anything but willing.

‘I will speak with Miss O’Keefe alone, sir,’ he said in a smooth voice.

Mr O’Keefe looked uncertain.

Miss Dawes wagged her finger towards the daughter. ‘Talk to him, Rose. Be a good girl.’ Then she hustled the father out of the room.

Flynn turned back to Miss O’Keefe. Her green eyes were strained.

‘I would not distress you, miss,’ he said softly.

She waved a graceful hand in the air. ‘It is of no consequence.’

He paused, composing his next words.

She spoke first. ‘You came for a reason, Mr Flynn?’ Her voice was high, and tiny lines appeared at the corners of her perfectly sculpted lips.

His brows knitted. This girl seemed not at all eager to hear an offer. ‘Indeed. About Lord Tannerton.’

‘Would you care to sit, sir?’ she asked with forced politeness.

He inclined his head, waiting for her to sit opposite him before he lowered himself into the seat.

‘You were saying, Mr Flynn?’

He began again, ‘I was saying, the marquess has heard you sing—’

‘And you, Mr Flynn? Have you heard me sing?’ She seemed bent on interrupting him.

‘Yes, Miss O’Keefe, I have had the pleasure.’

A genuine smile fleetingly appeared. ‘Were you liking my singing?’ She dipped her head and he noticed that her lashes were long and luxurious.

‘Very much,’ he said, regaining his wits.

She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Flynn. it is an Irish name. Where are you from, Mr Flynn?’

Flynn did not usually lose such total control over a conversation. It disturbed him, nearly as much as perceiving her reluctance disturbed him. Nearly as much as her eyes disturbed him.

‘Where am I from?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, where in Ireland are you from?’

He could not remember the last time he’d been asked this. ‘County Down, near Ballynahinch.’

Her bewitching eyes sparkled. ‘I attended school in Killyleagh.’

‘So did my sister.’ Those words slipped out.

‘Oh!’ She turned thoughtful for a moment. ‘Could she be Siobhan Flynn, by any chance? There was a Siobhan Flynn two years ahead of me.’

Siobhan’s name propelled him back to Ballynahinch. Little Siobhan. She’d been eleven when he’d last seen her. How old was she now? Twenty-one?

It meant Miss O’Keefe was naught but nineteen. No wonder her papa hovered near.

‘She may have been the same,’ he said.

Miss O’Keefe’s eyes danced with excitement. ‘How does she fare? I rarely heard news of any of the girls after they left.’

Flynn realised he had barely heeded news of Siobhan in his mother’s letters. ‘She is married and has two sons.’

Miss O’Keefe sighed. ‘How nice for her!’

Flynn began again. ‘About the marquess—’

‘Oh, yes, the marquess.’ Her false tone returned. ‘He sent you. You did not come to speak with me about home.’

Home. Home. It repeated in his ears.

‘The marquess is anxious to make your acquaintance, Miss O’Keefe. He is prepared to become your friend.’

‘My friend?’ She glanced away. ‘He knows so much after listening to a few songs?’

He opened his mouth to respond with lavish compliments.

She spoke first. ‘Are your friendships so easily made, Mr Flynn?’

‘My friendships?’ He was repeating again. He disliked that she distracted him from his intent, making him think instead of friends, long-ago boys who explored crumbling castle ruins with him or fished in crystalline streams.

He forced himself to meet her gaze directly. ‘I assure you, Miss O’Keefe, the marquess chooses his friends judiciously, and none would complain about the connection.’

She did not waver. ‘And is he usually sending you to inform his new friends of their good fortune?’

Flynn wrinkled his brow. She did not seem pleased at all at Tanner’s interest. Why? Her father and that other female certainly relished the potential connection.

He must convince her she would do well under Tanner’s protection. She would certainly have more freedom than she appeared to have in her father’s house, with the shrill Miss Dawes bullying her.

But the image that rose in his mind was not of her with Tanner, but of her standing on a green hillside, wind billowing through her skirts and hair.

He mentally shook himself. Somehow he maintained his direct gaze. ‘The marquess involves me if he feels it would best please the lady to do so.’ He reached into his coat pocket. ‘To show his good intentions, the marquess wishes to bestow upon you a small gift.’

Flynn pulled out a velvet box. She glanced in alarm at the door behind which her father and Miss Dawes were certainly eavesdropping. She stilled his hand. ‘No gifts,’ she whispered, slanting her eyes towards the door again. ‘Please.’

Flynn’s hand paused in mid-air, her touch branding his skin. Silently he nodded, slipping the box back in his pocket.

‘A gift would be very nice indeed,’ she said, raising her voice.

‘Then you shall have one very soon,’ he said.

Rose returned her hand to her lap, her breath coming rapidly. Her hand still tingled from touching him, and all her insides felt like melted candle wax.

He had played along with her wish not to have her father or Letty hear of a gift. If he had not, Letty would be badgering her for days to get her hands on a gift from a marquess. And to keep peace, her father would implore her to give in. The other gifts gentlemen left for her—gifts that ought to have been returned—made their way into Letty’s possession or were sold to buy some other trinket she desired.

Rose tried to show Mr Flynn her gratitude with a look, but had to avert her gaze from the intensity of his startling blue eyes.

When Letty had come to fetch her, saying the marquess’s secretary had arrived, Rose had been relieved she would not have to refuse a marquess to his face, especially if he were indeed the man who’d so captivated her. But the man who captivated her was his secretary and was Irish, and, even more wonderful, he’d become a momentary ally.

He was very handsome up close, with his commanding gaze. His hair and brows were nearly as dark as her own. She loved the firmness of his jaw and the decisive set to his sinfully sensuous mouth. What would it be like to touch her lips to his?

Rose mentally shook herself. She was thinking like a romantic, making this into a story like the novels she enjoyed reading, the ones that wove wonderful stories of love. This man had not come to court her, but to procure her for his employer.

Even so, his blue eyes continued to enslave her.

‘The marquess is a good man, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said.

She peered back at him. ‘Mr Flynn, why do you tie this up in pretty words? Do you not mean the marquess is wishing me to be his mistress? Is that not what this is about? Is that not the kind of “friend” he wishes me to be?’

A muscle flexed in Mr Flynn’s jaw, but his gaze held. ‘To be such a friend of this man has many advantages. He can assist you. Protect you.’

Rose’s gaze slipped back to the door that hid her father and Letty. They both certainly wanted her to accept the marquess’s protection. And his money.

He looked to the door, as well. ‘Will you need protection, Miss O’Keefe?’ His voice was soft and low. And concerned.

She glanced back in surprise and gave a light laugh. ‘I shall experience no difficulties, I assure you.’

Letty was as unpleasant as a woman could be, and her father was completely under her thumb, but Rose did not feel they yielded that much authority over her. She liked living with her father, making up a little for all the years that had separated them.

‘You could allow the marquess to help you,’ he said.

She reached over to grasp his hand in reassurance but stopped herself midway. ‘I’ll be needing no help.’ She added, ‘All I want is to sing …’

He seized on those words. ‘Lord Tannerton could help you—’

She put up her hand, regretting she had spoken. ‘I require no help. Do not be worrying yourself over me.’

Their eyes connected, and it felt like butterflies took possession of her insides.

‘Thank the marquess for me,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘It was good of you to come.’ She stood and walked towards the door.

It took a moment for him to follow her. ‘I do not understand you, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said, his voice no more than an urgent whisper. ‘Why do you hesitate?’

She handed him his hat and gloves. ‘Good day to you, Mr Flynn.’ She opened the door.

He started to walk through it, but turned and grasped her hand in his. ‘Welcome or not, Miss O’Keefe, you do have a friend.’

He released her and swiftly took his leave. Rose brushed her hand against her cheek, wishing the friend were not the marquess but Mr Flynn himself.

Chapter Three

Flynn paused a moment when he reached the street, puzzled by this experience. The times he’d risked huge amounts of Tanner’s wealth on some tenuous business matter, he’d been in better control. Nothing had gone as he’d expected. Worse, his senses were still awhirl. Merely looking at the girl had been enough to throw his rationality out of the window.

With no idea what to tell Tanner, he straightened his hat and started walking in the direction of Covent Garden to find a hack.

‘Mr Flynn!’ he heard behind him.

Turning, he saw Mr O’Keefe running toward him. Flynn stopped.

The older man caught up to him, breathing hard. ‘Letty said—I mean—I wanted a word with you.’

Flynn merely waited.

‘Tell … tell the marquess how flattered we are—my daughter is, I mean—at his kind interest.’

‘I will tell him.’ Although, if Flynn did tell Tanner this, he’d be lying. The daughter did not seem flattered in the least.

Mr O’Keefe’s mouth twisted into an apologetic smile. ‘My Rose is a sensible girl,’ he said, a fond look appearing in his eye. ‘She’ll just need some persuading.’

Flynn regarded this man who looked as if a strong wind might blow him away. Flynn could not see him persuading his daughter about anything. The unpleasant Miss Dawes, however, was another matter.

‘I must leave.’ Flynn turned away.

‘Do try again, sir,’ Mr O’Keefe cried as Flynn walked away.

Flynn looked over his shoulder. ‘I shall tell the marquess you said so.’

Mr O’Keefe nodded vigorously, and Flynn hurried on his way to a row of waiting hackney carriages.

He soon reached Tanner’s Audley Street town house, returning to the familiar opulence, the order, the civility.

The footman who opened the door said, ‘His lordship wishes you to attend him in the game room straight away.’

Not even a moment to collect himself, nor to plan an explanation of his incredible meeting with Miss O’Keefe.

‘Thank you, Smythe.’ Flynn handed the man his hat and gloves and made his way to the game room.

When he entered, Tanner was leaning over the billiard table, lining up a shot. Flynn stood in the doorway until the ball cracked into another one, sending it rolling across the green baize and landing successfully in the pocket.

‘Flynn!’ Tanner waved him in. ‘Come, tell me all about it. I am most anxious. Could think of nothing else since you left.’

Tanner settled himself in one of the leather chairs by the window and gestured for Flynn to pour them some claret from the decanter on the side table.

‘Well, did you see her?’ Tanner asked as Flynn handed him a glass of claret. ‘Of course you did or you’d have been back sooner. What did she say? Did she like the gift? What the devil did you purchase for her?’

Flynn poured wine for himself, but did not sit. ‘I purchased a matched set of gold bracelets.’

‘And?’ Tanner grinned eagerly.

Flynn took a sip before speaking. ‘She refused the gift.’

Tanner half-rose from his seat. ‘Refused?’

‘I fear so, my lord,’ he admitted.

Tanner waved his hand dismissively. ‘It was the wrong gift, then, but I am sure you assured her there would be more gifts. What of a meeting?’

Flynn averted his eyes.

The marquess sank back in the chair. ‘Do not tell me she refused to meet me?’

‘She did not refuse exactly, but neither did she agree.’ Flynn’s powers of diplomacy had escaped him with Miss O’Keefe, but perhaps they would hold him in better stead with Tanner.

Tanner raised his brows. ‘What the devil happened then? What did you talk about?’

Of home. Of Ireland. But Flynn was not about to provide this as an answer. ‘I explained the advantages of your. friendship, and she listened.’

‘That is all?’ The marquess’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.

‘That is all.’

Tanner slowly sipped his wine, finishing it, while Flynn could not even put a glass to his lips.

He placed his still-full glass on the table and reached for the decanter. ‘More, sir?’

Tanner shook his head, still silent.

All of a sudden Tanner burst into a wide grin and thrust out his glass. ‘She is playing a deep game, is all. Gold bracelets? You were too cheap, man. The girl wants more and she knows she can get it!’ He laughed. ‘You must deliver a more valuable gift.’

Flynn refilled Tanner’s wine glass, not wanting to explain that giving Miss O’Keefe a gift was not so simple a task.

‘Give her emeralds next time, to set off her eyes. An emerald ring!’ Tanner’s own brown eyes sparkled. ‘What the devil, offer her patronage as well—an allowance. A generous one. Show her I am willing to pay her price.’

As a business move, Flynn typically would have advised against this. The next offer in a negotiation ought not to be so high. But in Rose O’Keefe’s situation, he was more than willing to try to get her away from the bullying Miss Dawes.

Flynn nodded. His heart raced at the prospect of seeing her again, even though to see her was merely a function of his duty to Tanner. Still, he could not erase from his memory the sensuous grace of her figure, the irresistible tint of her lips, the eyes that beckoned him home.

He took his leave from Tanner. There was much to be done to carry out the next phase of the marquess’s plan.

The very next night Flynn stood below the gazebo’s balcony at Vauxhall Gardens, again listening to the crystalline sound of Rose O’Keefe’s voice filling the evening with song. He’d secured a private box and supper for Miss O’Keefe, leaving a message to her father to escort her to the box when the orchestra broke and Signor Rivolta, the man who played six or eight instruments at once, performed. He trusted her father would approve of the meeting.

She wore the wine-red gown again, the colour of passionate nights, and her fair skin glowed against its richness. Flynn convinced himself he merely admired her beauty, the way he might appreciate the beauty of a flower or a painting or how the house in Ballynahinch shone golden in the light of the setting sun.

He watched until she made her final curtsy and disappeared into the dark recesses of the balcony. He then made his way to the supper box to ensure all was as he’d planned—a supper of light delicacies, nothing too fancy, but all very tasteful. Assured everything was prepared and ready, he spent the rest of the time pacing, his breath catching whenever the music ceased, and easing when it resumed again.

Finally the orchestra was silent. Flynn continued pacing until he heard the O’Keefes approach. Unfortunately, it was Miss Dawes’s piercing voice that gave him warning. He ought to have expected her.

‘Behave yourself, miss. I’ll not have you ruining this for your father—’ The woman’s speech cut off when she saw Flynn. ‘Mr Flynn!’ She switched to a syrupy tone.

‘Good evening,’ Flynn said to them all, but to the one who wore a hooded cape that nearly obscured her face, his voice turned husky. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’

She nodded. ‘Mr Flynn.’

‘This is so very kind of you, sir.’ Mr O’Keefe tiptoed into the box and hesitated before accepting Flynn’s outstretched hand. O’Keefe’s hand was bony, but his handshake warm.

‘So kind,’ O’Keefe murmured. He turned to his daughter. ‘Is that not so, Mary Rose?’

She merely glanced at her father before turning to Flynn. ‘Is the marquess here?’

Both Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes wore hopeful expressions, but Miss O’Keefe seemed anything but eager.

‘He regrets not being at liberty to come,’ Flynn prevaricated. He directed them to the table. ‘But please sit and have some supper.’

Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes hurried to the round table set with porcelain china, crystal glassware and silver cutlery. Flynn pulled out the chair for Miss O’Keefe, and she glanced into his eyes as she sat down. He signalled the footman to bring another chair and place setting, after which the food was served: tender capons and a rich assortment of cheeses and fruit. The footman uncorked a bottle of champagne, pouring it into all four glasses.

‘Oooh, bubbles!’ exclaimed Miss Dawes in her coarse voice. ‘I love the bubbly wine.’

Rose picked up her glass and took a sip. She had tasted champagne before at Miss Hart’s, so its fizzy taste was not a surprise.

She watched Letty dig into the prettily displayed food as if she had not consumed a large dinner a few hours before. Mr Flynn’s food was fine, Rose thought, nibbling more delicately. The cheese tasted good with the strawberries and cherries.

Mr Flynn sat himself next to her and she discovered that she was very aware of each small movement he made. In a way she was glad she could not see his eyes. It was hard to be thinking when she could see his eyes.

Signor Rivolta’s lively music drifted over to their ears, his gay tune seeming out of place in the tension-filled supper box.

‘When is the marquess going to make his offer for our Rose?’ Letty bluntly asked.

Rose stilled, hating that Flynn would be associating someone so ill mannered with her.

Flynn paused, just one beat, before directing his answer to her father. ‘To speak of an offer is premature, sir, but I should like to discuss with Miss O’Keefe a possible meeting.’

‘Oh, there will be an offer all right,’ Letty broke in, waving her fork at Rose. ‘Look at her! What man could resist our lovely Rose?’

She reached over and not so gently patted Rose on the cheek. It was all Rose could do not to flinch.

‘I am most interested in my daughter’s welfare,’ her father added in an earnest voice. ‘This must be worth her while.’

Rose disliked being discussed like this, as if she were goods to barter.

Mr Flynn put down his fork. ‘I am instructed to tell you, Mr O’Keefe, that the marquess insists I speak with the lady herself in such matters. He must be assured his interest suits her before he proceeds in the negotiation. I am sure you understand.’

Her father’s brows knitted. ‘But I must also agree to any arrangements. She is still my responsibility, sir.’

‘She knows what is expected of her,’ added Letty.

Rose knew exactly what Letty expected. Letty expected a great deal of money to come into her pocket by way of this marquess. She glanced at her father. His motives were more unselfish, but still distasteful.

‘We will speak later,’ Flynn said to her father.

Rose rather liked the way Flynn simply passed over Letty, as if she had no say in the matter, which she certainly did not.

‘She’s still young, Mr Flynn,’ her father added, sounding genuinely worried.

Flynn turned to Rose with a question in his eyes, but Rose had no idea what he was asking. ‘I will see no harm comes to her.’ His gaze changed into something that made her feel like fanning herself.

She glanced down at her food. Imagine that a mere look from a man could make her feel like that.

Signor Rivolta’s music ended and the faint sound of applause could be heard. Soon the orchestra would play again.

‘I must get back.’ Mr O’Keefe rose.

Flynn stood as well. ‘Miss Dawes will wish to go with you, I am certain.’ He walked over to help Letty from her chair, giving her no oppportunity to argue. ‘I will safely deliver Miss O’Keefe to you before the night is done.’

Mr Flynn escorted them both out of the box, then returned to the table, sitting opposite her this time.

Rose gazed at him with admiration. ‘You do have the silver tongue, do you not, Mr Flynn? I believe Letty thought she wanted to go with Papa.’

He frowned. ‘Only one of many talents,’ he said absently.

He’d rattled her again, making her wonder what had suddenly made him frown. She picked up a strawberry and bit into it, slowly licking its juice from her lips.

Mr Flynn’s eyes darkened and he looked even more disturbed.

Rose paused. Could it be she had captured Mr Flynn’s interest? That idea made her giddy.

She took another sip of champagne and lowered her eyes to gaze at him through her long lashes. He reached over to retrieve his glass, downing the entire contents.

Rose felt light headed.

He gave her an intent look. ‘We must talk, Miss O’Keefe.’

But she was not finished flirting with him. She leaned forward, knowing it afforded him a better glimpse of the low neckline of her gown. ‘Will you not call me Rose?’

His eyes darkened again. ‘Rose,’ he repeated in a low voice that resonated deep inside her.

Their heads were close together, his eyes looking as deep a blue as the Irish Sea. The air crackled between them and he leaned closer.

A reveller, one who no doubt had been drinking heavily, careened into the supper box, nearly knocking into the table. The footman quickly appeared and escorted him out, but it was enough to break the moment between them.

He frowned. ‘I apologise for that.’

She hoped he meant the drunken man. ‘You could not help it.’

He gazed at her in that stirring way again. ‘I could not help it.’ He set his jaw. ‘About the marquess—’

But Rose could not bear losing this new, intoxicating connection between them. She daringly put her hand upon his arm. ‘Let us not speak of the marquess. Let us simply enjoy this beautiful night.’

He stared at her hand for a moment. Slowly he raised his head. ‘Your father—’

‘I will tell my father that I put you off, but that you will be back.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘What say you? Can we walk through the gardens? I have seen so little of Vauxhall. I have been confined to the gazebo, really.’

He stared at her, then released a long breath. ‘Very well.’

With a leaping heart, she finished the rest of her champagne. She grasped his hand in hers and led him out of the supper box. He offered his arm. ‘Hold on to me, Rose. I must keep you safe.’

It was a fair warning. Vauxhall could be a dangerous place for a woman alone, but that did not keep Rose from enjoying the feel of his muscle beneath his sleeve.

They joined the throngs of people enjoying the clear, warm night. The music of the orchestra filled the garden, the sound ebbing and flowing on the summer breeze. Night had fallen and the lamps glowed like bright stars. Flynn escorted her through the arches painted to look like the Ruins of Palmyra. He showed her the Pavilion with its allegorical paintings. They strolled down the Colonnade past the fountain sparkling in the lamplight. What had seemed false to him two nights ago now seemed magical. He was under her spell again, he had to admit, but that last exchange with her father gave him pause. Her father treated her as if she’d just come out of a schoolroom.

As if she were an innocent.

If she were an innocent, negotiations were at an end. Even if Tanner would accept a girl who’d been untouched—and he would not—Flynn could never involve himself in such an arrangement. It was almost a relief. An end to this madness.

They paused by the fountain, and she dipped her fingers into the cool water, a gesture so sensuous it belied his earlier thought.

‘Rose! Rose!’ A young woman ran towards her, bosoms about to burst from a revealing neckline, flaming red hair about to tumble from a decorative hat. A rather mature gentleman tried to keep pace with her. ‘Rose, it is you!’ The two women embraced. ‘I’ve been here every night you’ve sung. I thought I’d never talk to you.’

‘Katy.’ Rose pressed her cheek against her friend’s. ‘I have missed you so much.’

This Katy broke away to eye Flynn up and down, making him feel like a sweetmeat in a confectioner’s shop. ‘And who is this?’

‘This is Mr Flynn, Katy.’ Rose turned to him. ‘My dear friend, Katy Green.’

Flynn somehow managed to keep the shock from his face. Her friend could only be described as a—a doxy. No innocent would greet a woman like Katy Green with such undisguised affection.

He bowed. ‘I am charmed, Miss Green.’

The young woman gave a throaty chortle and turned to Rose. ‘Where did you find this one? He’s quality, I’d wager a guinea on it.’

‘Oh, Mr Flynn is a very important man.’ Miss O’Keefe slanted an amused look at him. ‘But, it is not what you are thinking, Katy.’

‘Isn’t it?’ The doxy’s expression was sceptical. ‘What a shame …’

As the two young women talked of even more acquaintances, Flynn was left standing with the older gentleman.

He recognised the somewhat ramshackle fellow who was said to be one step from River Tick. ‘Good evening, Sir Reginald.’

The man was still catching his breath. ‘Flynn, isn’t it? In Tannerton’s employ, am I right?’

‘You are, sir.’

Sir Reginald poked him in the ribs. ‘Doing very well for yourself, ain’t you, my boy? Rose is a looker.’

Flynn did not reply. He was still in the throes of confusion. Rose O’Keefe could not be an innocent. Sir Reginald, a man on the fringe of society, knew her. A doxy knew her. She must be of their world. It made sense—the way she moved, the expression in her eyes, the timbre of her voice. That sort of sensuality made for arousing a man’s needs, enough to bewitch him, that was for certain. But she also brought him an aching yearning for the green hills of Ireland, the warmth of family, and the pure, unspoiled days of his boyhood in Ballynahinch. How did he explain that?

Illusion, he told himself. Again. In any event, none of this should matter to him. Rose O’Keefe could be nothing to him.

‘I am working for Tannerton,’ he explained to Sir Reginald.

‘Aha!’ The man wagged his brows knowingly, but this only disturbed Flynn more, as if by his innuendo the man were crushing the petals of a flower. A rose.

A bell sounded, announcing the illuminations were about to begin.

‘Come,’ cried the red-haired Katy. ‘We must get a good spot!’ She seized Sir Reginald’s arm and pulled him through the crowd.

Flynn held back until Katy and Sir Reginald disappeared. He wanted Rose to himself, wanted the illusion to return, even if she was not supposed to mean anything to him.

But he was thinking only of himself. He turned to Rose. ‘Do you wish us to find your friend?’

She shook her head and gripped his arm again. Together they walked to the illuminations. People jostled and pushed them, all trying to find the perfect spot to see the fireworks. It seemed natural for Flynn to put his arm around her and hold her close, so that she would not become separated from him.

The whoosh of a rocket signalled the first of the bursts of light and colour, and the explosions sounded like several muskets firing at once.

‘Oh!’ Rose gasped as the sky lit up with hundreds of shooting stars.

She turned her smiling face towards him, the hood of her cape falling away. Their gazes caught. The illuminations reflected in her eyes, and he was truly bewitched, lost, drowning in the sparkling lights. He bent his head and she lifted hers so that there could be no more than an inch separating their lips. Flynn wanted, ached, to close the distance, to feel the soft press of her lips against his, to taste her, to hold her flush against him. His body demanded more of her, all of her.

But he forced himself to release her, to break the contact with her eyes.

What had he been thinking? This was Tanner’s woman, as sure as if Tanner had given her his name. What sort of suicide was it for Flynn to even gaze at her as he had done?

Tanner might appear affable, but he was a formidable adversary if crossed. If Flynn, a mere secretary, a mere employee, took liberties with a woman Tanner had selected for himself, not only his position would be lost, but his entire future.

Her smile disappeared and she turned her head to watch the pyrotechnic display. Flynn kept his arm wrapped around her. Indeed, he could not bring himself to move it. She felt soft and warm against him, and he wanted to hold her through eternity.

The illuminations, however, came to an end.

‘I must return you.’ He slipped his arm from her back as the crowd dispersed, and glimpsed her friend strutting away, Sir Reginald in tow.

Rose—Miss O’Keefe, he should call her—nodded, taking his arm in a more demure fashion. Still, he could not hurry to the orchestra’s gazebo where he must leave her. He did not wish to let her go.

She stopped when they reached the door. ‘Thank you, Flynn, for the lovely tour of the park and the illuminations. I am most grateful to you.’

No, he could not release her yet. It was too soon.

Flynn remembered he had not given her the emerald ring still in his coat pocket. He had not spoken to her of Tanner’s willingness to be a generous patron. He had done nothing that his employer had sent him to do.

But even Tanner’s disappointment in him could not compel him to rectify this lapse in efficiency at the present moment.

‘Miss O’Keefe, may I call upon you tomorrow?’ Tomorrow he would do his duty, what his employer required of him.

She stared into his eyes, not answering right away. She inhaled sharply as if her decision had been a sudden one. ‘Not at my lodgings. Take me for a drive in the park.’

He nodded. ‘Two o’clock?’ Neither of them belonged in the park during the fashionable hour when the highest rung of society took over. Two o’clock should be early enough.

‘Two o’clock,’ she repeated.

‘There she is!’ a man’s voice shouted, and other voices joined him.

A throng of men started towards them. Flynn quickly rapped loudly on the door. It opened immediately, and she disappeared inside.

Flynn faced the group of men, unreasonably angry at their pursuit, unreasonably wanting to claim her for himself. Had he been alone that first night, not with Tanner, he might have been among men such as these. ‘She is spoken for, gentlemen. Abandon your pursuit.’

There were grumbles and arguments, but they all eventually dispersed. Except one man, elegantly attired in a coat that could only have been made by Weston. Flynn recognised him as the Earl of Greythorne.

‘You are Tannerton’s man, are you not?’ the earl asked.

‘I am,’ Flynn responded. He started toward the Grand Walk.

The earl fell in step with him. ‘And is the alluring Rose O’Keefe claimed by Lord Tannerton?’

‘She is.’

Flynn tried to remember what he knew of the gentleman, besides the fact that Tanner thought him a ‘damned prig.’ Greythorne’s estate was in Kent, but he possessed properties in Sussex and somewhere up north as well. He frequented the ton entertainments. Belonged to White’s. Still, there was something he was forgetting. Some rumour about the man.

Greythorne chuckled. ‘A pity. I fancy her myself.’ His arm swept the area. ‘As do others. Tannerton may be in for a serious contest.’

Greythorne possessed enough wealth to pose a threat. If he offered a great deal of money to put Rose under his protection, Flynn had no doubt Miss Dawes would bully O’Keefe into accepting. She’d have no qualms about selling Rose to the highest bidder.

Flynn regarded the man. ‘I am certain, as a gentleman, you would not covet what another man has claimed as his.’

Greythorne’s slippery smile remained. ‘Her father does not seem to agree with your perception. He seemed to indicate the game was still in progress.’

It was as if dark clouds suddenly gathered. ‘The deal is all but made,’ Flynn said.

Greythorne continued walking. ‘I would be the last man to encroach,’ he assured Flynn. ‘But if the deal is not made, I’m prepared to play my hand.’

Chapter Four

The next day was as sunny as any summer day could be in London as Flynn navigated the streets of Covent Garden on the way to Rose’s lodgings. Tanner had wholeheartedly endorsed this escapade, especially after hearing of Greythorne’s interest.

‘Something about that fellow,’ Tanner had said. ‘I have always detested the man. Damned natty, for one thing. Never a speck of dirt, or a wrinkle in his coat. Every hair in place. Devilish odd.’ Tanner had shuddered. ‘Something else, though. I shall endeavour to discover what it is.’

Tanner had insisted Flynn take his curricle and the matched chestnuts, which had cost him a fortune at Tattersalls.

Flynn brought the curricle to a halt in front of Rose’s building. He tossed a coin to a boy passing by, asking the lad to hold the horses. As he climbed the stairs to knock upon Rose’s door, his excitement grew, an excitement he had no right to feel.

The door opened and there she stood, green paisley shawl draped over the same dress she’d worn when he last visited these rooms, hat and gloves already on. If she could appear this beautiful in a plain dress, think of how she would look in all the finery Tanner could buy her.

He frowned as she turned to close the door. He must keep Tanner in mind. Wrest control over this tendency to be bewitched.

But his resolve frayed as his hands spanned her waist to lift her into the curricle. And frayed more when she smiled down at him.

He climbed up next to her, and the boy handed him the ribbons. ‘Hyde Park, is that correct?’ he asked her.

‘It does not have to be Hyde Park,’ she replied in a breathless voice.

‘Where then?’

The sun rendered her skin translucent, and he had the urge to pull off his gloves and touch her with the tip of his finger.

‘Anywhere you wish,’ she whispered.

They stared at each other.

‘Hyde Park, then,’ he said finally.

He flicked the ribbons and the horses started forward. He drove through the riders, wagons, carriages, and hacks on Long Acre towards Piccadilly. ‘Your father gave you permission for this outing, I trust.’

‘He and Letty are out,’ she responded. ‘So there was no objection.’

She had not really answered him, he realised. He thought of asking for an explanation. Why did she appear to be under her father’s control, yet also out in the world with the likes of her friend Katy Green?

‘It is a fine day,’ he said instead.

‘Yes, it is.’ She changed positions and her hand brushed his leg as she readjusted her skirt.

He felt her touch long after her hand closed upon the bench to steady herself.

Flynn mentally shook himself, and concentrated on what he intended to accomplish. He must give her Tanner’s gift, the finest emerald ring Flynn could find at Rundell and Bridge. He must offer her Tanner’s patronage and propose a time and place for her to meet Tanner.

And he must ensure she spurned Greythorne.

As the curricle reached the Hyde Park gate, Flynn felt back in form. ‘Have you driven through the park before, Rose?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, with no elaboration.

He was again reminded that she was no green girl, but it only forced him to wonder who her former escorts had been.

The fine day had brought many others to the park. Governesses with young children, servants and shopworkers, all taking respite from their toil. Fine gentlemen drove carriages accompanied by gaily dressed female companions—their mistresses, no doubt. Flynn knew some of these men, though he knew better than to nod in greeting. Later in the day some of these same gentlemen would return to this same carriage path to drive their wives or some respectable miss they were courting.

It occurred to Flynn that, if he did his job successfully, Tanner would soon be sitting in his place in this same curricle with Rose beside him. He frowned.

‘What makes you unhappy?’ she asked.

He started and looked over to see Rose staring at him, her lips pursed with concern.

‘I am not unhappy, I assure you.’

One brow arched. ‘You looked unhappy, I was thinking.’

With effort he composed his features into their usual bland expression. ‘I am not unhappy. Merely concentrating on driving.’

She faced forward again to watch the few carriages approaching them at a leisurely pace. ‘Yes, it is so treacherous here.’

He ignored her teasing and changed the subject. ‘Do you enjoy carriage rides?’

‘I do,’ she replied, smiling again.

‘The marquess has several carriages,’ he said, dutifully promoting Tanner’s interest. ‘This one, of course, and a phaeton, a landaulet—’

‘How nice,’ she said without enthusiasm.

He persevered. ‘He also has been known to purchase carriages for special friends.’

‘Yes. Special friends.’ She showed no increased interest.

Flynn gave her a sideways glance. Most women would leap at the chance to receive this man’s regard. The advantages were inestimable. ‘He is a generous man, Rose. I can provide you many examples to prove it, if you wish.’

She gave him an imploring look. ‘Please do not.’

He frowned again, pretending to concentrate on the horses and the carriage path. Finally he asked, ‘What is it, Rose? Every time I mention the marquess, you put me off. Perhaps if you could explain why, I would proceed in a manner to please you.’

Two spots of colour dotted her cheeks. ‘Oh, I have nothing against the man …’

Flynn waited for her to say more. The horses waited, too, almost slowing to a stop. He flicked the ribbons and they moved again. The Serpentine came into view, its water glistening in the afternoon sun.

‘It is pretty here,’ she said after a time.

He forgot about Tanner. Against the green of the grass, lushness of the trees and blue of the Serpentine, she looked like a Gainsborough portrait. He wished he could capture her image, frame it and hang it upon a wall to gaze at for ever.

He closed his eyes. This was madness, coveting his employer’s intended conquest.

He drew a breath, steeling himself again to perform his task. ‘I should like to speak for Lord Tannerton, if you will permit me.’

Rose wiped an escaped tendril from her forehead. She’d been pretending Mr Flynn had called upon her like a suitor. A foolish notion. He merely wanted to talk of the marquess.

The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves on the gravel path seemed louder while she delayed her answer. How could she explain to him that she was not wanting a marquess’s money? She was wanting what every girl wanted.

Love.

She set her chin firmly. ‘Later perhaps we can speak of the marquess.’

‘But I ought—’ he began, but clamped his mouth shut. He blew out a long breath and continued in a resigned tone. ‘What do you wish to talk about, Rose?’

The knot inside her uncoiled. She could pretend a bit longer. ‘Oh, anything …’ She smiled at him, suddenly light hearted. ‘Things people talk about.’

Things she longed to know about him.

She took a breath. ‘Have … have you been in England long, Flynn?’

It took him a moment to respond. ‘Since I was eighteen.’

‘And how long is that, then?’ she persisted.

‘Ten years.’

She had discovered his age! Twenty-eight. ‘What brought you to England, then?’

‘I came to attend Oxford.’

‘Oxford? That is where gentlemen go, is it not? To become vicars and such?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, and other things.’

‘Your family was high enough for Oxford?’

He stiffened. ‘It was.’

She’d offended him. ‘I should not have spoken so.’ She blinked. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me.’

His expression softened. ‘My father is gentry, Rose, a fairly prosperous landowner. He was well able to send me to Oxford.’

Rose relaxed again. ‘And what after Oxford?’

‘I came to London in search of a position. Lord Tannerton took a risk hiring me.’

‘You must have impressed him.’

He gave a half-smile. ‘More like he took pity on me, I should think. But I have learned much in his employ.’

She felt bold enough to ask more. ‘Have you been back to Ireland, then?’

He shook his head, and the frown reappeared on his face.

Oh, dear. She’d made him unhappy again. She cleared her throat. ‘I’ve only been in England a few months.’

‘And why did you come, Miss O’Keefe?’ His response sounded more automatic than curious and, oh, so formal.

‘The school was willing to keep me teaching. The school near Killyleagh, I mean. But I had this desire to sing, you see.’ She paused. ‘Like my mother.’

‘Your mother?’

She nodded. ‘My mother sang in London in her time. She died long ago.’

He looked at her with sympathy, pricking a pain she usually kept carefully hidden.

She swallowed. ‘In any event, my father was working in London, so I came here.’ She glanced away. ‘He could not afford to keep me at first, but then Mr Hook hired me to sing.’ She skipped over a lot of the story, perhaps the most important parts. ‘And when I’m done singing at Vauxhall, I’ll find another place to sing.’

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Oh, somewhere. I’m thinking there are plenty of theatres in London.’

‘There are theatres in Ireland as well,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Not like in London. London has King’s Theatre and Drury Lane and Vauxhall nearby. Plenty of places. My mother once performed in King’s Theatre.’

‘That is impressive,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Not very impressive, really. She was in the chorus, but she did sing on the stage at King’s Theatre.’

‘Do you wish to sing in the King’s Theatre?’ he asked.

She sighed. ‘I do. More than anything. It must be the most beautiful theatre in the world.’

He smiled. ‘It is quite beautiful.’

‘You’ve seen it?’ She turned to him eagerly.

‘I’ve accompanied Lord Tannerton there on occasion.’

‘You have?’ She would have loved to just walk inside the building, see the boxes and the curtain and the stage. She sighed again.

He continued to smile at her.

She could not help but smile back at him, thinking how boyish he looked when he let his face relax.

A carriage came in the other direction and he attended to the driving again. They lapsed into silence.

She searched for something else to ask him. ‘What work do you do for Lord Tannerton, then?’

‘I manage many of his affairs—’ He cleared his throat. ‘His business affairs. Tend to his correspondence, arrange his appointments, pay bills, run errands and such.’

‘Ah, I see.’ But she really did not understand the business of a marquess.

He went on, ‘You might say I attend to all the tedious details, so the marquess is free for more important matters, and so his life runs smoothly.’

Such work would give Rose the headache. ‘Are you liking what you do?’

He nodded. ‘I have learned much about the world through it. About politics. Money. Power—’

Such things were mysteries to her.

‘I have even been to Vienna and Brussels and Paris with Lord Tannerton.’

Her eyes widened with interest. ‘Have you now?’

‘The marquess assisted in the diplomacies, you see. And I assisted him.’ He spoke proudly.

She liked seeing his pride. ‘Were you there for the great battle?’

‘In Brussels, yes, but we were not at Waterloo.’ His face became serious. ‘The marquess helped with the aftermath, assisting in the logistics of the wounded and in any other way of being at service.’

Rose did not know what ‘logistics’ were, but she knew there were many wounded in the battle. Many Irish soldiers had fought and died at Waterloo. She was glad Flynn had been there to help those who survived.

He gave a dry laugh. ‘But it must be tedious to hear of such things.’

‘Oh, no,’ she assured him. ‘I confess I do not understand all of it, but you were meaning, I think, that you were in important places, doing important things.’

‘That is it,’ he agreed. ‘In the centre of things. A part of it all.’

‘I’m supposing it is a little like being a performer, isn’t it? Performing is not so important, perhaps, but it is being a part of something. I mean, the singing is only one piece of it. There are the musicians, too, and the conductor and all. Everyone together makes the performance.’

He looked at her so intently her insides fluttered. ‘Yes, it is precisely like that. One feels good about one’s part in it.’

‘Yes.’ She quickly glanced away and spied a man crossing the park with a bundle on his shoulder. ‘And that man there is doing his part, too, isn’t he? We don’t know what it is, but without him it would not happen, would it?’

A smile flitted across his face, disappearing when he gazed into her eyes again. ‘Yes, I expect you are very right.’

Her breath quickened, like it had when he’d almost kissed her under the illuminations the night before.

‘So what, Flynn, is your King’s Theatre?’ she asked, needing to break the intensity, just as he had broken away when he almost kissed her. ‘Or have you reached it already?’

‘My King’s Theatre?’

‘What you want more than anything.’

His eyes darkened, making her insides feel like melting wax again.

The horses stopped, and his attention turned to them, signalling them to move.

‘What I want more than anything …’ he repeated as if pondering the question. ‘To be a part of something important,’ he finally replied. ‘Yes, that is it.’

She waited for more.

His brow furrowed. ‘Lord Tannerton is an excellent employer, an excellent man, Rose, but.’ His voice faded, although his face seemed lit with fire.

‘Something more important is what you are wanting?’ she guessed.

He nodded. ‘To work for government. For a diplomat, perhaps. Or the Prime Minister. Or for royalty.’

‘Royalty?’ she exclaimed.

He flicked the ribbons and shook his head. ‘It is daft.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘It is not daft! No more daft than me wanting to sing in King’s Theatre.’ But it did seem so impossible, and somehow it made her sad. ‘It would be important, wouldn’t it? So important you’d not be seeing the likes of me.’

He covered her hand with his and leaned towards her. The horses drifted to a stop again.

‘Move on!’ an angry voice shouted.

A young man driving a phaeton approached them from behind. Flynn put the chestnuts into a trot, but the phaeton passed them as soon as the path was wide enough.

They finished their circuit of the park, not speaking much. Their silence seemed tense, holding too many unspoken words, but Rose still wished the time to go on endlessly. Soon, however, other carriages entered the park, driven by gentlemen with their ladies. The fashionable hour had arrived, and they must leave.

As Flynn turned the curricle on to her street, he was frowning again. ‘What is it, Flynn?’ she asked.

‘I have not talked to you of Tannerton,’ he said. ‘My reason for seeing you. And there is something else, Rose.’

She felt a pang at the reminder of his true purpose. ‘What is it?’ she asked in a resigned tone.

He gave her a direct look. ‘Another man will be vying for your favours. He is Lord Greythorne. He is wealthy, but some unpleasant rumour hangs about him.’

‘What rumour?’ She had no intention of bestowing her favours on whoever it was, no matter what.

‘I do not know precisely,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I thank you for the warning, Flynn.’

‘It is important that you not choose Greythorne.’

She did not wish to choose any man, not for money or the gifts he could give her. She wanted to tell Flynn he could tell them all to leave her alone. Let her sing. That was all she wished to do, even if he were making her imagine other possibilities.

Her father had been drumming it into her that to be a success on the London stage, she must have a wealthy patron. It seemed all anyone wanted of her—her father, Letty, the marquess, this Greythorne.

Flynn.

He was still talking. ‘Lord Tannerton would be good to you, Rose. I would stake my life on it.’

But she did not love Lord Tannerton. That was the thing.

With such a lofty man, she could never have what Miss Hart had with Mr Sloane.

She needed time. ‘I will think on it some more, Flynn.’

Langley Street was empty in front of her building. He jumped down from the curricle and held her waist as he lifted her down.

She rested her hands on his shoulders a moment longer than necessary, not wanting to say goodbye to him. Wanting to see him again. ‘I.I will be singing at Vauxhall tonight. If you’ve a mind to come.’

He stood still, but it seemed as if his eyes were searching hers. ‘I will be there.’

‘Come to the gazebo door. You’ll be admitted, I promise.’ Her spirits were soaring again. He wanted to see her. Her.

He grasped her hand and held it a brief delicious moment. ‘Tonight, then.’

Feeling joyous, Rose entered the building and climbed the stairs to her father’s rooms.

When she opened the door, Letty stood there, hands on her hips. ‘Were you with that Flynn fellow? Has he given you a meeting time with the marquess?’

She ought to have been prepared. ‘It is not set, Letty. But soon, Mr Flynn tells me.’

‘Where did you go, Mary Rose? I was wondering.’ Her father sat in the chair near the fireplace.

Rose walked over and gave him a kiss on the top of his bald head. ‘A drive in the park, is all.’ She headed for her room.

Letty blocked her way. ‘This Flynn. Did he tell you how much the marquess will pay?’

Rose looked her in the eye. ‘I thought you would be proud of me, Letty. I put him off. Did you not say that would increase the price?’

‘Well, I—’ Letty began, but Rose brushed past her to disappear into the little room that was her bedchamber.

Returning from the mews where he’d left Tanner’s curricle and horses, Flynn ran into Tanner walking back from St. James’s Street.

Tanner clapped him on the shoulder. ‘How fortuitous! You have been on my mind all the afternoon. What progress, man? Do tell.’

Flynn had nothing to tell.

‘Out with it, Flynn. What the devil happened?’

As they walked side by side, Flynn used what Rose had called his silver tongue. ‘You must trust me in this matter, my lord. The lady is not the usual sort. You were correct about diplomacy being required.’

Tanner put a hand on his arm, stopping him on the pavement. ‘Do not tell me she disliked the emerald ring!’

Flynn had forgotten it was in his pocket. ‘I did not present it to her, sir.’

‘You did not present it?’ Tanner looked surprised.

It was difficult to face him. ‘She would have refused it.’

Tanner started walking again. ‘My God, she is a strange one. What woman would refuse such a gift?’

One who bewitches, thought Flynn, but he replied, ‘She is a puzzle, I agree.’

‘You do not think she prefers Greythorne, do you?’ Tanner asked with a worried frown.

‘She was unaware of Greythorne’s interest.’

Tanner looked aghast. ‘And you told her of him? Now she will know there is competition!’

Flynn countered, ‘Now she knows to come to us to top any offer he makes.’

After a few paces, Tanner laughed. ‘She is a rare one, isn’t she? I am unused to exerting myself. This is capital sport.’

Tanner, of course, had not exerted himself at all beyond charging Flynn with the work. ‘I need some time to gain her trust, I think. I shall see her again tonight at Vauxhall.’

Tanner clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘Excellent! I have a previous engagement, otherwise I’d join you.’

Flynn felt only a twinge of guilt for being glad of Tanner’s previous engagement.

‘Did you discover anything about Greythorne?’ Flynn asked.

‘Not a thing,’ replied Tanner.

Later that evening when Flynn strolled down the Grand Walk of Vauxhall Gardens, he thought about Greythorne, trying to place his finger on who’d spoken ill of the man.

He had at least an hour to ponder the puzzle before the orchestra played. He knew she would have arrived by then, and he could then present himself at the gazebo door.

He thought about simply knocking on the door now, but he really did not want to chance encountering her father, or, worse, being plied with questions about Tanner by Miss Dawes.

Flynn stopped at one of the restaurants in the gardens instead. Sitting at an outside table, he sipped arrack amid the laughter and buzz of the people walking by. He could feel the velvet box containing the emerald ring still in his pocket. It kept him grounded. A reminder of Tanner, of Greythorne, of what his duty must be.

As he idly watched the passers-by, he let his mind drift to how it had felt to walk through the gardens with her, her arm through his, how the illuminations lit her face, how tempting her lips had been.

He took a longer sip of arrack.

‘Well, look who is here!’

Flynn glanced up to see Rose’s friend, Katy, striding his way.

‘Mr Flynn! Fancy meeting you here again!’ She flung herself into a chair even before he could rise. ‘You must be here for Rose. Imagine, our little Rosie catching the eye of a marquess! Not that I’m surprised. She barely needed lessons with that face and figure. Just enough to get rid of the accent and learn to put herself forward.’ She reached for his glass and took a sip.

Flynn felt as if he were caught in a whirlwind. ‘Lessons?’

Katy laughed, patting his arm. ‘Never mind that.’

Showing no signs of leaving, she commandeered his glass for herself. He signalled for more for both of them.

She rested her elbows on the table. ‘Tell me about this marquess. Sir Reginald says he is an important man.’

Flynn pursed his lips, wishing he’d said nothing to Sir Reginald. ‘You must understand, Miss Green, this is not a matter I am free to discuss.’

‘Miss Green?’ She laughed again. ‘Well, aren’t you the high-and-mighty one! Call me Katy. Everyone does. I tell you, it’s a marvel how well Rosie’s done. Here I thought I was the only one. Not that Sir Reginald is anything. He takes me around and I meet people. I’m going to rise higher myself, I am.’

Katy’s words were like puzzle pieces scattered on a table. They made no sense. ‘How do you know Miss O’Keefe?’

‘Rose, you mean?’ She grinned, then tried to compose her animated face. ‘You might say we were … schoolmates.’ Her voice trembled with mirth on this last word, and she dissolved into gales of laughter, slapping the table and causing several heads to turn their way.

He raised his brows, but she did not elaborate. Their arrack came and she finished his first glass before reaching for the next one.

‘Are you here to see Rose?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he answered, somewhat reluctantly.

‘And where is this marquess? I’ve a fancy to set eyes upon this paragon.’ She looked around as if Lord Tannerton might suddenly appear.

‘He is not here.’

She shrugged, taking another gulp of arrack. ‘I’ll be on tenterhooks ‘til I see him, I expect. I might fancy a marquess myself, though I didn’t aim to look so high. Miss H—Well, I mean, we were told to think high of ourselves, but I keep my feet on the ground, so to speak.’

Flynn was no closer to understanding her. Rose and Katy schoolmates? Not in Killyleagh.

The discordant chords of the orchestra tuning up reached his ears, and he interrupted Katy’s unrestrained volubility. ‘Forgive me, Miss Green. I must go.’ He stood.

‘Go?’ She rose as well. ‘Where are you off to, Mr Flynn?’

He hated to tell her, but feared she would follow him no matter what. ‘Miss O’Keefe said to meet her at the gazebo.’

‘Oh?’ She clapped her hands. ‘That is splendid. I’ll go with you. Give her another hello.’

So, with the gaily dressed, red-haired young woman hanging on his arm, Flynn strolled to the orchestra’s gazebo.

Miss Dawes opened the door. ‘Mr Flynn! Come in. Come in.’ She noticed Katy behind him and gave a scowl.

Katy grinned at her. ‘How do you do?’

Some mischief took hold of Flynn, making him give precedence to the obvious harlot, Katy. ‘Miss Green,’ he said in his most formal voice. ‘May I present Miss Dawes, a friend of Mr O’Keefe’s.’

Miss Dawes looked like thunder, but Katy rose to the occasion. ‘A pleasure, ma’am,’ she said in an uncannily ladylike voice.

Miss Dawes ignored her. ‘I’ll fetch Rose.’ She huffed out of the room, almost tripping over a jumble of instrument cases the musicians had left.

A minute later Rose walked in, the lamplight softening her lovely features.

‘Katy!’ she said in surprise.

Katy danced up to her and gave her a hug. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Rosie. I talked Mr Flynn into bringing me here. Met that dragon, Miss Dawes, too. Who does she think she is?’

Rose looked bewildered. ‘Are … are you here with Mr Flynn?’ Her glance slid over to him.

Katy laughed, but it was Flynn who answered, ‘She merely wished to say hello to you.’

Katy released her. ‘That I did.’ She chattered on about Miss Dawes and how all the men would admire Rose when she sang.

Rose turned to Flynn, anxiety in her eyes. ‘If you wished to spend time with Katy—’

‘Goodness!’ Katy exclaimed. ‘I am meeting Sir Reginald, who has promised to introduce me to some rich fellow.’ She swayed up to Flynn and pressed herself against his arm. ‘Unless that marquess would be interested in me?’ Without waiting for his reply, she returned to Rose to give her a peck on the cheek and flounced out of the door.

Rose looked at him. ‘I.I thought you were with her.’

‘I was not,’ Flynn said.

Her face relaxed. ‘Would you like to stand in the balcony while I’m singing?’

‘I should like that,’ he responded truthfully.

They talked of inconsequential things until she was called to perform. Flynn stood in a dark corner of the balcony, able to see her in profile, though she turned to smile at him before beginning her first tune, an old Irish ballad he remembered his sisters singing as a duet. She continued with ‘O Listen to the Voice of Love.’

His gaze wandered to the audience. It was still light enough to see the people staring spellbound as she sang. She captivated them all, he thought, scanning the crowd.

He caught sight of Lord Greythorne and scowled. But Greythorne was not looking at Rose. Flynn followed the direction of the man’s gaze across the span of people. He froze. At the edge of the crowd stood a familiar tall figure, arms crossed over his chest, face tilted toward the lovely Rose O’Keefe.

Lord Tannerton.

Chapter Five

Flynn listened to Rose’s final notes drift into the night air and watched her take her final bow. Tanner’s ‘Bravo!’ sounded above all the other voices.

It was good he was here, Flynn told himself determinedly, because Flynn needed to remember that his task was to get Rose to accept Tanner’s protection. He needed to be certain Tanner won her over Lord Greythorne. The more time Flynn spent alone with her, the more bewitched he became, as if he were also vying for her regard.

Rose came over to him, smiling. She grasped his hand. ‘We must go below.’

He let her lead him to the room below stairs.

‘How was I?’ she asked him, as the voice of Charles Dignum reached their ears. ‘I felt myself straining here and there. Was it noticeable, do you think?’

She still held his hand. He stared at it a moment before answering. ‘I noticed no imperfection.’

She smiled and squeezed his fingers. ‘What shall we do now? The night is lovely and I must wait for my father and Letty. I know you wish to talk to me, but could we do so while we explore the gardens again? Go see the hermit?’

The hermit illusion was located at the far end of one of the darker, less crowded paths well known for dalliance. Flynn could just imagine leading her into one of the private alcoves, holding her in his arms and finally tasting her lips.

He forced himself to face her. ‘Lord Greythorne is here,’ he said. ‘As is Lord Tanner.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Lord Tanner? You did not tell me he would be here.’

‘I did not know,’ he quickly explained. ‘He was engaged elsewhere, but I saw him in the audience. He is here.’ Flynn held her shoulders. ‘Allow me to present you to him. You might see for yourself the man he is.’

She stared into his eyes. ‘Oh, Flynn.’ It took her a moment to go on. ‘Not so soon. I mean, I.I am not ready to meet him. I have not decided yet that I should.’

He tilted his head toward the stairway leading to the orchestra’s balcony, to where her father played his oboe. ‘Your father wishes it, does he not? The marquess will not wait for ever, and Greythorne is very willing to step in.’

Her eyes turned anxious. ‘Time, Flynn. Can you be procuring me a little more time?’

He nodded, knowing he should not.

Tanner would take care of her. Take her away from the unpleasant Miss Dawes and the drab set of rooms shared with her father. Tanner would protect her from men like Greythorne, anyone who might mistreat her. It would be best for her to simply meet Tanner. See the man he was, and make her decision. Then Flynn could go back to a sane life.

‘I shall see you have more time,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ She grasped his hand. ‘Call on me tomorrow, Flynn. Share supper with me. I do not perform tomorrow. You could come after my father and Letty leave. I will be more prepared to think.’

He stepped closer to her. What could one more day matter? Her beautiful face turned up to his. It seemed natural to slide his hand down her arm, lift her hand to his lips. Even through her glove he could feel its warmth, taste the allure of her.

He released her. ‘I will call tomorrow, then.’

‘Eight o’clock? Papa and Letty will have left by then.’

He nodded.

He walked over to the door, but before he opened it, he turned back to her. ‘I had forgotten. I must give you this tonight. From Lord Tanner.’ He pulled out the small velvet box from his coat pocket.

She held up her hand to refuse it.

‘Accept it, Rose. It is a trifle to him, but I can no longer find excuses for not giving it to you.’ He placed it in her hand.

She opened the box, revealing the ring, a sparkling emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds, in a setting of carved gold. ‘This is not a trifle, Flynn,’ she said, trying to hand it back to him.

‘It is to Tannerton.’ He closed her fingers around it. ‘Take it, Rose. It does not obligate you to him, I promise.’ He kept his hand over hers for too long. ‘I must leave.’

He quickly pulled away and opened the door.

‘Goodnight, Flynn,’ he heard her say as he hurried through the doorway into the night.

Adam Vickering, Marquess of Tannerton, sat in a supper box with his friend Pomroy and the party of high flyers and dashers Pomroy always seemed to collect.

Pomroy filled his glass with arrack. ‘You’re like a besotted fool, Tan—’ He paused to belch. ‘Never thought you the sort who let a woman lead him by a string.’

Tanner gulped down half his arrack. ‘I’d be dashed pleased to be led by this one, if I could only get near enough to secure her.’ He looked heavenwards. ‘You heard her, Pomroy. She is an angel.’

‘Ha!’ his friend barked. ‘I’d say she’s devilish crafty. Has you eating out of her hand and all without speaking a word to you. She’s going to play you against Greythorne, you know, like bidders at Tattersalls.

‘Got to admit, it is good sport.’ Tanner’s grin turned to a scowl. ‘What have you discovered about Greythorne?’

‘He courted Amanda Reynolds, all the rage a year ago. Everyone thought they would marry. She spurned him, though.’

‘Left him for another man?’ Tanner asked.

‘Some soldier, I believe.’ Pomroy shrugged.

‘Her head turned by a man in regimentals?’ Tanner concluded. ‘Not unheard of, you know.’

‘Yes, but there was more to it, I’m certain,’ Pomroy said. ‘She could have had anyone. Don’t you remember her? She was perfection.’

Tanner conjured up an image of a cool blonde, the sort who would pine for routs and balls and dreadful musicales. He took another mouthful. ‘Always disliked that fellow Greythorne. Looks the whole day like he’d just left his valet.’

Pomroy was summoned by one of the prime articles he’d found in the Gardens. Pomroy would no doubt enjoy her company all night through, but such females held no interest for Tanner. While his friend attended to the pretty thing, Tanner leaned back on his chair, balancing it on its rear legs. He raised his drink and gazed out into the crowd.

With any luck he’d catch sight of his secretary and have him wrangle a meeting with Miss Rose O’Keefe. Even if luck was not with him, he could still congratulate himself for escaping Lady Rawley’s tedious musicale. Half an hour of the soprano she’d hired had nearly done for him. He wished half the fashionable set would leave Town and go rusticate in the country. Leave him free of their tiresome invitations. Let them all go rusticate, in fact.

Not that he had any intention of burying himself in such boredom. He paid his managers well so he would not have to put in an appearance at any of his properties until hunting season.

Tanner swished his arrack in the glass. Ordinarily he’d be in Brighton this time of year, but the elusive Rose O’Keefe had kept him in town.

Tanner’s eyes narrowed as a pristinely attired gentleman swinging a walking stick strolled up to the supper box.

‘Why, if it is not Tannerton.’ Greythorne tipped his hat in an elegant gesture that seemed to mock Tanner’s boyish balancing act.

Tanner perversely accentuated his lack of gentility by stretching his arms to the back of his head. ‘Greythorne.’

Behind Tanner Pomroy laughed and one of his female companions squealed. Greythorne eyed them with ill-disguised contempt.

He directed his gaze back to Tanner. ‘I hear we are rivals of a sort.’

‘Rivals?’ Tanner gave a dry laugh. ‘I highly doubt that.’

Greythorne ignored his barb. ‘For the captivating Rose O’Keefe. I quite covet the girl, you know.’

‘Really?’ said Tanner in a flat voice.

Greythorne tapped the wall of the supper box with his stick. ‘Your secretary tells me she is yours, but I confess I see no signs of it.’

‘Eyes bothering you?’ Tanner remarked.

Greythorne brushed at his coat, as if a piece of dirt dared mar his appearance. ‘You are amusing, Tannerton.’ He glanced in the direction of the Grove where Miss O’Keefe had performed. ‘Perhaps I shall amuse you when the young temptress is mine.’

‘No fear of that.’ Tanner lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Doubt you’ve ever been amusing.’

Greythorne’s lips thinned and Tanner actually fought the need to laugh.

‘To the victor go the spoils,’ Greythorne said, making a salute before strolling off.

‘Trite bastard,’ Tanner muttered to himself.

Pomroy twisted around. ‘Did you say something?’

Tanner did not reply, because he saw someone else in the crowd. He propelled himself out of his chair, sending it clattering to the ground, and vaulted over the supper-box wall.

‘Flynn!’ he called, pushing through the people to catch up. He grabbed Flynn’s arm and pulled him to the side. ‘When do you meet with her, Flynn?’

His secretary regarded him in his usual unflappable manner, not even showing surprise at his presence. ‘I have done so already,’ Flynn answered.

‘To what result?’ Tanner asked eagerly.

Flynn paused, only briefly, but enough to try Tanner’s patience. ‘I was able to give her the ring,’ Flynn finally said.

‘Excellent!’ Tanner’s eyes lit up. ‘Did she like it?’

‘She said it was more than a trifling gift.’

That was all? ‘Well, I suppose that is something.’ Tanner grasped Flynn’s arm. ‘We need more progress, man. That snake Greythorne is slithering around. He just spoke to me.’ Tanner gave a mock-shiver. ‘I’d hoped for a meeting tonight.’

‘I did not expect you tonight, my lord,’ Flynn said in a bland voice.

Tanner grinned. ‘That is so. I escaped some ghastly musicale with some equally ghastly soprano to come here. I could not resist. I tell you, Miss O’Keefe’s sweet voice was balm in comparison.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘This business is taking an intolerably long time.’

‘Patience is required.’

‘Well, we both know how little of that commodity I possess.’ Tanner clapped him on the arm. ‘That is why I depend upon you, Flynn. If it were up to me, I’d go there now and demand she see me, but I suspect you would advise against it.’

‘I would indeed.’

Tanner blew out a frustrated breath. ‘I wonder what Greythorne will do. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.’ He thought about this. ‘Make that as far as he could throw me.’

‘I can assure you she shows no partiality toward him,’ Flynn said.

Tanner grinned. ‘That is good news. What is next for us then?’

‘I shall dine with her tomorrow.’

Tanner gaped at him. ‘Dine with her? Well done. Very well done, indeed.’ His secretary was clocking impressive amounts of time with her. Things were looking up.

Flynn gave him a wan smile.

‘Tanner!’ Pomroy was standing in the supper box, waving him over.

Tanner glanced at him. ‘Pomroy beckons. I suppose I must go. He’s managed some entertaining company, no one to remark upon, but anything is better than that ghastly musicale.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Enjoy yourself, Flynn. Might as well see what pleasures the garden can offer, eh?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Flynn replied.

Tanner headed back to the supper box, not noticing his secretary did not heed his advice. Flynn turned towards the Ken-nington Lane gate where he could catch a hackney carriage back to Audley Street.

The next evening Rose said goodbye to her father and Letty, watching from the window until they were out of sight. Waiting a few minutes longer to be sure they had time to get in a hack, she donned her hat and gloves, picked up a basket, and hurried outside. She walked the short distance to the Covent Garden market past youngbloods who whistled and made lewd remarks. The theatres had not yet opened their doors, but the street was teeming with well-dressed gentlemen casting appraising glances at gaudily dressed women who only pretended to have some destination in mind.

Rose listened for the pie man’s call and made her way to him to purchase two meat pies. She also bought strawberries, a jug of cream, and a bottle of Madeira wine. It would be simple fare, but the best she could manage without the means to cook and without her father and Letty suspecting. She returned home, setting the pies near the small fire in the parlour fireplace. She moved the table they used for eating and found a cloth to cover it. She set two plates, two glasses, and cutlery and stood back to survey her work.

It was not elegant, nothing, to be sure, like a marquess’s table set with porcelain china and silver, but it was the best she could do.

All the day she’d felt out of breath, not from nerves at hiding this from her father, but anticipation of seeing Flynn.

She’d been so disappointed at Lord Tannerton’s appearance the night before, forcing her to forgo Flynn’s company. She’d had girlish fantasies of walking with Flynn down the Dark Walk, where lovers could be private, where lovers could kiss. Tannerton had spoiled it.

She was determined Tannerton would not spoil this evening, even if Rose must talk about him with Flynn. She intended to spend some part of the evening merely enjoying being alone with him. In school she’d learned it was not proper to entertain a man alone in one’s lodgings, but here in Covent Garden no one expected proper behaviour. She planned to take advantage of that fact.

While she checked the kettle to see if there was water enough to heat for tea, the knock sounded at the door. Rose wheeled around, pressing her hand against her abdomen to quiet the flutters. She hurried to the door and opened it.

Flynn stood with a small package in his hand. ‘For you, Miss O’Keefe.’

She hesitated. Another present from Tannerton. Letty had already discovered the ring and was at this moment wearing it on her finger. Rose took the package into her hand and stepped aside so Flynn could enter.

Flynn placed his hat and gloves on the table near the door and turned to her, pointing to the package. ‘It is a token,’ he said. ‘From me.’

From Flynn? That made her happy. She eagerly untied the string and opened the box. Inside was an assortment of sweetmeats, all prettily arranged. She thought she had never seen anything so lovely, nor received such a wonderful gift.

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you. I will serve them with our tea.’ Or leave them untouched to treasure for ever. ‘Please come to the table.’

She poured him a glass of Madeira. ‘I know it is customary to have conversation before dinner is served, but I thought it best for us to eat right away.’

‘Whatever you desire, Rose,’ he said, still standing.

He waited until she had fetched the meat pies from in front of the fire and placed them on the plates, then held her chair for her. She smiled up at him.

‘Our meal is rather plain,’ she apologised.

‘I do not mind.’ He settled in his seat and took a forkful. ‘I do not know when I last ate meat pie.’

She felt her cheeks warming. ‘I am sorry to serve you such poor fare.’

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I meant it is a rare treat.’

She gave him a disbelieving glance. ‘There goes your silver tongue again.’

‘Truly, Rose.’ He looked so sincere she was tempted to believe him.

She glanced back down at her plate. ‘You know, in my grandparents’ house this would have been a luxury. There’s more meat in my pie here than they ate in a week sometimes.’

A faint wrinkle creased his brow. ‘Their lives must be difficult.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘they died a long time ago, soon after my mother. After that my father put me in school in Killyleagh.’

He glanced up again. ‘You had other family, certainly.’

‘Not of my mother’s family, but there are plenty of O’Keefes.’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘My father’s family never was accepting of him being a musician, so I never really knew them.’

Flynn took another bite of the pie he was truly enjoying. He remembered how poor some were in Ireland. He had not realised she’d been one of them. Tanner’s generosity could give her a secure, comfortable life. This was the perfect opportunity to convince her of the advantages of accepting his offer. If he could even convince her to meet Tanner, she would learn this for herself.

‘We need to discuss your meeting with Tannerton, Rose,’ he ventured.

She stared down at her plate. ‘Yes. I have promised you we would do so.’ She looked up at him. ‘So speak. I shall listen.’

The force of her eyes drove all words from his mouth. ‘Perhaps after our meal,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Tell me more of King’s Theatre, then. Tell me of its interior.’

So he talked of King’s Theatre, Drury Lane, Covent Garden, as well as other smaller theatres he’d attended. He told her of the sopranos he’d seen: Catalani, Camporese, Fodor, among them. She listened, eyes dancing in delight at his descriptions, and he found himself wishing he could share such experiences with her.

She served him a simple dessert, strawberries and cream, and after she cleared the dishes away, she said with a twinkle in her eye, ‘Shall we retire to the drawing room, then?’ She gestured to the two cushioned chairs near the fire. ‘I’ll make tea.’

He sat while she poured hot water from the kettle into a teapot. Though their conversation had been comfortable before, they now lapsed into a strained silence, broken only by her questions of how he took his tea.

She sat opposite him and poured, placing one of the sweetmeats he’d given her on the saucer.

‘Rose …’ he began.

She attempted a smile, but it vanished quickly. ‘I know. We must talk.’

His brow furrowed, and he felt like whatever silver tongue he might possess had been badly tarnished. ‘Let me arrange a meeting with Lord Tannerton, Rose, before Greythorne becomes more of a problem.’

She frowned at him. ‘Do you mean meet Lord Tannerton, or something else?’

He picked up the sweetmeat, but could not bite into it. He returned it to the saucer. ‘A meeting only. You are not obligated for more.’ It was becoming torturous to think about the more that would eventually transpire once she accepted Tanner.

She stared into her teacup. ‘And later?’

He could not look at her. ‘If you find him … agreeable, there is no limit to what he might do for you.’

‘Ah, but it is what I must do.’ she murmured, her voice trailing off.

He gave her a puzzled look. What was her reluctance? She was not without experience in such matters. She was friends with Katy Green, after all, whose station in life was very clear. Katy seemed to take the marquess’s interest in Rose as nothing unusual. And Rose had alluded to other liaisons—those gentlemen who drove her in Hyde Park, for example. A connection with a wealthy marquess ought to be eagerly sought after. Unless.

He straightened his back. ‘Rose, is there another man.?’

‘Interested in me, do you mean?’ She pointed to a tray of cards on the table where he’d placed his hat and gloves. ‘Those fellows, I suppose.’

He shook his head. ‘I mean a man who interests you.’

‘Me?’ It took a moment for comprehension to dawn. ‘Oh!’ She blinked rapidly, then raised her liquid emerald eyes to his. ‘No, Flynn,’ she said in a soft, low voice. ‘There is no one else.’

He stopped breathing.

Finally she averted her gaze. ‘Why do you ask such a thing?’

He picked up his cup. ‘You have persistently avoided talking about the marquess.’

‘So you thought it must be another man.’ She regarded him with an ironic expression. ‘‘Tis not enough I might not fancy being bartered like some fancy item in a shop.’

He stared at her. ‘You are not being bartered.’ Though he feared she had captured the essence of the matter.

‘Of course I am,’ she said, her tone pragmatic.

But why did she dislike it, if she would come out the winner?

She stood. ‘Never mind it. I’ll meet your marquess.’ She crossed the room. ‘Tell me when.’

He walked over to her, making her look at him. ‘Are you certain?’

She cocked her head. ‘I’m certain. But I’ll not be obligating myself further than that. And I’d prefer Letty and my father not be a part of it.’

He had no difficulty agreeing with that.

‘And no gifts, if you please.’

That was unexpected, but easily done.

‘And you must be present.’

He gave her a surprised glance. ‘I?’

‘Yes, and it would not look very well if I were the only woman with two gentlemen, so I would like Katy Green to come as well.’

He nearly winced. ‘Miss Green?’

She looked up at him through her thick lashes. ‘I do not want to be alone.’

‘I will arrange it,’ he said in a resigned tone. He’d not imagined being forced to watch Tanner charm her.

She gave him a brave but false smile. ‘Good. That is settled. No need to talk of it further.’

She drummed her fingers on the long wooden box that rested on a table in the corner of the room where they stood. ‘Let me show you something,’ she said suddenly.

He raised his brows.

She smiled with mischief. ‘Watch.’ She opened up the box to reveal a small pianoforte. ‘Isn’t it a treat?’

He laughed. ‘Yes, a surprise as well.’

She ran her fingers lightly over the keys. ‘It belonged to my mother. To take with her when she travelled in those days she was singing. It is in fine sound, too. Listen.’

She pulled up a small stool and rested her fingers on the keys, playing random chords until she began a tune he recognised only too well, though he had not heard it for over a decade: ‘Shule Agra.’ She sang:

His hair was black, his eye was blue

His arm was stout, his word was true

I wish in my heart, I was with you …

He’d sung the song of a sweetheart slain for the Jacobite cause with the rest of his family at his mother’s pianoforte. When Rose came to the chorus, Flynn could not help but join her.

‘Shule, shule, shule agra …’

He closed his eyes and let the sound of their melding voices float around him and seep into his skin, sending him back to Ballynahinch, to home and family.

‘Go thee, thu Mavourneen slaun,’ they sang, holding the last note for several extra beats.

She rose and turned to him and their gazes held. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, bewitched.

Without thinking, he brushed his fingers across her cheek. Her eyes darkened and she leaned closer to him. His nostrils gratefully inhaled her sweet clean scent, like the flowers in his mother’s garden. She tilted her face to him, so close he could feel her breath against his skin.

He lowered his head slowly, wanting for just one brief moment to find home again in her lips. She remained perfectly still, waiting. His lips came closer, so close their breath mingled. A half-inch more and he would taste her—

Voices sounded in the hallway, someone entering one of the other rooms, but enough to jar him from his reverie.

He dropped his hand and stepped away.

‘Flynn?’ she whispered. Her eyes reflected his own wrenching need.

‘This is madness,’ he rasped. Madness for him to covet the woman his powerful employer laid claim to.

She tried to come closer, but he held up his hand. ‘I must go.’

She blocked his way to the door. ‘Why is it madness, Flynn?’

He had no choice but to touch her. He put his hands on her arms and eased her aside so he could collect his hat and gloves.

She stepped closer again. ‘Why is it madness?’ She scooped up the calling cards that had been piled next to his gloves. ‘It is what Tannerton and Greythorne and all these gentlemen want, is it not?’ She let the cards cascade from her fingers. ‘Why can it not be between you and me?’

‘Because of my employer, Rose.’ He pulled on his gloves. ‘It would be the ruin of my future. Yours as well. Do you not see that?’

‘But he need never know,’ she countered.

‘I would know. After all he has done for me, I would not repay him so.’ Did she think he could make love to her one day and face Tanner the next?

He opened the door, but turned back to her. ‘You are indeed like your friend Katy, are you not? Do not tease me further with talk of needing time. I will not believe you.’ He started through the door but swung around again, leaning close to her face, as close as when he almost kissed her. ‘You are just what you seem, Rose. A fancy piece.’

Her lips parted in surprise, but they remained as enticing as before. With a growl of frustration, he wrenched himself away and hurried down the staircase.

Rose leaned against the doorframe, arms wrapped around herself. She squeezed her eyes shut. His words stung, but she knew he’d been correct. She’d behaved badly. Wantonly.

She re-entered the room, shutting the door behind her and hurrying to the window. She watched him leave the building, his pace as quick as if pursued by lions.

Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she sang, ‘I wish in my heart, I was with you …’

Vauxhall was not nearly as pleasant this night without Rose O’Keefe singing. Greythorne grimaced as Charles Dignum began. He stalked out of the Grove and strolled towards the Transparency. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed one of Vauxhall’s many delights—a woman with flaming red hair, laughing on the arm of that fool Sir Reginald, pulling him through the crowd.

He sucked in a breath. That laughter gave him a twinge.

He blew out the breath and walked on, scanning the crowd. He wanted a woman. Needed a woman. It had been a long time since he’d invited a woman into his den of pleasure. What harm to pluck another flower while he waited to win the elusive Rose from that—that—Corinthian Tannerton?

Blood surged through his veins. He’d win Rose O’Keefe and show her his special set of delights, and once under his control, she would forget all about Tannerton’s pursuit.

Greythorne wiped his face, grateful to the Diamond, Amanda, who had spurned him and lost the opportunity to experience his special talents. Because of the Diamond, he’d pushed himself to dare new delights. New heights. Nearer and nearer the brink.

He’d also had to take more care. There were some who knew his brand of pleasure, and he dared not risk more exposure. He rubbed his hands together. The more secretive he became, the more daring as well. There were no limits in anonymity.

He grinned, imagining this girl’s laughter fading, her eyes widening, mouth opening, cries ringing against the walls of his special room.

He donned the mask he kept in his pocket, the mask that protected him, the mask that freed him. The red-haired woman might be occupied this night, but there were other blooms to be plucked.

And Greythorne loved to cut flowers.

Chapter Six

The message from Flynn arrived for Rose the following afternoon, delivered into her father’s hands. ‘Mary Rose, it is from that marquess’s fellow,’ he said.

Letty, interrupted from admiring how the emerald ring sparkled on her pudgy hand, ran to his side. ‘Well, what is it? What does he say?’

Letty snatched the letter from her father and walked over to read it by the light from the window. ‘He wants to meet her! Two days hence.’ She dropped the letter on the table. ‘Did I not say it would be so?’

Rose picked up the paper, reading that the selected meeting place was King’s Theatre, to see a performance of Don Giovanni. She pressed the paper against her beating heart. Flynn was giving her King’s Theatre. A real opera, too, with performers singing out the whole story. It was almost exciting enough to forget that he’d pushed her away, accusing her of acting like a harlot. Or that she must meet the man who wanted her to be his harlot.

Letty snatched the paper from Rose’s hand. ‘Let me read it again.’ Her lips moved as she went over the words. She handed it back to Rose. ‘He is saying that Miss Green must come with you.’

‘I asked that she be invited. She is one of the girls I lived with.’ Rose had never explained much to her father about living in Miss Hart’s house. She never explained anything to Letty.

‘Where do you meet the marquess?’ Her father took another sip of gin.

‘She will ruin it, I know she will,’ Letty grumbled, crossing the room to pour more gin for herself, drinking it alone in a sulk.

‘At King’s Theatre, Papa,’ Rose replied.

He smiled at her. ‘Your mother sang at King’s Theatre. Did you know that, Mary Rose?’

‘I did, Papa.’

He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Daughter, you are saying you want to sing. Here is your chance!’

She laughed. ‘Papa, I am to watch the opera. And the marquess will not be asking me to sing.’

‘I keep trying to tell you the way of things.’ He put his arm around her and sat her down in one of the chairs. He sat opposite, still holding her hand. ‘A woman in the theatre gets work by pleasing the right people, if you get my meaning. This is the life you chose.’ He reached over to pick up his glass of gin from the table. ‘The marquess has a lofty title and money. ‘Tis said he is very generous to his girls.’

‘Papa,’ she entreated. ‘I’m certain I can make money singing. The newspapers said nice things about me. I’m sure to get another job after the Vauxhall season is over.’

Her father took a sip, then shook his head. ‘You’ll be hired to sing if you have someone asking for you. Like I could ask Mr Hook for you, being in the orchestra and all. But in the theatres, you need a patron, Mary Rose. And if this marquess wants you to sing, you will be finding work.’ He took her hand again and made her look at him. ‘If you displease such a man, if you spurn him, you’ll never work again. All he has to do is say the word.’

Rose glanced away. Flynn had said as much. The marquess had the power to dash her dreams.

Her father squeezed her hand until she looked at him again. ‘Listen, your own darling mother might have risen to greatness. She had the voice, the prettiest voice you’d ever be wanting to hear, and she was as lovely—you favour her, Mary Rose.’ He smiled sadly. ‘She caught the eye of such a man as your marquess. An earl, I’m remembering he was. But she was wanting me, instead.’ He shook his head as if he could still not believe it. ‘The earl was mighty angry, as you can imagine. And then neither of us could find work anywhere. By then you were on the way, and I took her back to Ireland. It was a long time before the earl forgot, and I could return to Englad to earn good money again. And then, of course, your mother got sick.’ His voice faded.

Rose bowed her head, her emotions in a muddle. Her beautiful mother had been faced with such a choice? Her mother had chosen love. Had that not been right?

Her father’s eyes filled with tears. ‘She got sick, but I was here in London. Working. Never to see her again—’ He lowered his head, his shoulders shaking.

Tears poured down Rose’s cheeks as well. If she had not been born, perhaps her mother might have returned to the stage. Perhaps she would have become the darling of the London theatre. But her mother had chosen marriage and childbirth and poverty. If she had chosen that earl, perhaps she would have lived.

Rose put her arms around her father. ‘Well, I’m meeting the marquess, so there’s nothing to fear.’

He lifted his head again and gave her a watery smile.

Rose returned a fond look. She wanted to sing, not only for herself, but for her mother. Let her mother live again through her.

Letty called from her corner of the room. ‘What are you talking about, Alroy? I hope you are telling your daughter to get off her duff and take what this marquess wants to offer us.’

‘I have convinced her, I think.’ Her father sniffed and patted Rose’s hand again.

‘I’ll meet the marquess, Papa,’ she repeated.

He smiled again and raised his glass to his lips. Rose left her chair and went to her bedchamber to don her hat, gloves and shawl. When she returned to the parlour, Letty was busy talking with her father of where they might live when the marquess’s money was in their pockets.

‘Henrietta Street, I’m thinking,’ Letty was saying. ‘But a proper house, not three rooms—’

‘I’m going out, Papa,’ Rose broke in.

Her father looked up. ‘There’s a good girl, Mary Rose. Watch out for yourself.’

‘That’s right.’ Letty laughed. ‘We don’t want you damaged.’

Rose walked out the door and down to the street. It was a grey day, and she hoped it would not rain. She headed for Covent Garden to find a hackney carriage.

She had never visited Katy, who now lived at Madame Bisou’s gaming-house. Madame Bisou had invited Katy to live there after they left Miss Hart’s. The other girls had chosen love, Rose reminded herself.

Rose wanted success, now more than anything.

She found a carriage and told the coachman, ‘Bennet Street, please.

He let her off at the junction of Jermyn Street and Bennet Street and she walked to a sedate-looking house where anyone might have lived. A large footman answered her knock.

‘Good day to you,’ Rose said. ‘Would you please be telling Miss Green that Miss O’Keefe has come to call?’

The footman put a finger to his cheek. ‘Miss Green?’ His confusion suddenly cleared. ‘Oh. Katy. Just a moment.’ When he returned he said, ‘Follow me.’

He led her above stairs to a sitting room. Both Katy and Madame Bisou sprang to their feet when she entered.

‘Rose! How good to see you.’ The madame kissed Rose on both cheeks. ‘You’ve not been here since Katy moved in.’

‘Forgive me, Madame,’ Rose responded, only now realising how much she had missed this woman with her false French accent. The girls had quickly figured out Madame Bisou was not really French. The madame’s hair colour, an unnatural red, was false as well.

There was nothing false about her large breasts, pushed up to show to best advantage in her low-cut dress, nor about her generous, loving nature. Rose gave her a heartfelt hug.

Katy came over and Rose also hugged her. ‘Who’d have thought you would visit? Vauxhall’s newest flower doesn’t need a gaming hell.’

Madame Bisou stepped out of the room to arrange for tea and Katy pulled Rose on to a settee.

‘So why are you here?’ Katy asked. ‘Have you met up with the marquess? Have you come to tell us about it?’

‘Not exactly,’ Rose said. ‘But you are not far wrong.’

‘I knew it!’ said Katy.

Madame Bisou walked back in. ‘Tea will be coming, but I must not stay, Rose. I must get back to Iris.’

Katy turned to Rose. ‘Iris was badly hurt last night.’

Rose did not know the girl. ‘I am sorry to hear of it.’

‘She went with me to Vauxhall,’ Katy cried. ‘But I left her with some fellows when Sir Reginald showed up.’

‘It was not your fault, Katy,’ Madame Bisou said. ‘These things happen.’

‘What happened?’ Rose asked.

Katy’s eyes flashed. ‘She went with some man. A gentleman, she thought, because he had fine clothes, but he tied her up and used a whip on her—’

‘Used a whip!’ Rose exclaimed.

Madame Bisou crossed her arms over her chest, squeezing out even more décolletage. ‘I ought to have told you girls of this, but, how could I?’

‘Told us what?’ Rose asked.

Madame Bisou sat down, facing them. ‘Some men seek their pleasure not in the usual way.’ She paused. ‘Some get their senses aroused by inflicting pain.’

Rose glanced to Katy. ‘Pain?’

‘Oh, I see,’ Katy said. ‘Whips and things.’

Rose looked to Madame Bisou. ‘Men get pleasure from using whips?’

‘Well, it’s a rare one that does—not that you don’t find plenty, mind you,’ Madame Bisou went on. ‘Most men, you know, are easily led if you make them think they are seducing you, but some … some get an arousal when they hurt a girl. It is their pleasure to inflict pain. Like a bully, n’est-ce pas?’

Rose felt sick at the thought.

‘A Frenchman wrote a book about it,’ Madame Bisou added.

Rose put her hand on her chest. ‘Oh, Katy, you must take care!’

Katy waved a hand. ‘I can handle myself.’

‘Do you know who hurt the poor girl?’ Rose asked the madame.

She shrugged. ‘Iris said he wore a mask.’ She patted Rose’s hand. ‘I assure you, we do not allow such men in this gaming hell. If we hear of such a man, or if one dares mistreat one of the girls, Cummings tosses him out.’

Rose shook her head. ‘But Katy is out and about. At Vauxhall, where so many men wear masks.’

Katy laughed. ‘Do you think I cannot spot a viper like that?’

Madame Bisou cautioned her. ‘It is sometimes difficult. You cannot tell merely by looking at a man.’ She stood. ‘I must go.’ She took Rose’s hand briefly. ‘Katy has told me of your marquess. That is good for you, Rose. Tannerton is a good man.’

Even Madame Bisou sang his praises.

Katy settled back in her seat. ‘Tell of the marquess. That is what I wish to hear.’

Rose could not help but think that Katy needed the marquess more than she did, no matter what her father said of the theatre. If Katy had enough money, she could abandon this dangerous life.

‘I hope you will like it,’ Rose said. ‘I am to meet with him in two days. His guest at King’s Theatre.’

‘At a theatre?’ Katy seemed unimpressed.

Rose continued. ‘The best news is, you are to accompany me.’

Katy’s mouth dropped open. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. I asked if you could come with me.’

Her friend looked at her as if her wits had gone begging. ‘But why?’

Rose hesitated before answering. ‘I was not wanting to go alone. Mr Flynn is to be there, too. If you do not come, I’ll be the only woman with two gentlemen.’

Katy laughed. ‘You did not want two men all to yourself? If your marquess is half as handsome as your Mr Flynn, it would be heaven to have them all to yourself.’

Rose felt her cheeks grow hot.

Katy’s eyes filled with mischief. ‘Why not bring Letty Dawes with you?’

Rose returned a withering glance. ‘You must be jesting.’

Katy laughed. ‘Oh, I’ll go. I have a fancy to meet this marquess who pines for you so strongly. Wish I could play it cool like you do, Rose. Never could disguise wanting a man as much as he might want me.’

Rose gave her a stern look. ‘Did not the madame always instruct you to dampen such liveliness? Do you not remember?’

‘That’s like asking a tiger not to have spots,’ Katy responded.

Rose could not help but smile.

When the night arrived to attend the opera at King’s Theatre, Rose went to Madame Bisou’s to dress. The madame had insisted on hiring a hairdresser to fix their hair, and Rose and Katy each wore Paris gowns Miss Hart had given them. Katy’s was a rich green silk gown that set off her red hair to perfection. Rose wore silk in a pale blush with white lace adorning the bodice and hem. The hairdresser threaded a strand of pearls through her hair, and Madame Bisou lent her pearls to wear around her neck and on her ears.

As Rose and Katy stood next to each other, surveying their images in a full-length mirror, Rose thought they looked tasteful. She had no wish to look like a harlot, even if that was what everyone wished her to be, what Flynn had accused her of being. She looked pretty, but she was nothing compared to Katy. What man could resist Katy’s vibrant beauty? Perhaps, if Rose were very lucky, the marquess would transfer his interest to Katy. And Flynn would forgive her.

Gentlemen were already arriving at the gaming-house at the time the marquess’s coach was to pick them up. Perhaps they would think her a new girl at this place, not much better than a bawdy house.

She shook her head. She must accustom herself to men thinking of her in this carnal way. It was part of being in the theatre, her father would say. She glanced at Katy, whose excitement just enhanced her lively beauty. How could she not impress the marquess?

Soon the footman came to tell them a gentleman waited for them in the hall.

‘Well, you are off, then,’ Madame Bisou said, nearly as excited as Katy. ‘I wish you good luck.’

She squeezed both their hands, and the two young women descended the stairway. Some men in the doorway of the gaming room stopped to watch them, their sounds of approval reaching Rose’s ears. She felt herself blush.

Rose purposely let Katy go first so Katy would make the first impression.

‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Flynn,’ declared Katy halfway down the stairs. She extended her hand so he could assist her on the last few steps. ‘Where is the marquess?’

Flynn’s eyes followed Rose’s slower progress as he answered, ‘He will meet us at the theatre.’ When Rose reached Katy’s side, he said a curt, ‘Good evening, Rose.’

‘Flynn,’ she answered, fearing matters would never be easy between them again.

‘Well.’ He looked at Katy, but only fleetingly glanced at Rose. ‘You look very charming. I am indeed most fortunate to escort you.’

Katy took his arm, holding on to him much too close. ‘Let us be off, then. We do not want to keep a marquess waiting.’

Flynn offered his other arm to Rose. Her fingers trembled as they lighted on his sleeve.

In the coach, Katy’s lively chatter filled the air, so Rose could excuse it that Flynn did not speak to her. He said a word here and there to encourage Katy to rattle on, but his attention to her friend only made Rose feel worse.

Soon the coach pulled up to King’s Theatre. As Flynn escorted them in, Rose forgot everything, even the admiring stares of gentlemen, as she took in the beauty of its grand hall, all marble and gold gilt. Flynn led them up carpeted stairs and past doors to what must be the boxes. They did not go far before he stopped at one and, after making a quick knock, turned the knob.

Katy nearly jumped up and down, but Rose held back, so it was Katy who first entered the darker interior of the box, where Rose could just make out the figure of a man.

He spoke. ‘Good evening. You must be Miss Green.’

Katy replied, ‘You are correct, sir. I presume you are Lord Tannerton?’

‘I am indeed.’

When Rose’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, she realised the marquess was the tall man she had seen standing near Flynn that first night at Vauxhall, the one with the casual air and affable expression.

‘I’ve seen you at Vauxhall,’ Katy said, as if speaking Rose’s thoughts.

The marquess smiled. ‘I have seen you too, Miss Green. Someone as lovely as yourself cannot be missed.’

Katy laughed, but softly this time. ‘I thank you. But you must meet Miss O’Keefe.’

She stepped aside, exposing Rose, and the marquess turned his eyes on her. ‘Miss O’Keefe, I am delighted you have come.’

Flynn stepped forward. ‘Miss O’Keefe, may I present Lord Tannerton.’

Rose dropped into a curtsy. ‘My lord.’

Tannerton extended his hand to her to help her rise. She had no choice but to accept it. ‘It is my pleasure to meet you,’ he said, holding her hand only a second longer than was comfortable.

He stepped back so that they could come farther into the opera box. Katy moved to the back, as did Flynn.

The Marquess spoke to Rose alone. ‘We shall have some refreshments at the intermission, but I have arranged for wine now. Would you care for a glass?’

She needed something to calm her. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

Flynn immediately poured the wine, but Lord Tannerton handed Rose’s glass to her.

‘It is French champagne. Bottled before the conflict, but I managed to acquire a case very recently.’ He took his own glass. ‘May I propose a toast?’

Rose inclined her head, wondering why a marquess would ask her permission.

‘To new friends,’ he said, turning to include Katy, but letting his gaze linger a bit longer on Rose.

‘To new friends,’ repeated Katy.

Rose did not speak, but she took a sip.

‘Come now,’ Tannerton gestured to two front chairs. ‘Sit and be comfortable. The performance should start at any moment.’

Rose turned towards Katy. ‘Perhaps Katy—Miss Green—would like to sit up front as well?’

Katy ignored Rose’s silent plea. ‘I’ll sit behind you. Keep Mr Flynn company.’ For emphasis she laced her arm through Flynn’s.

‘Come,’ Tannerton repeated.

He settled Rose in an elegant brocade chair and sat beside her. For the first time she looked out into the opera house.

‘Oh, my!’ she exclaimed.

The theatre curtains were rich red with a gold fringe as long as she was tall, with the King’s crest, also in gold. The curtains spanned nearly the whole distance from ceiling to floor, a space high enough for several tiers of boxes all around. Light blazed from huge chandeliers close to the stage and from candles all around the edges of the boxes. The orchestra floor was busy with people talking and laughing and moving around. Several of the boxes were empty, but in those that were not, elegant gentlemen were seated with ladies dressed in beautiful gowns. Some were looking straight into their box, pointing and whispering to their companions.

‘It is rather thin of company.’ Lord Tannerton smiled at her. ‘But I hope you like it.’

‘It is lovely,’ she responded, trying not to think of what the other theatre-goers might be saying about her. ‘Much larger than I even could have imagined.’ She’d only read of theatres like this one. The closest she’d been to seeing one was when Miss Hart had taken them to Astley’s Amphitheatre, but that was an entirely different sort of place. This was the best of theatres.

‘I am pleased to be the first to show it to you. Flynn said you had a wish to see it.’

Flynn.

Flynn had made this happen for her. He alone knew how much she desired it. He must have forgiven her wanton behaviour, to give her such a gift. ‘I did indeed.’

It had seemed natural to Rose to tell Flynn all about her mother singing in King’s Theatre, about her mother’s dashed dreams and shortened life. She had no such impulse to tell the marquess.

The musicians entered and took their seats, the violinists tuning their strings, horn players testing their instruments’ sound. Though none played at full volume, the notes filled the huge room, and Rose found she was eager to hear the performance, especially the singing.

‘Do you fancy yourself singing in this theatre some day?’ Tannerton asked her.

Rose shot a glance at him. Had Flynn told him this as well? It seemed a betrayal of confidences. ‘Why do you think so?’

He shrugged. ‘King’s Theatre is the pinnacle, is it not, for singers? At least others have told me so.’

Perhaps Flynn had not told him all her secrets, after all. She heard Flynn behind her talking quietly to Katy and wished he would speak loud enough so she could hear what he said.

Katy disappointed Rose, acting so subdued Tannerton would never notice her. In fact, Katy seemed more determined to have Flynn’s company.

Tannerton handed her a paper. ‘Here is the programme telling who sings tonight. I will get you a candle if you cannot read it.’

She took the paper and stared at it even though she could read but little in the dim light. It gave her an excuse not to talk to him.

‘Thank you,’ she said belatedly, briefly glancing at him.

Tanner smiled at her. He had a boyish handsomeness, she had to admit. An open countenance. He was tall and athletic and looked out of place in this elegant theatre, as if he would prefer hunting or whatever gentlemen did in the out of doors. By appearance, and so far by manner, he did not threaten, but Rose could not forget her father’s warning. This was a man who possessed the power to ruin her ambitions. She turned back to staring at the programme.

‘I think it is about to begin,’ Tannerton said.

She glanced at the stage. The conductor of the orchestra took his place. The musicians quieted, but the audience seemed as noisy as ever. The music began. Rose could make out that the opera was one of Mozart’s, but she had never heard the music before. Her school had not owned these sheets of music. She poised herself to listen and watch, not wishing to miss a bit of it.

When the curtain opened, she even forgot who sat beside her. The set was magical, looking so real she could barely believe she was not looking through some window. She heard singing voices like she’d never heard before, big voices, bigger than her own, big enough to fill this huge theatre. When the soprano sang, Rose held her breath. She wanted to open her mouth and mimic each note, to try to make her voice bigger, like this one.

She could understand none of the words. She was not even sure what language they were singing. It did not matter, however. The performers showed her the story, a shocking one, really. Don Giovanni was a seducer of women, a man who made conquests and who cared little of what havoc he wreaked in people’s lives. When the character Elvira sang, Rose could hear her heartache and her rage. Elvira loved and hated Don Giovanni. Rose wanted to weep for her. How thrilling it would be to sing one’s emotions like that.

When the intermission came, Rose felt bereft. She wanted to go on listening. She wanted to step on to the stage and be a part of it, to raise her voice with the others in the beautiful music they created.

Instead, a footman brought in some cakes and fruit and other delicacies.

‘At intermission one often calls upon others in other boxes,’ Tannerton told her. ‘But I have asked the footman to stand outside and explain we do not wish to be disturbed.’

That was kind of him. The last thing she wanted was to have the magic of the performance interrupted by curious people come to see who sat next to the marquess. She was desperately trying to hold on to the music, replaying it in her head, silently singing, wishing she could sound like those wonderful performers.

They took refreshment around a small table. Flynn, sitting directly opposite Rose, poured more champagne.

‘How do you like the performance, Miss Green?’ Tannerton asked.

Katy grinned. ‘It is fun, is it not? Don Giovanni is a clever rogue. I hope he escapes.’

‘We shall see,’ said Tanner, eyes crinkling into a smile.

Tanner turned to Rose. ‘And you, Miss O’Keefe. What do you think of it?’

Rose looked up to see Flynn watching her. He quickly averted his eyes. She could barely speak. Words were not enough to convey what she felt. ‘I have never heard such singing,’ she said reverently. ‘I like it very much.’

‘Then I am happy.’ Tannerton grinned boyishly. ‘I have pleased you both.’

The second half of the opera was every bit as magical. Rose felt the music inside her. She was transported by its beauty, affected by its emotion, and invigorated by possibilities she had not known existed. To sing with such power and feeling. She could hardly wait to try to mimic their sound.

Too soon it was over, the music making its last crescendo. Rose felt as if her soul had been dropped from a great height back into her own body. She applauded with all the energy she possessed.

When the performers took their final bow, the only sounds that could be heard were the scuffling feet and muffled voices of people leaving the theatre.

Lord Tannerton put his hand on her arm. She had forgotten him, forgotten her purpose for being there.

‘Time to go, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said.

Chapter Seven

Flynn watched Tanner touch Rose’s arm. His own hand tingled, as if it were he, not Tanner, who touched her. He stretched and flexed his fingers, trying to dispel the illusion, but it did no good, because Tanner touched her again, escorting her out of the box on his arm. He had known it would be difficult to see her with Tanner. He had just not anticipated how difficult.

There was no doubt in Flynn’s mind that he’d chosen well when he’d picked King’s Theatre as the place for Tanner to meet Rose. Tanner had grumbled—the man hated opera—but Flynn knew that this place would be more precious to Rose than a whole cask of emerald rings. She would never forget the man who gave her King’s Theatre.

Flynn ought to be congratulating himself all round.

But every time Tanner had looked at Rose or leaned towards her or spoke to her it was like daggers were being thrust into Flynn’s flesh. He was surprised that the champagne he’d consumed had not spurted out of him like from a water skin poked with holes.

They found Tanner’s carriage among the line of vehicles outside. Tanner lifted Rose into it, holding her by the waist. He assisted Katy in the same manner. Flynn was the last inside, taking his seat next to Katy. His gaze met Rose’s, and she smiled, gratitude shining in her eyes.

He would not regret giving her this evening, no matter that it signified the loss of a brief, fanciful, mad dream.

The carriage made the short trip to Bennet Street in good time. As it pulled up in front of the gaming-house, Katy said, ‘You must all come up for some supper. Madame Bisou has arranged a nice treat.’

‘But—’ Rose glared at Flynn.

He shook his head. He knew nothing of this.

Tanner gave the answer, agreeable as always. ‘Of course we will. Very generous of the madame. ‘

So they all entered Madame Bisou’s house and were escorted to a private parlour. The Madame was there to greet them.

‘Good to see you, chérie.’ She offered her cheek for Tanner to kiss. ‘You have not favoured us with your presence in an age.’

‘That is so.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I must rectify that, mustn’t I?’

Like two old friends, Tanner chatted with Madame Bisou while she ushered the others into chairs, joining them herself.

They were served cold meats and fruits and cakes and more wine. Tanner began to mellow from the drink.

‘And what do you think of our Rose?’ Madame Bisou asked him.

Rose stared at her plate, a blush staining her cheeks.

Tanner gazed at her. ‘I think she is as lovely as her name.’

The words twisted in Flynn’s gut.

Tanner continued to gaze at Rose in frank admiration. ‘Do you sing at Vauxhall tomorrow night?’ he asked. He gestured to the clock on the mantel. Dawn was not long away. ‘Tonight, I mean.’

‘I do, sir,’ she responded in a quiet voice.

Tanner continued, ‘Would you do me the honor of sharing a meal with me at the gardens tomorrow? We can arrange something, can we not, Flynn?’

Flynn nodded. He could arrange whatever Lord Tannerton wished. That was his job.

Rose glanced at Flynn with a silent panic he did not comprehend. She turned to Tanner. ‘I hope you will not mind, sir, if we include the others present in that invitation? Miss Green, Mr Flynn and Madame Bisou?’

Flynn admired her skill in turning the invitation around, making it appear as if chiding Tanner for poor manners. Her reticence towards Tanner still bewildered him, however. Now that she’d met him, she could have no further objection to him.

Flynn noticed Katy flashing her eyes at Rose. Apparently Katy did not understand such behaviour any better than he did. Rose gave her a plaintive look in return.

Tanner’s face showed dismay, but he answered in his typical affable tone. ‘They shall be included if you wish it.’

Katy rolled her eyes.

Madame Bisou put a hand on Tanner’s arm. ‘Sweet of you to include me, chérie, but I have a business to attend to.’ She stood. ‘In fact, I must check on the gaming room now. I wish I could accept your invitation.’ She smiled at Rose. ‘I miss hearing our Rose sing.’

The connection between Rose and this mistress of a gaming hell was not lost on Flynn. Rose must not always have been under her father’s thumb. The whole thing was a mystery, but the real mystery was why it disturbed Flynn so greatly.

Flynn and Tanner stood to bid Madame Bisou adieu, thanking her for the meal. She tweaked Tanner’s chin playfully and headed for the door, stopping to look back at him. ‘Come play my tables, Lord Tannerton. Come join your friend Pomroy. I believe he is here tonight.’

‘Pomroy is here?’ said Tanner with interest.

Before the gentlemen could sit again, Katy stood, stifling a yawn that did not look quite real. ‘I hope you will forgive me,’ she said in a ladylike voice. ‘But I must bid you goodnight as well.’ She curtsied to Tanner. ‘It was a pleasure, sir.’

He gave her a charming smile. ‘I will see you in a few hours, Miss Green.’

Katy grinned back. ‘You will, won’t you?’

Rose also got up from her chair. ‘I should retire as well.’

Tanner looked disappointed. ‘Must you?’

She nodded. ‘I must get some rest if I am to perform.’

‘May I escort you to your room?’ Tanner asked, somewhat hopefully.

Flynn flinched, preparing for her to say yes.

Rose barely looked at Tanner. ‘I do not live here, sir.’

‘That is so.’ Tanner responded. ‘Flynn said you live with your father. Do we return you to your father or do you stay here this night?’

She glanced at Flynn, not Tanner. ‘I should prefer to return home.’

Tanner’s face fell, but he recovered quickly. ‘We will take you home then, will we not, Flynn?’ he said in a cheerful voice.

‘Indeed,’ Flynn responded, trying very hard to keep his voice bland.

If Rose had allowed Tanner to come with her to a room here, her acceptance of his interest would have been secured, and only the financial arrangement would remain for Flynn to manage. The matter would be at an end.

So how was it he was relieved she had not accompanied Tanner to a bedchamber abovestairs?

He followed Tanner as he walked with Rose out of the parlour. As they passed the game room, Tanner hesitated. ‘I should like to greet my friend who is here.’ He turned to Rose. ‘Would you care to come in the game room a moment, Miss O’Keefe? Or would you prefer to have Flynn see you home directly?’

‘I prefer to go home,’ Rose replied. She extended her hand to Tanner. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the air above it. ‘I shall look forward to seeing you at Vauxhall.’

‘At Vauxhall,’ she said.

Flynn descended the stairway with Rose and collected their things from the footman. Neither of them spoke. Flynn ought to have manoeuvred Tanner to take Rose home. He could have done so with a judicious word. Dear God, why had he not?

He had done this to himself. He wanted to be alone with her in the dark confines of the carriage.

Rose felt a flare of excitement as Flynn assisted her into the carriage. She had been pining to speak with him, to thank him for this wonderful night. To share with him her reaction to the opera. She had so many questions.

He did not sit beside her, but rather took the back-facing seat. She could barely make out his features in the dim light that filtered in from the carriage lamps outside.

As soon as the carriage moved, she leaned toward him. ‘Flynn, thank you for this night. I do not know how to express my gratitude.’

‘My duty,’ he responded curtly.

His stiffness took her aback.

He went on in a dry voice, ‘I take it Lord Tannerton was pleasing to you.’

‘Lord Tannerton?’ She shook her head in confusion. ‘I was not speaking of him, but of the opera! Of King’s Theatre. I know that was your doing. You knew what it meant to me.’

He did not immediately respond. ‘I thought only of what would best facilitate my employer’s wishes.’

‘That’s foolishness you are talking,’ Rose retorted. ‘You gave me the opera. I know you did.’ She hugged herself with remembering it. ‘It was so grand! I’ve never heard such singing! The voices, Flynn. How did they make their voices so big?’

‘Big?’

‘You know, their voices seemed to come from deep inside them. The sound filled that huge theatre. How did they do that?’ Even the mere memory of it excited her. ‘I want to learn to do that. Do you think I can, Flynn?’ She sang a note, experimenting. ‘That is not it, is it? I long to understand how it is done.’

She wanted to practise right now.

‘I am sure it can be learned.’ His voice turned softer.

‘I long to learn it,’ She went on. ‘I wish I could return to hear them again. I wish I could remember the music and the words. I could not understand the words. Was it Italian? I do not know languages. Just a little French and Latin, but very little.’

‘It was Italian,’ he said.

‘Think how it must be to know what all the words meant.’ Some day she would learn Italian, she vowed. ‘I wish I had the music. I would memorise every part of it.’

‘Lord Tannerton will be gratified that he pleased you.’

He’d not been listening to her. She’d been talking of the music, not Lord Tannerton. She closed her mouth and retreated to her side of the carriage, making herself remember the music.

He broke the silence. ‘Did you find Lord Tannerton agreeable, Rose?’

‘Everything agreeable,’ she answered dutifully, trying to recall the melody Elvira sung.

But he’d broken the spell, and she remembered that she’d agreed to see Tannerton again that evening. ‘At Vauxhall tonight. How shall I find you?’ she asked.

‘I will collect you from the gazebo when your performance is done.’

‘Letty will be there. Come alone to fetch me, not with Lord Tannerton.’ She did not need Letty speaking directly to Lord Tannerton.

‘I will come alone, then,’ he agreed. He talked as if they were discussing some manner of business, like paying Tannerton’s bills. It was business, really. ‘Will you see that Miss Green is also there?’

‘I will.’

They rode in silence the rest of the way. When the coach came to a stop in front of her lodgings, Flynn helped her out and walked her to the door.

‘I will walk you inside,’ he said.

There was only one small oil lamp to light the hallway, and Rose heard mice skitter away as soon as their footsteps sounded on the stairs.

In front of her door they were wrapped in near-darkness, a darkness that somehow made him seem more remote and made the music in her mind fade.

‘Goodnight, then.’ She was unable to keep her voice from trembling.

‘Goodnight,’ he responded. He turned and walked to the head of the stairs.

She put her hand on the doorknob.

‘Rose?’

She turned back to him.

‘I am glad you enjoyed the opera.’ Before she could reply, he descended the stairs.

That night Greythorne stood in the shadows of the Grove, watching and listening to Rose O’Keefe sing. If anything, her voice was richer this night, especially passionate. Such passion ought to be his, he thought. He’d be her conductor. She would sing only for him, notes only he could make her reach.

He spied Tannerton in the crowd. His adversary, a man who’d struck the initial claim. Greythorne would not let that impede him. It would only make the prize more precious to know he’d stolen it out from under the nose of the Marquess of Tannerton. The man was all Greythorne disdained, a Corinthian who cared more for horses than for the cut of his coat. Who would know they could share the same tailor? If it were not for Weston, the man would look like a ruffian on the street.

After Miss O’Keefe finished, Greythorne watched Tannerton say something to that secretary who always seemed to be about. The two men parted. Something was afoot. If not for a woman, neither he nor Tannerton would spend this much time in London with summer upon them, not when other pleasures beckoned at places like Brighton or even Paris.

Greythorne wondered what it would be like to take Miss O’Keefe to Paris, far away from familiar people or influences. Perhaps that was what he would do, but first he must discover what Tannerton planned for this night.

He followed Tannerton, but the man walked aimlessly, stopping to speak to the few persons of quality who were present at the gardens this night. He ought to have followed the secretary instead. That Flynn fellow ran the show. Greythorne hurried back to the gazebo in time to glimpse the secretary escorting two women, one wearing a hood. He tried to keep them in sight, but lost them in the crowd.

Cursing silently, he continued to search the line of supper boxes where Tannerton had dallied.

Finally he discovered them.

In one of the more private supper boxes, half-obscured by trees near the South Walk arch, sat Tannerton with the hooded lady. Greythorne wagered the woman was Miss O’Keefe. Greythorne waited for the moment he could make himself known.

His eyes narrowed as he watched Tannerton talking to the chit as if she were already his. The marquess had made progress, perhaps, but Greythorne was not ready to concede defeat. His little interlude of two nights before had quite fired his blood for more. He was more than ready to pluck another flower.

A Rose.

Greythorne left the shadows and sauntered across the walk up to the supper box. ‘Good evening, Tannerton.’ He tipped his hat.

‘Evening,’ Tannerton reluctantly responded, making no effort to change from his slouch in his chair.

‘Forgive me for intruding.’ Greythorne made certain to use his smoothest, most ingratiating voice. ‘I could not resist the opportunity to tell this lovely creature how much I enjoyed her performance.’

Miss O’Keefe, who had been hiding behind her hood, gave a start. Though he could not see her clearly, he made out the tiniest nod of acknowledgement.

‘Kind of you, I am sure,’ Tannerton said in an unkind voice.

Greythorne tipped his hat again. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, Miss O’Keefe.’

At that moment, the other woman in the box stepped forward, bringing a glass of wine to the lovely Rose. It was Greythorne’s turn to be surprised. She was the red-haired harlot whom he had seen with Sir Reginald, the one whose laughter had fired his blood. He widened his eyes in interest, an interest she caught.

She gave him an appraising look in return. ‘Good evening, sir.’

He smiled most appealingly and doffed his hat to her. ‘Good evening, miss.’

Tanner glanced up at the woman. ‘Greythorne was just leaving.’

Greythorne did not miss a beat. ‘Regretfully leaving,’ he said in his smoothest voice. He tipped his hat again to Rose. ‘Miss O’Keefe.’ And to the redhead. ‘My dear.’

He sauntered back to the South Walk, heading in the direction of the Grove. Not defeated. Exhilarated. Two flowers to pluck instead of one. He’d have them both and rub Tannerton’s nose in it.

Rose shuddered. ‘That was Lord Greythorne?’

‘Who is Lord Greythorne?’ Katy asked, still watching him walk away.

‘He’s a man who … who has asked my father about me,’ Rose told her.

Tannerton’s open countenance turned dark. ‘Not a gentleman worth knowing.’

‘Do you say so, Lord Tannerton?’ Katy said lightly. ‘He seems a fine gentleman to me.’

Tannerton grimaced. ‘Something about the fellow. Can’t remember it and neither can Flynn.’ He turned to Flynn. ‘Right, Flynn?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ Flynn replied.

Katy gave Tannerton’s shoulder a playful punch. ‘You are just saying that because he wants our Rose.’ She laughed. ‘Do not tell me you fear a little competition?’

Tannerton sat up. ‘I relish competition.’

Rose glanced in the direction where the man had disappeared. He had given her a shiver. She turned to Flynn to see his reaction, but his back was to her. He’d barely spoken to her again tonight, but he spoke easily enough to Katy.

Katy came back to him, grabbing his arm and squeezing it. Rose turned away.

Tannerton regarded Rose with a hopeful expression. ‘The dancing has begun. Shall we?’

Rose glanced at Flynn, but he was still thoroughly occupied with Katy. ‘Of course,’ she said to Tannerton, taking his arm.

By the time they had entered the Grove, the lively country dance had ended, and the orchestra struck up a waltz. Tannerton took her by the hand, twirling her under his arm before placing his other hand at her waist. He led her into the steps with great energy, joining the other couples, who created patterns of wheels within wheels.

Tannerton held her with confidence and moved her skilfully. Rose had had little experience with dancing, less with the waltz, but she was aware of his grace and the allure of his physicality. This was a man who did not take a misstep, a man secure being a man.

Such virtues ought to persuade her to succumb to him. Unfortunately, she spied Flynn leading Katy into the dance, and all Rose could think of was how it would feel to be in Flynn’s arms, to be staring into Flynn’s eyes as they twirled under the magical lamps of Vauxhall.

When the dance was done, Tannerton did not release her hand. ‘Come walk with me,’ he urged.

She held back. ‘Please, no. I.I have a thirst. From the dancing.’

He gave her a rueful smile that should have melted her heart, but did not. ‘Then we must return to the supper box for more refreshment.’

Katy and Flynn entered the box behind them. ‘Was that not fun!’ Katy exclaimed, giving Flynn another affectionate squeeze.

Rose could barely look at her, she was so filled with envy. ‘Next waltz you should dance with Lord Tannerton,’ she blurted out.

The marquess paused only a moment before affably agreeing. ‘A capital idea. We shall trade partners.’

Rose was mortified that she had spoken so impulsively. She tried to tell herself that she had done it because she wanted Tannerton to transfer his affection to Katy. But that would be a lie. She’d merely been jealous.

Mr Hook did not keep them waiting long for another waltz, understanding his audience’s preference for the more intimate dance, where the man held the woman in his arms.

Flynn did not seem as eager this time to follow Tannerton to the dancing area. Rose felt another wave of guilt for pushing herself on him when he had placed her off limits to him, but Katy had so easily taken her place.

All such thoughts were forgotten when she faced him and stared up into his blue eyes. He swung her into the pattern of twirling couples, not nearly as skilfully as Tannerton, but it hardly mattered. Rose settled into his arms with the feeling she belonged there.

He did not speak, but neither did he take his eyes off hers. Rose’s vision blurred everything but him, and for this small space of time, she pretended that there was no one in the world except the two of them. At first he held her lightly, as if not wishing to touch her at all, but with each turn he seemed to pull her closer to him. She wished they would turn and turn and turn until their bodies touched and they moved as one. She wished she could burst into a joyous song that would never end.

But the music did end. Flynn still held her.

‘Thank you, Flynn,’ she murmured, gazing into his eyes.

His eyes were dark and needful, and the blood raced through her veins in response. She felt herself pulled to him, closer and closer, just as the twirling of the dance had drawn them close.

He held up a hand and stepped back. ‘Tannerton will be waiting.’

Chapter Eight

Two days later Flynn once more stood before the door of Rose O’Keefe’s lodgings. Tanner had charged him with giving Rose something that would induce her to accept him. Something more precious to her than emerald rings. Something that was her heart’s desire. Something that would ensure his winning over Greythorne.

Flynn had arranged it.

He listened to the voices of Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes inside, and hesitated a moment before rapping on the door.

‘Answer the door,’ Miss Dawes shouted from within.

Footsteps sounded across the floor. The door opened.

‘Yes?’ O’Keefe broke into a smile when he saw Flynn standing there. ‘Why, it is Mr Flynn, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in.’

Flynn entered the room.

‘Mr Flynn.’ Miss Dawes’s voice was syrupy ‘.it is a pleasure to see you.’

‘I come to call upon Miss O’Keefe, if you please,’ Flynn said.

O’Keefe looked hopeful.

Miss Dawes said, ‘I hope you have come to make an offer. We cannot wait for ever.’

Flynn disliked such brashness. ‘I would urge more patience. The marquess is taking the next step. That is why I have come.’

‘Rose is at the market, shopping for dinner. She will be home shortly.’ Miss Dawes gave a frustrated gesture, and Flynn spied the emerald ring on her finger.

Flynn frowned. ‘I must take my leave. I shall return when Miss O’Keefe is home.’

Before they could object, he was out of the door, heading to the market in hopes of finding her. He passed stall after stall of fruits and vegetables, each owner loudly attesting that his wares were the finest. One stall even sold hedgehogs, an animal some Londoners fancied as a pet, mainly because of its appetite for beetles.

Covent Garden was also the ‘den of iniquity,’ the place where dolly-mops and lightskirts congregated, displaying themselves much like the colourful oranges, limes and lemons on the fruit stalls. Had Flynn wished for some female company, he had only to nod and show his coin, but he was intent on finding Rose.

He spied her at a stand where herbs were displayed, lifting a fragrant bundle of lavender to her nose. He navigated his way through the shoppers to reach her.

She saw him approach and put the lavender down. ‘Flynn.’ She gave him a cautious smile.

He tipped his hat. ‘Good day, Rose.’

‘What a lovely surprise.’ Her smile fled as she glanced over to a group of doxies loudly hawking themselves. ‘Are … are you here to shop?’

He saw the direction of her gaze and realised she thought he might be looking for female company. ‘I came looking for you.’

‘For me?’ Her emerald eyes looked cautious.

‘Come, let us walk together.’ He reached for the basket she carried on her arm.

They strolled past the stalls in the direction of her lodgings, entering a quieter part of the street.

‘Why did you look for me, Flynn?’ She asked in a soft voice.

‘Lord Tannerton has a gift for you.’

She blinked and looked away. ‘I do not want a gift.’

‘You will like this one,’ he assured her.

She tossed him a sceptical glance.

‘Lord Tanner has arranged for Signor Angrisani and Miss Hughes of King’s Theatre to give you lessons in voice—’

She clutched his arm. ‘You do not mean it!’

He tried to keep his face composed, but her excitement resonated inside him. ‘Indeed. And if your voice is suitable, Lord Tanner has convinced Mr Ayrton to use you in the chorus, for at least one performance.’

‘Mr Ayrton?’

‘The musical director,’ he explained.

Her eyes grew as large as saucers. ‘I would perform on the stage of the King’s Theatre?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Flynn!’ Her voice cracked and her face was flushed with colour. Every muscle and nerve in his body sprang to life.

‘It is wonderful!’ She twirled around, but stopped abruptly. ‘Oh.’

‘What?’

She stared into the distance as if unable to speak. Suddenly she turned back to him. ‘Lord Tannerton arranged this?’

He opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by another transformation of her features.

An ethereal smile slowly grew on her face, and she seemed to glow from within. She lifted her jewel-like eyes to his. ‘You arranged this, Flynn.’

Both gratification and guilt engulfed him. He’d pleased her, as he longed to do, but she must believe it was on Tannerton’s behalf.

She touched his arm, the sensation of her fingers on his sleeve radiating through all parts of him.

‘You arranged this for me.’ Her voice was awed. ‘Oh, Flynn!’

Rose took in Flynn’s handsome, too-serious features, her heart swelling in her chest. He alone had known what this meant to her. Flynn was giving her what she’d dreamed of for as long as she could remember.

‘You have arranged for my fondest wish to come true,’ she whispered, gazing into the depths of his eyes.

Four young bucks staggered toward them, holding on to each other and swaying with too much drink. One of them grinned. ‘You plucked a right rose,’ he said to Flynn. ‘M’hat’s off to you.’ The young man tried to reach his hat, but the lot of them nearly toppled over as a result. With his companions cursing him for nearly knocking them down, they stumbled away.

‘They think I am your doxy,’ she said to Flynn.

She’d received other frank remarks from men in the market that afternoon, remarks that made her cringe with discomfort and hurry on her way, but somehow she did not mind so much to be thought of as Flynn’s doxy.

But he looked pained, so she changed the subject. ‘Tell me where I am to go, what time, what I am to do.’

‘If you are able, the signor and Miss Hughes will see you at King’s Theatre tomorrow, at two o’clock.’ He spoke stiffly, as if he were scheduling some appointment for the marquess. ‘I shall come to escort you there.’

‘You will?’ That made her even happier. She wanted to share her dream with him.

They walked the rest of the way to her lodgings, she in happy silence. All she could think of was walking in to King’s Theatre on Flynn’s arm. Perhaps he would stay and listen to her sing. Perhaps he would escort her home and she could talk to him about each moment of the lesson.

Her building was in sight, and she was loathe to leave him, even though his expression was as hard as chiselled granite. This gift he would give her came with strings attached, she knew. The time was approaching when she must repay Lord Tannerton for what Flynn had done for her.

As they neared the door of her building, Flynn slowed his pace. ‘I spoke with your father and Miss Dawes,’ he said. ‘They are pressing for Lord Tannerton to make his offer.’

She nodded.

‘It is your move, Rose, but I urge you not to delay. Your father may accept another offer not to your liking.’

‘With Greythorne?’

‘Yes.’

Rose knew he spoke the truth.

‘I must accept Tannerton,’ she said in a resigned voice. ‘I know this.’

His eyes seemed to reflect her pain. ‘Soon,’ he said.

The next day Rose and Flynn stood in the hall of King’s Theatre with MrAyrton, the musical director of Don Giovanni.

‘So pleased to meet you, Miss O’Keefe. Any friend of the marquess is certainly a friend to us. He is the most generous of men …’

He escorted them through the pit of the theatre to the stage, where, standing next to a pianoforte, were two men and a woman.

‘I am to go on the stage?’ Rose asked in wonder.

‘Indeed,’ replied Mr Ayrton. ‘What better place to examine the quality of your voice?’

Flynn held back, and Rose twisted around to give him one more glance before she followed Mr Ayrton to the stage entrance.

She was presented to Miss Hughes. ‘Hello, my dear,’ the woman said in her melodious Welsh accent.

‘You played Elvira!’ Rose exclaimed, stunned that this ordinary woman had transformed herself into that character, so much larger than life.

‘That I did.’ Miss Hughes smiled.

‘I confess I am surprised you are not Italian. I could not tell, to be sure.’

The next person introduced to her was Signor Angrisani. ‘And you were Don Giovanni,’ Rose said, as he gave her a somewhat theatrical bow.

‘That is so,’ he said smoothly. ‘And I am Italian, unlike Miss Hughes.’

The third man was the pianist, a Mr Fallon, who merely nodded.

‘I shall leave you to these excellent teachers,’ Mr Ayrton said. ‘But I assure you, I shall listen with Mr Flynn.’

Rose’s nerves fluttered, and she was grateful Flynn would be with her the whole time. She gazed out into the theatre, but it was too dark to see him.

She turned back to Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani. ‘Thank you both for taking your time to teach me.’

‘Oh—’ Miss Hughes laughed ‘—we have been amply rewarded, I assure you. Shall we warm your voice and discover your range?’

They began by having her sing what she could only describe as nonsense sounds, exercise for her voice.

‘Some scales, if you please,’ Angrisani said, nodding to the pianist, who played a scale pitched in middle C.

Rose sang the notes, concentrating on each one. They made her sing them again, and then went higher until Rose could feel the strain. They asked the same thing, going lower and lower.

Then Miss Hughes handed her a sheet of music. In qulai eccessi she read.

‘I do not know these words,’ Rose said.

‘Do not distress yourself.’ The signor patted her arm. ‘Speak them any way you wish.’

She examined the sheet again, mentally playing the notes in her head as if plucking them out on her pianoforte.

She glanced at Miss Hughes. ‘This is your song from the opera.’

‘It is, my dear,’ the lady responded. ‘Now, let us hear you sing it.’

Rose tried, but stumbled over the foreign words and could not keep pace with the accompaniment.

‘Try it again,’ Miss Hughes told her.

The second time she did much better. When she finished she looked up to see Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani frowning.

The signor walked up to her. ‘You have a sweet voice, very on key and your … how do you say? … your diction is good.’

She felt great relief at his compliment.

‘But your high notes are strained. You are breathing all wrong and you have poor volume,’ Miss Hughes added. ‘You must sing to the person in the farthest seat.’

Rose nodded.

‘Sing louder,’ Miss Hughes ordered.

She sang again, looking out into the house, thinking of Flynn sitting in the farthest seat. She sang to him.

But it did not please the signor and Miss Hughes. They fired instructions at her. ‘Stand up straight.’ ‘Open your mouth.’ ‘Breathe.’

There was so much to remember.

‘Breathe from here.’ Miss Hughes put her hand against Rose’s diaphragm. ‘Not here.’ She touched Rose’s chest. ‘Expand down with your muscles. You will get the volume.’

Rose attempted it, surprised when she sounded louder.

For the high notes, Signor Angrisani told Rose to lift the hard palate in the roof of her mouth. ‘Inhale,’ he said. ‘As if you are about to sneeze. Drop your tongue. Now push out through your nose.’

She was dismayed at how many tries it took to co-ordinate all these instructions. When she succeeded, the notes came out crystal clear.

It seemed as if the lesson were over in the wink of an eye. Her mind raced with trying to remember everything they had told her. She must not have done too badly, because they invited her back in three days’ time. As Signor Angrisani walked her back to the pit, Rose put her hand to her throat, wanting to protect it for the next lesson, hoping she would not strain it by singing at Vauxhall in a few short hours. She would fix herself some hot water flavoured with lemon juice to soothe it.

As the signor walked her through the theatre, she saw two men standing at the back. She could hardly wait to reach Flynn.

‘I shall bid you good day.’ Signor Angrisani stopped halfway through the theatre. He kissed her hand.

‘Thank you, signor,’ she said, trying to use the proper accent.

He smiled. ‘Eh, you shall do well, did I not say?’

He had not said, but she was delighted to hear it now.

She felt like skipping the rest of the way to where Flynn waited.

As she got close, she saw that the gentleman standing next to Flynn was not Mr Ayrton, but Lord Tannerton.

She lost the spring in her step.

‘Lord Tannerton,’ she said as she neared him. She dropped into a graceful curtsy.

He smiled at her. ‘How did you like your lesson?’

She darted a glance to Flynn, who stood a little behind him. ‘I liked it very much, sir. I am indebted to you for your generosity.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ah, it was nothing. Glad to do it if it gives you pleasure.’

‘Great pleasure, my lord.’

Rose had no doubt the marquess could easily afford whatever sum it took to make Mr Ayrton, Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani so agreeable, but she did not forget that it was Flynn who had made this happen.

‘As much pleasure as I receive hearing your voice, I wonder?’ His expression was all that was agreeable.

She cast her gaze down at the compliment.

‘May I have the honor of escorting you home, Miss O’Keefe?’

She glanced up again. ‘Oh, I would not trouble you. I am certain I might easily find a hack.’

‘It is no trouble,’ he reassured her. ‘My carriage should be right outside. It shall give me the opportunity to hear your impression of your tutors.’

She’d been eager to tell Flynn everything, but now she could think of nothing to say about her lesson.

There was no refusing the marquess now, or, she feared, when he asked for more intimate favours. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘I shall see you back at Audley Street, Flynn.’ Tannerton said this affably, but it was still a dismissal.

Flynn nodded, but said nothing. He turned and walked out of the theatre.

Rose was alone with the marquess.

‘Shall we go?’ He offered his arm.

When they made their way to the hall, Rose saw Flynn just disappearing through the doors. By the time she and the marquess reached the street, she could not see Flynn at all.

‘My carriage, Miss O’Keefe.’ As he spoke, the carriage pulled up to the front of the theatre.

King’s Theatre was located in Haymarket. She would have several minutes of riding alone with him to Covent Garden. He gave his coachman the name of her street and helped her into the carriage.

‘And how did you find the lesson?’ he asked after they were settled in and the coach began moving.

‘There seems much to learn,’ she replied.

‘I suspect you will be a good student.’

He asked her other questions about the lesson, about what she thought she needed to learn, about singing in general. It was the sort of conversation intended to put a person at ease. She admired his skill at it. She had to admit his interest in her likes and dislikes seemed genuine, though she could not imagine him burning with ambition, as she and Flynn did. He could not possibly understand what it meant to her to sing, not like Flynn understood.

Rose glanced at him. He was a handsome man, more handsome, perhaps, than Flynn, whose features were sharper and his expression more intense. But Lord Tannerton did not make her heart race. When he gazed upon her, he did not seem to see into her soul.

‘I have strict orders from Flynn not to walk you inside your lodgings,’ Tannerton said as they passed Leicester Square. ‘I gather he does not wish me to encounter your father.’

She almost smiled. More likely Flynn was protecting him from Letty.

‘Mr Flynn is a careful man,’ she said.

‘Oh, he is exceptional, I’ll grant you that,’ Tannerton agreed.

‘How long has Mr Flynn been your secretary?’ She knew the answer, of course, but she would rather talk about Flynn than anything else.

He paused, thinking. ‘Six years, I believe.’ They walked on. ‘Not that I expect him to remain,’ he added.

This was new information. ‘Oh?’

He gave her a sly glance. ‘Can you keep a secret, Miss O’Keefe?’

‘Of course I can.’ She kept many secrets.

He leaned closer and whispered. ‘Our Flynn burns with ambition, you know. He wants to rise higher than his present employ and deserves to, I believe. I have lately spoken to the Duke of Clarence about Flynn. His Royal Highness will come around, I think. God knows, he could use a man like Flynn.’

Flynn to work for royalty. For a Royal duke? All Rose knew about the Prince Regent’s second brother was that his mistress had been Mrs. Jordan, a famous actress. But that poor lady had died not long ago. It was said the Duke would marry now. He would become more serious about his station in life.

Flynn would serve the Duke well, no doubt, Rose thought. Such employment meant the fulfilment of his dreams.

Both their dreams would come true. She ought to be happy. Only, at this moment, it merely made her sad.

‘This is my street,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘The coachman should stop here.’

He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and it slowed to a stop. He got out and helped her descend.

She pointed to a building two doors down. ‘That is my building.’

He turned to see which one she meant and spoke suddenly. ‘What the devil is that fellow doing here?’

She saw a man walk out of her building and turn in the opposite direction from where the carriage had stopped.

Greythorne.

Chapter Nine

Tanner asked his coachman to follow Greythorne. The man walked only a short distance before jumping into a hack, but luck was with Tanner—Greythorne left the vehicle at White’s. He could not have picked a better place for an accidental meeting.

‘I’ll not need you,’ Tanner told his driver. ‘Take the horses back.’ He glanced up at the threatening sky, wondering if he’d regret that decision if caught in a downpour.

He entered the gentleman’s club and greeted the doorman by name, divesting himself of his hat and gloves. Sauntering into the dining room, he spied Greythorne alone at a table, placing his order with the footman. Tanner acknowledged the few other gentlemen in the room who gestured for him to sit down, but instead made his way to Greythorne.

‘Well, look who is here,’ said Greythorne, watching him approach.

Tanner grinned. ‘I’ll take that as an invitation to join you.’ He signalled the servant for some ale and lounged in the chair opposite his rival.

‘Ale?’ Greythorne sniffed.

Tanner cocked his head. ‘I like ale.’

Greythorne lifted his nose. ‘To what do I owe this … honour?’

‘Thought I would see how our game is going.’ He leaned forward. ‘Making any progress?’

Greythorne sneered. ‘Do you think I would tell you?’

Tanner sat back again. ‘Actually, I did. I mean, if you have won the girl, you would be more than happy to tell me.’

The servant brought Tanner his ale and brandy for Greythorne.

‘So,’ Tanner went on, ‘you have not won the girl, but neither have you given up, I’d wager.’

Greythorne scowled at him. ‘I am progressing nicely, if you must know.’

‘Indeed?’ Tanner said. ‘So am I. What is your progress?’

Greythorne swirled the brandy in his glass and inhaled its bouquet before taking a gentlemanly sip. Only then did he answer, ‘I believe I shall not tell you.’

Tanner lifted his tankard and gulped some ale, licking his lips of the remaining foam. ‘Then I cannot very well report my progress either, can I? We are at a stand.’

Greythorne eyed him with disgust. ‘I am sure it makes not a whit of difference to me.’

Tanner leaned forward again. ‘Does not the competition fire your blood, man? The prize becomes more precious for knowing another covets it.’

‘For you, perhaps,’ Greythorne said with a casual air Tanner did not believe in the slightest.

‘Where is your fighting spirit?’ Tanner taunted. ‘This is a manly challenge, is it not? Who will win the fair maid?’

Greythorne gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Shall we joust for our little songstress? Shall we don our chainmail and armour and wave our banners?’

Tanner pretended to seriously consider this. ‘The Tannerton armour will not fit me. Too small.’ He eyed Greythorne. ‘Might fit you, though.’

The barb hit. Greythorne’s eyes flashed with anger as he took another sip of his brandy.

Smiling inwardly, Tanner went on, ‘No a joust would not do. How about fisticuffs?’

The man nearly spat out his drink. ‘Do not be absurd!’

Tanner pretended to be offended. ‘You proposed a physical contest, not I.’

‘I am not going to engage in a physical contest to see who wins the girl,’ Greythorne snapped.

Tanner lifted his tankard. ‘I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you.’ He took one very protracted gulp, knowing he kept Greythorne hostage during it. Finally he set the tankard back on the table and continued as if he’d never interrupted his conversation. ‘So no physical contest for the girl. I do agree. That seems rather trite. How about a physical contest to learn this progress we each have made?’

Greythorne looked aghast.

Gratified, Tanner went on, ‘If you win, I tell you what we have achieved in conquest of the girl. If I win, you tell me the progress you have made. Agreed?’

‘No, I do not agree!’ Greythorne looked at him as if he were insane. ‘You would have us pound at each other with our fists over such a trifle? I assure you, I would do no such thing.’

Tanner did not miss a beat. ‘Oh, not fisticuffs. That would not be a fair fight at all. I’ve no real desire to injure you—well, not much of a desire anyway—or to injure my hands.’ He looked at his hands as if admiring them.

Greythorne’s eyes shot daggers.

Tanner returned a sympathetic look. ‘We could tame this for your sake. Perhaps a game of cards, if a physical contest is too fearful—I mean, if it is not to your liking.’

The man straightened in his chair. ‘I am well able to defend myself, if the sport is a gentlemanly one.’

‘Oh?’ Tanner lifted his brows. ‘A race, perhaps? On horseback or phaeton?’

Greythorne grimaced.

‘No? Too dirty?’ Tanner said. ‘What then?’

He waited, enjoying the corner he’d put Greythorne in.

Finally Greythorne answered, ‘Swords.’

Tanner grinned. ‘Swords it is!’

When they walked out of White’s, leaving a rustle of voices discussing what was overheard, it had started to rain. Greythorne opened an umbrella, not offering its shelter to Tanner as they walked from St. James’s to Angelo’s Fencing Academy next door to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Club on Bond Street. To thoroughly annoy Greythorne, Tanner sustained his friendly conversation the whole way, as if they were fast friends instead of adversaries.

When they entered the Academy, Tanner received a warm greeting from the third-generation Angelo to run the establishment. Tanner and Greythorne both stripped to their shirtsleeves.

‘Choose your weapon,’ Tanner invited.

‘Épée?’ responded Greythorne. ‘And shall we forgo masks?’

Tanner approved of that bit of bravado. He preferred clearly seeing the expression on his adversary’s face. In Greythorne’s case, he assumed it would be like reading a book.

‘How many touches?’ Tanner asked.

Greythorne thought a moment. ‘Five.’

Tanner nodded.

With Angelo and a few others watching, they saluted and faced each other en garde. Tanner gave Greythorne invitation, carefully watching how the man moved. Greythorne engaged his sword, and the sound rang throughout the room. Parrying the thrust, Tanner executed his riposte with just enough speed and skill to keep Greythorne attacking.

Again and again, Greythorne lunged and engaged. The man was light on his feet and had a supple wrist. He also had confidence in his skill. Tanner had to concentrate to keep up his defence. Greythorne managed a clever glissade, sliding his blade along Tanner’s, creating music not unlike a bow across a violin. The point of his sword hit Tanner’s shoulder.

‘Touché,’ cried Greythorne.

‘Bravo,’ someone called from the sidelines. Gentlemen from White’s, who had overheard the challenge, took their places to witness the fun.

Tanner acknowledged the touch, while a flurry of bet-making commenced among the onlookers. As near as he could tell, the odds were not in his favour.

He and Greythorne walked back to the middle of the room. Tanner glanced over and saw his friend Pomroy standing next to Angelo. Pomroy regarded Tanner with raised brows. Tanner lifted a shoulder and gave Pomroy a rueful smile.

He took position opposite Greythorne again.

‘You will lose both this and our other little competition,’ Greythorne boasted, as his épée clanged against Tanner’s blade, driving Tanner backwards. Tanner allowed alarm to show on his face as Greythorne looked more and more self-assured. Greythorne whipped the blade upward, its edge catching Tanner’s face before the point pressed into his neck.

‘Touché,’ Greythorne repeated.

Tanner felt a trickle of blood slide down his cheek. Greythorne’s eyes shone with excitement, a change in demeanour Tanner did not miss. He swiped at his cheek with his sleeve, staining the cloth red.

The contest resumed, and the shouts of their onlookers grew louder. The épées touched in a flurry of thrusts and ripostes, clanging louder and louder. Salty sweat dripped down Tanner’s face and stung the cut on his cheek. Greythorne sweated as well, his pace slowing, but his skilled work with the sword continued to keep Tanner on alert. When Greythorne earned one more touch, his laughter at the feat lacked force. Three touchés to Tanner’s zero. The odds against Tanner winning went up.

Tanner breathed hard as they stood en garde again. Greythorne began the same pattern of thrusts and parries he’d executed before with great success. This time, however, they merely informed Tanner exactly what would happen next. At Greythorne’s counter-riposte, Tanner parried and lunged, forcing Greythorne’s blade aside. He quickly attacked again, the point of his épée pressing at Greythorne’s heart.

The onlookers applauded, and the wagering recommenced. Greythorne’s eyes widened in surprise.

They began again. This time Tanner went on the attack. He picked up the pace of his swordwork, then slowed it again, until Greythorne’s brows knitted in confusion and he began making simple mistakes. Tanner drove Greythorne back again and again, each time striking a different part of his body, all potentially lethal had the épées not been affixed with buttons to prevent the sword from running straight through the flesh. He earned three more touchés.

With the score four touchés to Greythorne’s three, Greythorne rallied, giving the contest more sport and increasing the frenzy of betting among the onlookers. The blades sang as they struck against each other, the sound much more pleasing to Tanner’s ear than what he heard in King’s Theatre or Lady Rawley’s music salon. He relished it all. The strategy and cunning, the rumble of the onlookers, the danger, the sheer exertion.

He and Greythorne drove each other back and forth across the floor as the onlookers shouted louder and louder, odds changing with each footstep. Greythorne engaged more closely in an impressive display, the look of victory on his face. He lunged.

Tanner twisted around, parrying the attack from behind. He continued to spin, lifting Greythorne’s blade into the air, forcing him off balance. Tanner made the circle complete as he swung his blade back to press against Greythorne’s gut. The surprised man stumbled and fell backwards to the floor.

‘That was five! Five touchés!’ someone cried from the side.

Tanner continued the pressure of the dulled tip of his blade on the buff-coloured pantaloons Greythorne wore. The fabric ripped.

‘You’ve damaged my clothes!’ Greythorne seethed.

Tanner flicked the épée slightly and the tear grew larger. ‘What say you?’

Greythorne moved the blade aside with his hand and sat up. He did not look at Tanner.

‘What progress?’ Tanner demanded.

Greythorne struggled to his feet. ‘I am to dine with her tonight at Vauxhall.’

The onlookers had not attended to what must have seemed to them an epilogue to the drama. Wagers were settled and the onlookers dispersed, a few gentlemen first coming up to Tanner and clapping him on the shoulder. The winners of the betting, he surmised. Pomroy waited while he dressed. After thanking Angelo, he and Pomroy walked to the door. Greythorne was just ahead of them.

Outside rain was falling as if from buckets.

‘My clothes will be ruined!’ Greythorne snarled.

He held back, but Tanner and Pomroy did not hesitate to step out into the downpour, breaking into laughter as they left Greythorne in the doorway.

‘Damned prig!’ Pomroy said.

They ducked into the first tavern they came to, already crowded with others escaping the weather, including some of the gentlemen who had witnessed the swordfight. Tanner accepted their congratulations good naturedly. He and Pomroy pushed their way to a small table in the back.

When they were settled and some ale was on the way, Pomroy said, ‘What the devil was that all about?’

Tanner grinned. ‘I exerted myself to discover what Greythorne next planned in his conquest of Miss O’Keefe.’

‘Such a trifle?’ Pomroy pointed to the cut on his cheek. ‘There was not an easier way to come upon that information?’

‘And miss that sport?’ Tanner felt his injury with his finger.

A harried tavern maid brought them their ale, and Tanner took a thirsty gulp.

‘I discovered something about your fashionable adversary,’ Pomroy said.

Tanner sat forward. ‘Tell me, man.’

His friend took a sip of his ale instead. Tanner drummed the table with his fingers while he waited. Pomroy placed the tankard down and brushed the moisture from his coat sleeves, merely to delay and to annoy Tanner.

‘I discovered.’ he finally began, pausing to give Tanner a teasing smirk ‘.that your friend is not welcome at several of the brothels in town.’

‘This is all?’ Tanner took another drink.

His friend waved a finger in the air. ‘Think of it. Why would a man be barred from a brothel?’

‘Not paying?’ Tanner ventured. ‘Emitting too great a stench?’

Pomroy shook his head. ‘He has been barred because of cruelty. He inflicts pain.’

Tanner recalled Greythorne’s eyes when his sword drew blood. He frowned. ‘I remember now. Morbery went to school with him. Told me once Greythorne passed around de Sade’s books and boasted of engaging in his practices.’ He halfway rose to his feet. ‘Perverted muckworm. I must take my leave, Pomroy. The devil is set to dine with her this night.’ He dug in his pocket for some coin, but sat back down. ‘Dash it. I’m spoken for tonight. Clarence again.’

‘Send the ever-faithful Flynn,’ drawled Pomroy.

The rain settled into a misty drizzle that Flynn did his best to ignore as he stood under the scant shelter of a tree bordering the Grove at Vauxhall. There were a few other hearty souls who had braved the weather to listen to Rose sing, but Flynn had not seen Greythorne among them.

He’d listened with alarm to what Tanner had told him about Greythorne. A devotee of the Marquis de Sade, the man who said ‘the only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment.’ Flynn knew the man’s works. De Sade’s books were more popular at Oxford than the texts they were meant to study. Flynn had read the forbidden volumes as assiduously as the other Oxford fellows. De Sade had a brilliant mind and a perverted soul; if Greythorne meant to practise his brand of pleasure on Rose, Flynn would stop him—no matter what he had to do to accomplish it.

As he listened to her, Flynn thought Rose’s singing altered. She sang with less emotion, less energy, perhaps due to the rain, or Greythorne, or strain from her voice lesson. He could tell she was attempting to put her newfound knowledge into practice, trying to breathe as they’d taught her, to sing the highest notes as they’d taught her, but she seemed self-conscious, as if fearing her knuckles would be rapped at any moment if she made an error.

He missed the undisguised pleasure that had come through in her voice before, but he well understood her determination to improve. His own ambition was as keen. They both burned with the need to rise high, as if achieving less than the highest meant total failure.

Flynn knew Tanner would let him open doors for Rose, like the one he’d opened for her at King’s Theatre. The marquess had the power to fulfil her dreams.

When she finished singing her last note and curtsied to the audience, the applause was nearly drowned out by the sound of the rain rustling through the leaves and hissing on the hot metal of the lamps’ reflectors. Flynn quickly made his way to the gazebo door. A few other admirers also gathered there.

He knocked on the door and gave his name and card to the servant who answered it. When he was admitted, he heard another not so fortunate fellow say, ‘How did he get in?’

The servant left him alone in the gazebo’s lower room, and a moment later Rose came rushing in, directly into his arms.

‘Oh, Flynn! I hoped you would come!’

He could not help but hold her as she clung to him and buried her face in the damp fabric of his caped greatcoat. When she finally pulled away, tears glistened on her dark lashes.

‘When does Greythorne come?’ he asked.

She glanced up in surprise. ‘You knew of it?’

He nodded.

A faint smile flitted across her face. ‘He cancelled. Postponed, I mean.’

He gazed at her. ‘Let us go somewhere we can talk.’

She went to take her cloak off a hook on the wall. When they walked out, the bedraggled men outside could be heard saying, ‘That’s her!’ and ‘Dash it! He’s cut us out.’

He whisked her away, leading her down the Dark Path. It was dotted with small classical structures where couples could be private. Flynn tried the knob of the first one they came to, and, finding it unlocked, brought her inside. Rushlights lit the interior. A table was set with wine and two glasses.

‘I am guessing this party has been cancelled,’ Flynn said, gesturing to the table. ‘Come.’ He led her to the single chaise-longue, the only place to sit. ‘If they do show up, we will make an apology and leave.’

He unfastened her cloak and laid it aside with his greatcoat, hat and gloves before coming to sit next to her. Taking her hand in his, he pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time.

She could barely breathe for the feel of his bare hand upon hers. ‘Greythorne gave my father money for my company.’

He held both her hands in his.

She stared at them. ‘But … but when the rain came he … begged off. He sent a message. So I do not know when I shall be required to meet him. I do not wish to meet him at all, Flynn!’

He nodded, squeezing her hands. ‘Have no fear. I will think of some way to help.’

Rose gazed at him, feeling relief and something even more powerful. She could not believe he had come to her, rain and all. Now that his hands folded over hers, tethering her with his strength, she had not realised how keenly she needed him.

But he released her and stood, turning his back to her. ‘Lord Tannerton is prepared to better any offer Greythorne makes.’

She bowed her head. Tannerton again. Standing between them. ‘When?’ She felt the gloom descend upon her.

He answered in a low voice. ‘I must go to your father with Tannerton’s offer. If he accepts right away and does not wait for Greythorne to make a counter-offer, then it would still take me a week to make arrangements.’ He turned back to her. ‘Two weeks, perhaps.’

‘Two weeks,’ she whispered.

He came to sit next to her again. ‘There is no other choice, Rose.’

Her mind had accepted this. She wanted to sing. She wanted some day to sing Elvira’s part in Don Giovanni, to be a name everyone knew, like Catalani, and she wanted nothing to stop her. She wanted to live the life her mother had lost.

Only her heart warred with that ambition. Her heart pined for love. For Flynn.

She pulled away from him and rose from the chaise. ‘I do not want to stay here, Flynn. I.I feel as if I am trespassing.’

She bent down to pick up her cape. He came to her and took the cape from her hands, wrapping it around her. He fastened it under her chin and pulled the hood up to cover her head. She had difficulty breathing, he was so near. She dared not lift her chin to look into his eyes, because she wanted so dearly for his eyes to burn with the same desire raging inside her.

But she could not help herself. She tilted her head back. His eyes were dark with passion. The joy of it caused her knees to go weak. All she need do was close the distance between them and place her lips on his. What harm to taste his lips just once? Everyone expected her to be a wanton, why not behave like one now? She longed to be the wanton with Flynn.

‘Flynn,’ she whispered.

Rising on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his, lightly at first. When he did not move away, she slid her arms around his neck and increased the pressure. His lips parted, and she darted her tongue into his mouth where he tasted warm and wet and wonderful.

A low groan escaped him, and as she felt his breath cool her mouth, she grasped him tighter. His arms encircled her and he slammed his body against hers, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh. All sensation raced to where he ground himself against her, urging her on, thrilling her with the feel of his manhood hard beneath his clothes.

He wanted her, it meant. She was glad she’d learned about what was happening to him. And to her.

‘Flynn,’ she repeated, this time with urgency.

One of his hands slid around her body to her breast, rubbing and fondling until Rose thought she would cry out with the pleasure of it.

He unclasped her cloak and let it slide to the ground. Picking her up in his strong arms, he carried her to the chaise. She kissed his lips, his cheeks, his neck, anywhere she could reach.

‘Make love to me, Flynn,’ she begged.

He placed her gently on the chaise and positioned his body over hers. He bent towards her, closer and closer, and she thought she would burst from need of him.

Suddenly he broke away, so abruptly she looked to see if someone had pulled him off her, but there was no one there.

‘You are bewitching me,’ he rasped, grabbing her cloak from the floor. This time he merely tossed it to her and walked over to pick up his greatcoat and hat. ‘I will take you back to the gazebo.’

Outside it rained harder than before. The Dark Walk was darker and more deserted than ever now that the hour had advanced and clouds hid the moon. She could barely see where she was going, and she nearly slipped on the slick path trying to keep up with him.

She reached for him, grabbing his arm. ‘Flynn! Stop.’

He stopped, but did not look at her. ‘Rose, this attempt to seduce me was a mistake, do you understand? It must never happen again.’

‘Seduce you?’ she cried, ‘You seemed willing enough, Flynn. Do not make the fault all mine.’

He turned to her. ‘I will not betray Tanner.’ Even in the darkness she could see his eyes flash at her. She took a step toward him, but he backed away. ‘No, Rose.’

She lifted her trembling chin. ‘You’ve already betrayed him, have you not, Flynn? By wanting me? You cannot be telling me you do not want me, because I know you do.’

‘Wanting and taking are not the same thing,’ he said through gritted teeth.

He started walking again. As she hurried to stay with him, he stopped again, so abruptly she nearly collided with him.

He whirled on her. ‘What I do not understand is why you behave like a loose woman with me, but act as if bedding a marquess would be the worst torture in the world.’

‘A loose woman!’ she cried. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

He did not appear to hear her. ‘Do not tell me you merely want more money, because you do not behave as if you want any money at all. If you wanted another man, it would make sense, but why throw yourself at me—’

‘I did not throw myself at you!’ She swung her hand to slap his face.

He caught her by the wrist.

‘You were the one who chose the Dark Walk, Flynn, who brought me into that room. You chose that private place, and you dare accuse me of being the seductress?’ She tried to twist away, the hood of her cape falling from her head.

He grabbed her other wrist and struggled with her, losing his hat and pulling her closer and closer until her body was flush against his and their faces were only a hair’s breadth away, the need burning in his eyes.

‘How do you explain this, Flynn?’ Her voice shook. ‘I am not throwing myself at you now, am I?’

He did not release her right away, but held her, his breath rapid, his flesh so hot it seared her senses. Then he released her and ran a ragged hand through his hair.

Rain battered their uncovered heads and streamed down their faces. Slowly, however, the flames of their anger and passion fizzled in the damp air, as if turning to ashes. To gloom.

Rose whispered to him, her words competing with the rain. ‘What are we to do, Flynn?’

He did not answer, but his eyes shone an intense blue in the dim light, and the rain curled his usually neatly combed hair. He looked boyish. Vulnerable. He reached for her hand.

‘We left our gloves back in that room,’ he said, rubbing his bare thumb against her palm.

‘Oh.’ Rose closed her eyes at the exquisite feel of his touch ‘.I must retrieve mine. I have no other pair.’

He nodded and they started back, trudging through the puddles forming in the gravel of the walk. When they reached the small structure, he entered it alone and came out with both pairs of gloves.

They walked back in silence, Rose holding his arm.

‘‘Tis odd the orchestra is not playing,’ Rose said as they neared the gazebo. The paths were deserted. The supper boxes empty. ‘Everyone has left.’

They hurried to the gazebo door. Inside the servant was sweeping the floor.

His broom stilled when he saw her. ‘Miss O’Keefe, your father told me to tell you to ask the gentleman to escort you home, for Mr Hook told everyone to go home because of the rain and so your father did.’

Rose nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Skewes.’

The thin wiry man grinned. ‘He said as long as it was the fellow that was here before—’ he nodded to Flynn ‘—he’d not worry about you and neither was I to worry.’

‘You are kind,’ she said. ‘We had better be off, then.’

She and Flynn walked back out into the rain.

There were a few other stragglers walking to where the hackney coaches waited beyond the gate. Rose’s cloak felt heavy from the soaking rain, and she shivered.

‘You are cold.’ Flynn started to unbutton his greatcoat.

‘No.’ She put up a hand. ‘Your coat is as soaked as mine. I will be fine once we are in the carriage.’

They waited in a queue until it was their turn. Flynn lifted Rose into the hack and called out her direction to the jarvey.

They sat closer together than was wise, given how easily passion had sprung up between them. Rose shivered again, more from frustration than the chilling damp, but he unfastened her cloak and bundled it out of the way. Then he shrugged out of his greatcoat and wrapped an arm around her to warm her.

She snuggled close to him and rested her head on his shoulder. The passion that had nearly driven them to a frenzied coupling had settled into something more intimate and infinitely more sorrowful. In silence they held each other all the way across the new Vauxhall Bridge, up the roads skirting the river to the Strand, and into Covent Garden.

When the vehicle stopped on Langley Street, Flynn wrapped Rose in her cloak again and helped her out. Asking the jarvey to wait, he walked her inside her building.

‘Will you be all right?’ He put his hand on her arm as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘Your father will not be angry?’

Rose shook her head. ‘Remember, he said he would not worry if I was with you.’

His fingers tightened around her arm.

He dropped his hand. ‘I must go.’

She did not move.

He started to turn away, already grasping the banister, but he suddenly turned back to her. She ran to him, and he caught her face gently in both hands, kissing her, a slow, savouring kiss more steeped in sadness than in the fires of passion that had earlier burned them both.

Without speaking another word, he released her and hurried down the stairs.

Chapter Ten

By the next morning, the rain had cleared and the day promised to dry up some of the damp. Still, Flynn was grateful Rose was not scheduled to sing that evening, and she had assured him no plans to dine with Greythorne would be made.

Flynn needed the respite from the turmoil raging inside him, but, more than that, he needed a very quiet place. He closeted himself in Tanner’s library, busying himself with the most tedious of his many tasks.

Tanner breezed into the room, humming a tune, and causing Flynn to lose the tally of the long line of figures he was tabulating.

‘I trust I am not interrupting something important,’ Tanner said.

Flynn had done something uncharacteristic the night before. After leaving Rose, he availed himself of one of Tanner’s bottles of brandy and downed the entire contents in the privacy of his own room. He now paid the price with a killing headache and a foul mood.

Head throbbing, he put down his pen and recapped the inkwell. ‘Did you have need of me?’

Tanner picked up a ledger Flynn had left on the side table. ‘No need, really.’ He leafed through the ledger, slammed it closed, and dropped it with a thud that ricocheted in Flynn’s brain. ‘I did wonder how it went with Greythorne—and Miss O’Keefe, of course.’

Flynn’s mood became blacker. ‘He cancelled because of the rain.’

Tanner laughed, a loud guffaw that rattled painfully in Flynn’s throbbing head. ‘The fribble. He’d give her up to keep his coat dry.’ He laughed again, then drummed his fingers on the wooden table. ‘Did he set another date?’

Flynn gripped the edge of the desk, trying to remain composed. ‘Not as yet.’

‘Rain is good for something besides crops,’ said Tanner cheerfully.

Flynn tried to look composed. ‘It appears he is putting pressure on her father. He paid a sum for the opportunity to dine with her.’

‘Ah ha!’ Tanner cried.

Flynn pressed his fingers against his temple.

‘We have more in our arsenal of weapons besides money, do we not, Flynn?’ Tanner laughed again.

Flynn had not a clue what Tanner meant, but he would rather not ask and prolong this loud conversation.

But Tanner showed no inclination to be quiet. ‘We have cunning, and we have friends in high places.’

‘Indeed,’ muttered Flynn, who did not care what the deuce Tanner meant, if he would only stop talking.

‘Any fellow can throw money at a woman and win her, can he not?’ Tanner went on, walking to and fro as he spoke, his footsteps pounding on the carpet. ‘But we think of voice lessons and opera performances!’

‘I am not getting your point, Tanner,’ Flynn said tersely.

Tanner glanced at him quizzically, then peered at him more closely. ‘You look ghastly, Flynn. What the devil is wrong with you? You look as though you are going to shoot the cat.’

Flynn’s stomach did not react well to this reference to vomiting. ‘I have a headache.’

‘A headache from too much drink,’ Tanner concluded. ‘What did I miss last night?’

‘Nothing. You missed nothing.’ Merely a near-betrayal of all Tanner’s trust in him.

Tanner continued stomping around the room. ‘Good, because it was very fortunate that I was in the company of his Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence, you know. Friends in high places!’

Flynn gave him a direct look. ‘Am I supposed to understand you?’

Tanner laughed again, this time a loud, barking, brain-joggling laugh. Flynn pressed his temples.

‘No need to heed me.’ Tanner winked.

Did not Tanner need to meet someone at White’s or bid on a horse at Tattersalls, or something? ‘If you require my services, sir, I will endeavour to oblige you, but I was working on these sums …’

Tanner sidled up to the desk and leaned over Flynn to look at the numbers on the page. ‘I trust nothing is amiss?’

Flynn could feel Tanner breathing down his neck. ‘All is as it should be—but I have not tabulated the whole list.’

‘I despise sums.’ Tanner lumbered away, pulling books off the bookshelves, opening them, then slamming them shut again, and shoving them back into place.

Flynn closed his eyes and waited for the wave of hammering in his head to subside.

‘So!’ said Tanner, so loud Flynn thought his head would blow apart. ‘What is next in this game of ours? I say, this is more like a chess game every day, except not so ghastly tedious.’

A chess game, indeed, thought Flynn. The Queen was the prize. And after his behaviour the previous night, Flynn was a rook. ‘It is time to deal with the father. Make the offer.’

Tanner stood before him, hands on his hips, head cocked. ‘I had surmised more pursuit was in order. The girl hardly seems willing.’ He looked pensive. ‘I knew she’d be a challenge. She should come around after Ayrton puts her in the opera. How long do you think that will be?’

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