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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.