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