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