over Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen’s bachelor apartments, he’d also taken on his valet, Tibbins. Tibbins frankly and openly despised the flamboyant waistcoats and tried at every opportunity to convince his master to get rid of them.
Flynn cared not the snap of his fingers for his valet’s—or anyone else’s—opinions. He had no love for the current English fashion for dressing a man like a wet weekend in Wales; Flynn liked a bit of color.
He’d entered London society with a view to finding a fine, fashionable lady to take to wife, and wiser and more fashionable heads—well, Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, who was an elegant sprig—had persuaded him to dress more conventionally—for the moment, at any rate.
Today, not even such an arbiter of fashion as Hyphen-Hyphen could find fault with the immaculate buckskin breeches molded smoothly over Flynn’s thighs, his highly polished black boots, his fine linen shirt with its high starched collar, the elegantly tied neckcloth and the perfectly tailored dark blue coat made for him by the very exclusive Weston, tailor to the fine gentlemen of the ton.
No, Flynn would have been complete to a shade—a very dull shade in his opinion—except for his waistcoat, which had not been made for him by any gentleman’s tailor.
Today’s waistcoat was a riot of snarling black and yellow embroidered Chinese tigers on a scarlet and blue silk background. Their eyes were tiny crystals that glinted green or red when he moved.
He had half a dozen of these vividly colored waistcoats, mostly made of Chinese or Indian embroideries and all made by Miss Daisy Chance, who charged Flynn an exorbitant price for the privilege—with a cheeky grin that all but admitted it was bare-faced robbery.
“Tell the lass to shake a leg, will you, Featherby?”
Featherby inclined a regal head. “I shall inform the younglady, sir. In the meantime, Lady Beatrice would, I’m sure, be delighted to entertain you. She’s in the front drawing room.” With an imperious wave of his hand, Featherby indicated the room. “I will have tea brought in.”
“Oh, but I haven’t got t—”
But the butler had gone, damn him, disappearing through the green baize door that led to the servants’ domain. With a sigh, Flynn made his way to the drawing room, already half regretting that he’d agreed to take Daisy with him.
It wasn’t that Flynn minded Daisy’s company—he liked the girl fine—it was just . . . he preferred to inspect his cargo on his own. It was a private little ritual he enjoyed each time one of his ships docked, meeting with the captain, going over the cargo manifest, then poking quietly through the various stores and bundles, the boxes and the exotically wrapped items, and deciding what he would do with them all.
It was a reminder of how far he’d come, a small, private . . . all right, yes, a small, private gloat.
Flynn grinned to himself. And maybe not always so small.
Trading was in his blood. He never knew in advance exactly what his captains might bring. Oh, there was the bread-and-butter cargo, silks and tea and spices and what-have-you, depending on where the ship had been trading, but he encouraged all his captains to keep an eye out for anything special and unusual.
Rich people were prepared to pay handsomely for the rare and exclusive.
And this particular ship was the
Derry Lass
, whose captain, McKenzie, traveled with his wife, Mai-Lin, who was a born trader on both sides of her heritage—the Scottish and the Chinese. She’d never yet failed to surprise him with some rare and beautiful item. And as well as silks, she had a nose for fine jade. Flynn collected jade.
Still, if he had to take an outsider along with him—and a female at that—Daisy was a good choice. She had an eye for quality, that girl, and a knack for knowing the kind of things that ladies—and therefore merchants—would snap up.
He knocked on the sitting room door and entered.
The dowager Lady Davenham, who
Flynn cared not the snap of his fingers for his valet’s—or anyone else’s—opinions. He had no love for the current English fashion for dressing a man like a wet weekend in Wales; Flynn liked a bit of color.
He’d entered London society with a view to finding a fine, fashionable lady to take to wife, and wiser and more fashionable heads—well, Freddy Hyphen-Hyphen, who was an elegant sprig—had persuaded him to dress more conventionally—for the moment, at any rate.
Today, not even such an arbiter of fashion as Hyphen-Hyphen could find fault with the immaculate buckskin breeches molded smoothly over Flynn’s thighs, his highly polished black boots, his fine linen shirt with its high starched collar, the elegantly tied neckcloth and the perfectly tailored dark blue coat made for him by the very exclusive Weston, tailor to the fine gentlemen of the ton.
No, Flynn would have been complete to a shade—a very dull shade in his opinion—except for his waistcoat, which had not been made for him by any gentleman’s tailor.
Today’s waistcoat was a riot of snarling black and yellow embroidered Chinese tigers on a scarlet and blue silk background. Their eyes were tiny crystals that glinted green or red when he moved.
He had half a dozen of these vividly colored waistcoats, mostly made of Chinese or Indian embroideries and all made by Miss Daisy Chance, who charged Flynn an exorbitant price for the privilege—with a cheeky grin that all but admitted it was bare-faced robbery.
“Tell the lass to shake a leg, will you, Featherby?”
Featherby inclined a regal head. “I shall inform the younglady, sir. In the meantime, Lady Beatrice would, I’m sure, be delighted to entertain you. She’s in the front drawing room.” With an imperious wave of his hand, Featherby indicated the room. “I will have tea brought in.”
“Oh, but I haven’t got t—”
But the butler had gone, damn him, disappearing through the green baize door that led to the servants’ domain. With a sigh, Flynn made his way to the drawing room, already half regretting that he’d agreed to take Daisy with him.
It wasn’t that Flynn minded Daisy’s company—he liked the girl fine—it was just . . . he preferred to inspect his cargo on his own. It was a private little ritual he enjoyed each time one of his ships docked, meeting with the captain, going over the cargo manifest, then poking quietly through the various stores and bundles, the boxes and the exotically wrapped items, and deciding what he would do with them all.
It was a reminder of how far he’d come, a small, private . . . all right, yes, a small, private gloat.
Flynn grinned to himself. And maybe not always so small.
Trading was in his blood. He never knew in advance exactly what his captains might bring. Oh, there was the bread-and-butter cargo, silks and tea and spices and what-have-you, depending on where the ship had been trading, but he encouraged all his captains to keep an eye out for anything special and unusual.
Rich people were prepared to pay handsomely for the rare and exclusive.
And this particular ship was the
Derry Lass
, whose captain, McKenzie, traveled with his wife, Mai-Lin, who was a born trader on both sides of her heritage—the Scottish and the Chinese. She’d never yet failed to surprise him with some rare and beautiful item. And as well as silks, she had a nose for fine jade. Flynn collected jade.
Still, if he had to take an outsider along with him—and a female at that—Daisy was a good choice. She had an eye for quality, that girl, and a knack for knowing the kind of things that ladies—and therefore merchants—would snap up.
He knocked on the sitting room door and entered.
The dowager Lady Davenham, who
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