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
