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,
