• Chapter
One •
London, July 1817
Vauxhall Gardens was not a place Jameson Flynn would have chosen to spend
his night hours, but his employer, the Marquess of Tannerton, required his
presence.
To Flynn, Vauxhall was all facade. Mere wooden structures painted to look
like Greek temples or Chinese pavilions. Revelers equally as false, wearing
masks to disguise whether they be titled, rich, respectable, or rogue, pickpocket,
lady of ill repute.
“Have some more ham.” Tannerton handed him the plate of paper-thin
ham slices, a Vauxhall delicacy of dubious worth.
Rich as Croesus, Tanner--as he liked to be called--ate with as much enthusiasm
as if he were dining at Carlton House instead of a supper box at Vauxhall.
Flynn declined the Vauxhall delicacy but sipped his arrack, a heady mixture
of rum and Benjamin flower that redeemed Vauxhall only a little in his eyes.
It was not unusual for Tanner to seek Flynn out for companionship, but Flynn
had no illusions. He was Tanner’s secretary, not his friend.
To look at them, you might not guess which one was the marquess. Flynn
prided himself on his appearance. His dark brown hair was always neatly
in place. His black coat and trousers, well-tailored. Tanner, a few years
older and lighter in coloring, took less care, often giving the impression
he’d just dismounted from his horse.
Flynn placed his tankard on the table. “You brought me here for a
purpose, sir. When am I to discover what it is?”
Tanner grinned and reached inside his coat, pulling out a piece of paper.
He handed it to Flynn. “Regard this, if you will.”
It was a Vauxhall program, stating that, on this July night, a concert
of vocal and instrumental music would be performed featuring a Miss Rose
O’Keefe, Vauxhall Garden’s newest flower.
Flynn ought to have guessed. A woman.
Ever since returning from Brussels, Tanner had gone back to his more characteristic
pursuits of pleasure in whatever form he could find it. Or, Flynn might
say, from whatever woman. And there were plenty of women willing to please
him. Tanner had the reputation of being good to his mistresses, showering
them with gifts, houses, and ultimately a nice little annuity when his interest
inevitably waned. As a result, Tanner usually had his pick of actresses,
opera dancers, and songstresses.
“I am still at a loss. I surmise you have an interest in this Miss
O’Keefe, but what do you require of me?” Flynn usually became
involved in the monetary negotiations with Tanner’s chère
amies or when it came time to deliver the congé, Tanner
having an aversion to hysterics.
Tanner’s eyes lit with animation. “You must assist me in winning
the young lady.”
Flynn nearly choked on his arrack. “I? Since when do you require
my assistance on that end?”
Tanner leaned forward. “I tell you, Flynn. This one is exceptional.
No one heard of her before this summer. One night she just appeared in the
orchestra box and sang. Rumor has it she sang again at the Cyprian’s
Masquerade, but that is not certain. In any event, this lady is not easily
won.”
Flynn shot him a skeptical expression.
Tanner went on, “Pomeroy and I came to hear her the other evening.
You’ve never heard the like, Flynn, let me tell you. There was nothing
to be done but try to meet her.” He scowled and took a long sip of
his drink. “Turns out she has a papa guarding her interests. I could
not even manage to give the man my card. There were too many ramshackle
fellows crowding him.”
Flynn could just imagine the toplofty marquess trying to push his way through
the sorts that flocked around the female Vauxhall performers. “What
is it you wish of me?”
Tanner leaned forward eagerly. “My idea is this. You discover a way
to get to this father and how to negotiate on my behalf.” He nodded,
as if agreeing with himself. “You have the gift of diplomacy, which
you know I do not.”
Flynn suspected all the negotiating required was to have said, “How
much do you want?” and the lady would have fallen, but he kept that
opinion to himself. He would act as broker; he’d performed such tasks
for Tanner before, but always after Tanner made the initial conquest. The
way Flynn looked at it, he was negotiating a contract, not so different
from other contracts he negotiated for Tanner. Flynn negotiated the terms,
the limits, the termination clause.
The orchestra, playing some distance from their supper box, its strains
wafting louder and softer on the breeze, suddenly stopped. Tanner pulled
out his timepiece. “I believe it is about time for her to perform.
Make haste.”
Flynn dutifully followed Tanner’s long-legged stride to the Grove
in the center of the gardens where the two-storied gazebo held the orchestra
high above the crowd. Tanner pushed his way to the front for the best view.
He was filled with excitement, like a small boy about to witness a balloon
ascent.
The music began, a tune familiar to Flynn, and, amidst cheers and applause,
Miss O’Keefe took her place in front of the orchestra. She began to
sing:
When, like the dawning day
Eileen Aroon
Love sends his early ray ...
Her crystalline voice filled the warm summer air, silencing the revelers.
Flynn lifted his gaze to her and all the glittering lamps strung on the
gazebo and throughout the surrounding trees blurred. Only she filled his
vision, dressed in a gown of deep red that fluttered in the light breeze.
Her hair, dark as the midnight sky, dramatically contrasted with skin as
pale as clouds billowing over mountaintops. Her lips, now open in song,
were as pink as a summer garden’s rose.
This was Rose O’Keefe, Vauxhall’s newest singing sensation?
She seemed more like some dream incarnate. Flynn watched as she extended
her arms toward the audience, as if to embrace them all. Hers was a graceful
sensuality, but earthy and deeply arousing.
...Were she no longer true
Eileen Aroon
What would her lover do ...
Flynn swallowed against a sudden tightness in his throat. The Irish tune--Eileen
Aroon--sung with the tiniest lilt, created a wave of emotion such
as he’d not felt in years. He squeezed shut his stinging eyes and
could almost see his mother at the old pianoforte, his father by her side,
his brothers and sisters gathered around. He could almost hear his father’s
baritone booming loud and his sister Kathleen’s sweet soprano blending
in harmony. He could almost smell the rich earth, the fresh air, the green
of home.
He’d not crossed the Irish Sea in the ten years since he’d
sailed for Oxford, filled with ambition, but this singing temptress not
only aroused his masculine senses, but also gave him an aching yearning
for just one evening of song, laughter, and family.
“Is she not all I said she would be?” Tanner nudged him on
the shoulder, grinning like a besotted fool.
Flynn glanced back to her. “She is exceptional.”
...Never to love again...Eileen Aroon...
Tanner also gaped at Rose O’Keefe, unmindful that his frank admiration
showed so plainly on his face. Flynn hoped his own reaction appeared more
circumspect, even though the heat of frank desire burned more hotly with
each note she sang.
She seemed to represent all Flynn had left behind. Country. Family. Joy.
Pleasure. It made him wish he’d answered his mother’s monthly
letters more than three times a year, wish he could wrap his arms around
her and his father, roughhouse with his brothers, tease his sisters. He
missed the laughter, the gaiety. How long had it been since he’d laughed
out loud? Embraced a woman? Sung Eileen Aroon?
Flynn’s ambition had driven him away from his past. He’d been
the marquess’s secretary for six years, but the position was a mere
stepping-stone. Flynn aimed to rise higher, in government, perhaps, or--his
grandest aspiration--to serve royalty. Tanner supported his goals, taking
Flynn with him to the Congress of Vienna and to Brussels, where powerful
men learned Flynn’s name and recognized his talent. The marquess assured
him the time would soon come for a position suitable to Flynn’s ambitions.
Which was why Flynn was gob-smacked at his reaction to Rose O’Keefe.
She propelled him back, not forward, and her clear, poignant voice left
him very aware of his manhood. Carnal desire and thoughts of home made an
odd mixture indeed, and a thoroughly unwanted one. Still, at the moment,
he seemed helpless to do anything but let her voice and vision carry him
away.
Later he would plant his feet firmly back on the ground. He must, because
this woman who had temporarily aroused his senses and unearthed a buried
yearning for home was also the woman he must procure for his employer.
Rose glanced down at the crowd watching her, so silent, so appreciative!
Her audience had grown larger with each performance, and she had even been
mentioned favorably in The Morning Chronicle. She loved hearing
her voice rise above the orchestra, resounding through the summer night
air. The magic of Vauxhall seemed to charm her as well, as if singing an
Irish air in this fanciful place were merely some lovely, lovely dream.
Mr. Hook himself watched from the side of the balcony, smiling in approval.
Rose tossed the elderly musical director a smile of her own before turning
her attention back to her audience. She was so glad Miss Hart--Mrs. Sloane,
she meant--had seen her perform before leaving for Italy on her wedding
trip. Rose’s brief time living with Miss Hart had taught her many
lessons, but the one she treasured most was to be proud of who she was.
And Rose was very proud this day. Proud enough to feel all her dreams were
possible. She believed that someday she would be the celebrated singer all
London raved about. She would sing at Covent Garden, at Drury Lane or--dare
she hope?--King’s Theatre.
Rose scanned her audience again. Most of the faces lifted toward her in
admiration were masculine ones. Since she’d been ten years old, men
had been staring at her. At least now she knew how to hold her head up and
be unafraid of their frank regard. She’d learned how to talk to gentlemen,
how to encourage their interest--or, more importantly, how to discourage
it.
Rose’s eye was drawn to two gentlemen in the audience below her.
They stood close to the balcony, so that the lamps illuminated them. One
was very tall, at least as tall as Mr. Sloane, but it was not he who drew
her attention as much as the one who stood so still gazing up at her. This
young man’s rapt expression made her heart skip a beat.
She sang the last bar. “...Truth is a fixed star. Eileen Aroon...”
Applause thundered skyward as the music faded. Rose stole a peek at the
young gentleman who had captured her interest. He continued to stand, statue-still,
his eyes still upon her. She felt her cheeks go warm.
She bowed and threw a kiss, eyes slanting toward her quiet admirer, before
beginning her next song. As she continued through her performance, her gaze
roved over all her admirers, but her eyes always returned to him.
Soon the orchestra began her final tune of the evening, The Warning.
“ List to me, ye gentle fair; Cupid oft in ambush lies ...” Rose
began softly, animating her facial expressions and her gestures. “Of
the urchin have a care, Lest he take you by surprise...”
She let her voice grow louder and had to force herself not to direct the
song at the mysterious gentleman, who still had not moved. She could not
distinguish his features or see what color were his eyes, but she fancied
them locked upon her, as she wished to lock hers upon him.
Flynn tried to shake off his reaction to Rose O’Keefe, tried to tell
himself she was merely another of Tanner’s many interests, but he could
not make himself look away from her. Had his grandfather been standing next
to him and not in his grave these last twenty years, he’d have said, “Tis
the fairies t’blame.”
Perhaps not fairies, but certainly a fancy of Flynn’s own making. It
seemed to Flynn that Rose O’Keefe was singing directly to him.
An illusion, certainly. There could be nothing of a personal nature
between him and this woman he had not yet met. All he experienced
while listening to her was illusion, as fanciful as believing in fairies.
His role was clear. He must approach Miss O’Keefe’s father and convince the man to
allow him to plead Tanner’s suit directly to the daughter. Perhaps he
would also be required to deliver gifts, or escort her to Tanner’s choice
of meeting place. He’d performed such errands in the past without a
thought.
It was unfortunate that this rationality fled in the music of her
voice, the allure of her person. She sang of Cupid, and Flynn understood why
the ancients gave the little fellow an arrow. He felt pierced with exquisite
pain, emotions scraping him raw.
With one more refrain, her song ended, and, as she curtsied deeply
to the applause that erupted all around him, he roused himself from this ridiculous
reverie.
“Bravo!” shouted Tanner, nearly shattering Flynn’s eardrum. “Bravo!”
A moment later she had vanished as if she’d only been a dream. Tanner
clapped until the principle performer on the program, Charles Dignum,
began singing Would You Gain the Tender Creature.
Flynn stared at Tanner, feeling suddenly as if Tanner were Cromwell
come to seize his lands and take his woman, an even more ridiculous
fancy. Flynn’s mother was English, though she’d spent most of her life
in Ireland. He had as much English blood in his veins as Irish. What’s
more, Flynn embraced his Englishness. England was where his life
was bound. England was where his ambitions lay.
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of this madness. Rose O’Keefe
had been a mere fleeting reminder of home, nothing more.
He pressed his fingers against his temple. He would soon recover
his sanity and return to serving Tanner with dispassionate efficiency.
But as Tanner grabbed his arm and led him back to the supper box,
the sweet voice of Rose O’Keefe lingered in Flynn’s ear, an echoing
reverie:
List to me, ye gentle fair; Cupid oft in ambush lies...
:: back to top ::
End of Excerpt. Like it?
Order the North
American Edition or the UK Edition.
Rose, the heroine of Innocence
and Impropriety, is a Vauxhall singer who
aspires to sing opera at the King’s Theatre, a dream her mother was
unable to fulfill in her own youth. The hero, Flynn, makes Rose’s wish
come true.
The King’s Theatre of 1817, when Innocence and Impropriety is set, was
located in Haymarket in London and possessed the exclusive right to hold performances
of Italian Opera. The first theatre on the site was built in 1705. It burned
down in 1789 and was rebuilt in 1791--the theatre of the story.
The theatre had five tiers of boxes for which the beau monde purchased subscriptions
for the season.
Mozart’s Don Giovanni had its London premiere at King’s Theatre
in 1816, and was performed at the theatre in 1817 when the story
is set.
The
Earl of Greythorne, the villain
in
Innocence and Impropriety, makes an appearance
in
The
Diamond.
Invoking the name of his employer, the Marquis of Tannerton,
and providing generous payment out of Tannerton’s funds, Flynn arranges
with Mr. Ayrton, director of the season, to have Rose tutored
in the opera by Miss Hughes-Gatti, who sang Elvira in Don Giovanni, and Signor
Angrisani, who played Don Giovanni.
Mr. Ayrton really was the musical director who brought Don Giovanni to the London
stage and Signor Angrisani and Miss Hughes-Gatti did perform the opera.
When Victoria ascended the throne, The King’s Theatre became Her Majesty’s
Theatre. By 1847 it no longer carried the title Italian Opera
House, and it became the London theatre to showcase romantic
ballet. In 1867 the theatre burned down and another was built but later demolished
in 1892 and replaced by the present building.
Today Her Majesty’s Theatre in the Haymarket is home to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s
Phantom of the Opera, premiering at the theatre in 1986 and remaining
there ever since.
When I am able, I love to pepper my books with real historical
characters such as these. To me, it brings the history alive
and makes the story more real. And setting my stories in real places like
King’s
theatre and Vauxhall Gardens helps to transport me to the era
I love the most--The Regency.
• First appeared on Harlequin
Historical Blog March 5, 2007.
:: back to top ::
:: “Diane
Gaston's unconventional male and female heroes give Innocence
and Impropriety, her latest elegantly written Regency historical,
a refreshingly different twist.” — John
Charles, Chicago Tribune
:: “Don't let that title fool you.
don't let the fact that it's a harlequin romance fool you. diane
gaston is one of the better authors out there. all of her historicals
have just the right blend of humor, sensual tension, emotional pathos,
and chemistry between the lead couple to make for an engrossing read.
also check out The Wagering Widow and
A Reputable Rake. MARCH 2007.” — Avines,
Amazon.com Listmania (read the whole
review)
:: “A fine example of Regency romance,
author, Diane Gaston has once again enthralled readers with very
likable characters and a beautiful love story combined.... Innocence
and Impropriety is a book I am easily able to recommend, and look
forward to Tannerton’s
story in future.” — Lettetia Elsasser, Historical
Romance Writers,
A Romance Designs Community (read the whole
review)
:: “Innocence
and Impropriety is a beautifully
written regency that will keep you sitting on the edge of your seat
wondering what will happen on the next page. Diane
Gaston proves again why she is a RITA award-winning author. Within
the pages of this enthralling romance is a commanding plot woven
with rich details of the era and a vigorous passion that explodes
between two mesmerizing characters.” — Billie
Jo, Romance Junkies (read the whole
review)
:: “A truly solid gold regency read! —
Audrey Lawrence, Fresh Fiction (read the whole
review)
:: “For this refreshing bright tale
mixed with danger, I give an bouquet of roses. — MP, Red
Roses for Authors (read the whole
review)
:: “For
an engaging romance with moments of suspense and danger, I highly recommend Innocence
and Impropriety.” — Jane Bowers, Romance
Reviews Today (read the whole
review)
:: “...you don’t
want to put the book down.... Using anger, passionate love,
and tension, Diane Gaston pens a memorable tale....” — Debby
Guyette, Cataromance (read the whole
review)
:: “...a
feel for the manners and customs of the time... well-researched, emotional
love stories. Diane Gaston has certainly won my devotion.... Yes, Ms. Gaston
has the knack for Regency romance...” —
MaryGrace Meloche, Historical Romance Writers, A
Romance Designs Community (read the whole
review)
:: “If you are weary of aristocratic
heroes and heroines in Regency historical romances, then Diane Gaston's Innocence
and Impropriety is just the book for you. Well-written and entertaining, Innocence
and Impropriety is also provocative... highly recommended! —
Debora Hosey, Romance Readers Connection (read the whole
review)
:: back to top ::
