Page 41 of The Vagabond Viscount
It had been a long time since Flynn had set foot inside an Anglican church. He had become quite comfortable with Catholic ones, since it was often a good place to find a charitable feed. “Your church mission sounds wonderful. But what does that have to do with me, Mister Cooper?”
Michael’s face lit up, and he smiled. “How about I take you somewhere and buy you a hot meal? Then we talk, after which you can decide whether you would like to take me up on my offer.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. He had received enough unpleasant approaches from men over the past few months to know that well-mannered conduct and appearances didn’t always match with sordid demands. “I am not in the business of selling my body,” he ground out.
The smile disappeared as a look of shock surfaced on Michael’s face. “Oh, no! I didn’t mean that sort of offer. I mean… I wanted to talk to you about giving you a place to live.”
“What did you say?” Surely, he had misheard this stranger. A lump formed in his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had been kind to him. A place to live. This was more than Flynn had ever dared dream he might find.
“It’s not much, just a room off our meeting place, and you would need to help out with things. But from the look of you, sir, I would suggest that you are living a rough life.”
Any moment now, Flynn was going to break down in the middle of the bustling market. He let go of the knife and pulling his hand out of his coat pocket, held it out to his newfound friend. “It is an honor to meet you, Michael Cooper. I am Flynn.”
“Just Flynn?”
This man might be who he said he was, but trust wasn’t something that came easily for Viscount Cadnam. Not after the past year of having endured a life of hell. For all he knew, his father might have discovered that he was still alive and be on the hunt for him. And if that was the case, and Earl Bramshaw had unfinished business, the last thing his son should be doing was giving his full name freely to any stranger who he happened to meet. Especially ones who spoke perfect English.
I have survived this long; I am not going to let him win.
There was also the question of Lily and her family. Her father might well wish to seek retribution for Flynn not having married his daughter. Or worse, send someone to drag him on board a ship and take him back to England, where a wedding service and an eager bride awaited his arrival.
For the time being it was better that no one knew that Viscount Flynn Cadnam was still alive.
As he gave Michael his best smile, Flynn leaned in. “Yes, just Flynn.”
ChapterTwenty-Two
The Morning Herald
March 21st, 1818
Where is the Duchess of Mowbray?
Rumors of her grace having abandoned her duties as a wife and duchess have been circulating since just before Christmas. Now it appears, dear reader, that certain members of the Kembal family, including the Marquis of Holwell, have retired to the family estate, Mowbray Park. It is not known when they are expected to return to London.
The mystery deepens.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Easter Sunday, 22nd March 1818
Rome
If he lived to one hundred, Flynn Cadnam would never again take for granted the pure and simple joy of clean, hot water. After dipping his hands into the basin, he splashed the luxurious liquid over his face. When the ripples in the water cleared, he glanced down, grinning at his reflection in the bowl. A neatly shaved face, framed by straggly, long brown locks, smiled back at him.
“I really ought to do something about my hair,” he mused.
There was a barber’s shop situated close to the meeting hall which the congregation of All Saints used for their church, but he was reluctant to spend his valuable coin on indulging in a haircut. The scissors which he used to trim the flowers adorning the two large vases on the altar table each Sunday would have to suffice to bring his unruly locks under control.
His appearance might still be a little rough around the edges, but it was a vast improvement on how he had looked the day, some three weeks earlier, when Michael Cooper had met him in central Rome. Hot tears pricked at his eyes whenever he thought about the moment Michael had offered him not only friendship but a safe and warm place in which to live.
He had existed on the edge so long that it was only after he had moved into the makeshift Anglican church that the precariousness of his previous life had finally dawned on him. He had been mere weeks away from either arrest, death, or both.
Lifting his head, Flynn took in the clearer view which the small mirror hanging on the wall above the basin afforded him. His cheeks were sunken. Even three weeks of steady meals couldn’t quite undo the damage of the past year. But he was determined not to go home until he looked like his old self again. He couldn’t face Augusta in this condition.
Augusta. What did she suppose had happened to him? Did she think him dead?
Knowing my father, he would have told some cock and bull story about me frequenting houses of ill repute and having been murdered in one of them.
