A Little Thing Called Love Read Online Free Page A

bitterest of enemies.
    “This one is up to you, Gran,” he said under his breath. “If she’s meant for me, then I’ll need your help.” With those words, he walked to the Company’s offices. It was not unusual for him to ask for his gypsy grandmother’s help. There had been many a time when Fyclan had been in a tight spot and sent her a prayer. She always delivered.
    And today was no different.
    Bishard was waiting for Fyclan at his desk. “Where the bloody hell have you been? The Old Cracker has been asking for you. I have assured him you were out on business—­”
    “ Mr. Morris , it is about time you honored us with your presence,” Mr. Charles Tillbury, also known as the Old Cracker, as in whip, said from the door of his office. “Come here.”
    When the Old Cracker used his senatorial tone, one didn’t know what to expect. Fyclan exchanged a wary glance with Bishard before approaching his superior.
    “Yes, sir?”
    Tillbury had a military bearing although he also enjoyed the soft life. He wore a dark brown bag wig that was at odds with the lines of age on his face. “The Marquess of Stowe has finally condescended to read the proposal you prepared about the Sumatra voyage.”
    “That was six months ago.”
    “He now says he is interested.”
    “But you have doubts?”
    “No one can afford doubts with a man whose purse is as fat as Stowe’s. I want to tap his pocket, Mr. Morris. If not Sumatra, then something else. He needs a nudge, but he says he doesn’t have time for a meeting to discuss the matter.”
    “What are you proposing?”
    “That we take our interests to him. Dangle them in front of him like bait. He will be at Lord and Lady Nestor’s musicale this evening. You remember Lord Nestor?”
    “I do. You went to school with him.”
    “Aye, and he has given me invitations for this evening. Put on your dancing shoes, Mr. Morris, we are going out in society. But you’d best be sharp. We’ve wanted Stowe’s backing for a long time. This is your chance to bring him in for us.”
    “Mine alone?”
    “What do I know of Sumatra? However, do this, and you will have earned you director’s seat. The youngest man ever elected. Go on with you. Be ready. This might be the most important night of your life.”
    He was right.
    Jennifer Tarleton was attending a musicale that evening. She had told him so in the library.
    “I appreciate the opportunity, sir,” Fyclan said, meaning those words.
    “See that you make the most of it,” Mr. Tillbury advised.
    “Oh, I shall.”

 
    Chapter Four
    M R. M ORRIS HAD been watching her leave.
    Elation brought heat to Jenny’s cheeks as she ducked her head, turned the corner, and jigged in triumph right there in the street.
    Scurrying behind her, Mandy almost collided with her. “Oh, sorry, Miss.”
    “Don’t be sorry, be happy ,” Jenny answered generously, wanting to share her good mood. “Come, Lorry, let’s hurry before my absence is noticed.”
    “That is what I’ve been trying to do, Miss Jenny,” the sometime surly footman muttered, and she just laughed, clutching her book to her chest as the footman used his big body to shield her from gawkers and the rude along the busy street. Mandy had to skip a step to keep up with them.
    Fyclan Morris. What a strange and brash name. Fyclan. She’d never met an Irishman before. Her father would not have approved.
    And yet, Fyclan Morris was everything she had hoped to meet in a gentleman and hadn’t yet. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she could fall in love.
    Love, yes, just like the poets praised, and Mr. Morris was certainly poem worthy. He was handsome. She liked his strong nose, his almost black eyes, his square jaw.
    She liked even more that he had spoken to her. Not about her. Not around her. Not through her.
    To her.
    And he had behaved as if he didn’t find her bookish tendencies disagreeable. Her mother constantly warned her to not talk about books or art or music. Listen,