Free Whisper of Jasmine by Deanna Raybourn Page A

began writing out the invitations, and the next morning she was up at dawn, roaring around London in her beloved Aston Martin coal scuttle. It was a discarded prototype, and Johnny still wasn’t sure how she’d managed to persuade an old beau to sell it to her. She had painted it bright yellow and the thing could drive indecently fast. She drove it like she did everything else, with a great deal of flair and a careless certainty that everything would turn out for the best. Of course, the cart horses she scared and the errand boys she nearly mowed down weren’t quite so sure, but Delilah had discovered that a wide smile and a few kisses blown on the wind went a long way towards pacifying the bystanders who had to jump out of the way. She tore through the London streets as quickly as she dared, collecting regular admonishments by the authorities and more than a few admirers. She paid boys to watch the automobile for her when she parked haphazardly in front of the wine merchant and the butcher and the florist, and by December 27 parcels began to arrive, filling their small flat with party preparations. There were crates of vintage champagne, the best she could find on such short notice and marked up so drastically it took Johnny’s breath away to read the bill. But getting Delilah to change course once she got the bit between her teeth was like trying to hold back a storm. Far easier just to go along for the ride—and far more fun. She put him to work testing canapés and mixing cocktails, a taste for which she had brought with her from Louisiana, while she dashed off again on another of her interminable errands. She shopped for a party dress and chose flowers, and—to Johnny’s amusement—hauled home a gramophone and two dozen recordings to play on it.
    “I’m surprised you didn’t hire musicians,” Johnny told her, only half in jest.
    Her expression was thoughtful as she surveyed the flat. “I would have, but they’d take up too much room. If everyone we’ve invited turns out, it’s going to be a terrific crush, and I want them to have room to dance. They must be able to dance.”
    “Why, exactly?”
    “Because I’m doing some matchmaking. Poor Quentin Harkness was so gutted when I ran away with you, I thought I’d throw him a nice juicy little bone,” she told him, her eyes dancing.
    “And what might the bone’s name be?”
    “Evangeline Merryweather. She’s a darling girl. Granddaughter of one of those moth-eaten old earls who died without an heir so everything’s gone to some cousin or other. She’s had to go to work,” she said with a frisson.
    “There are worse things in life than working for a living,” Johnny put in mildly.
    “Not for a girl who hasn’t any skills, and Evie is hopeless. Darling, but hopeless. No, I need to marry her off, and now is the perfect time to find her a husband. We’ll have a pack of young men just itching for a pretty girl to make love to before they head off to war. Why not Evie?”
    “It’s a fairly long way from wanting to make love to a girl to marrying her,” Johnny reminded her.
    “Not for you. And if I can have you bagged and tagged in two days, I can do the same for Evie in a single evening. Just watch me.”
    He burst out laughing. “So it was all just a bit of sport to you? And I was the trophy?”
    “Precisely.” But she was grinning, and Johnny’s expression turned pensive.
    “I think you’re out of your depth here, love. I’ll wager you can’t get Evie Merryweather paired off like one of Noah’s animals.”
    “How much?”
    They were alone, but Johnny was still too much of a gentleman to say the words above a whisper. “Come here and I’ll murmur into your delicate little ear.”

Chapter Two
    Across London, Evangeline Merryweather was staring at the invitation and suppressing a groan. Her flatmate, an unpleasant girl named Marjorie, or Margery—Evie had never bothered to learn and cared even less—gave her a repressive look. “I