Page 1 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Prologue

Dearest Mother,” promised Dianthus, her hand on her heart, “even if I must steal them all, I shall retrieve every last charm. One day, your bracelet shall be complete again.”

Narcissa gazed lovingly at her full-grown daughter. Tears came to her eyes. “Our bracelet, dearest. When I am gone, it will be yours, and your daughter’s after you.” She passed her a tiny notebook. “Read this and learn it by heart. It is my record of where each charm was lost, stolen, or bartered. I am certain you will succeed in finding them again.”

“I shall, even if I must travel the length and breadth of Britain to do so.” Dianthus kissed her mother’s cheek and left the room.

As she closed the door, she added under her breath, “Indeed I shall succeed, and more—for I shall also avenge your ruin.”

The End

Daisy Warren set her pen down with a heartfelt sigh. The Lady’s Ruin was her best novel yet. The plot and characters were so outrageous she felt sure they resembled nothing and no one in real life.

Except perhaps Daisy herself, but she didn’t want to think about that just now. The novel was over and done with, and so was the smuggler who’d inspired it—dead, and richly he deserved it. Unfortunately, neither of these facts changed a thing about the life of a ruined lady.

She bundled the pages, wrapped and sealed them, and addressed them to her publisher. In the morning, she would have it sent on the mail coach to London. She set it aside, went down to the taproom of the ramshackle inn where she lived, and indulged in a celebratory brandy.

Tonight she would play the out-of-tune pianoforte and sing for the drunken patrons of the Diving Duck, while her mother turned in her grave. Tomorrow she would begin the sequel—The Lady’s Revenge.

Chapter 1

Several months later

“He’s a good-looking man,” Sally said, wiping three tankards and preparing to fill them. “And one of your sort, too.”

Daisy Warren glanced up from kneading the dough for the cottage loaves. “Not anymore.” She was a ruined woman, and therefore her supposed ‘sort’—in other words, the gently bred—would have nothing to do with her.

That didn’t stop her from taking a good long look at the newcomer, plainly visible through the doorway from the kitchen to the coffee room of the Diving Duck. Slouched in a chair, he was entirely at ease, his station in the world assured. A man would practically have to commit murder before being ostracized, whilst a woman had merely to—

She stopped that thought before it had a chance to grow into full-blown fury. Anger did no good at all. It changed nothing, except to make her feel ill.

Sally rolled her eyes. “The gentry can’t all be prigs.” With practiced ease, she operated the tap with one hand and held the three tankards in the other.

“Most of them are,” Daisy said, punching the dough hard. His fairish hair was a little too long, curling over his cravat. A simple knot, not the complicated sort her brother Colin sometimes chose. His other clothing was fashionable without being ostentatious, his only jewelry a ruby ring on his left hand. She thought his eyes were blue, but she couldn’t tell from this distance.

God only knew why she found him so interesting. Perhaps because he brought a little culture, a little education, a little worldliness into this godforsaken inn.

Mostly, Daisy was content with her life at the Diving Duck. The smugglers who frequented the place knew by now to treat her with friendly respect, and whenever she wanted to play a proper pianoforte or go for a bruising ride, Colin’s estate wasn’t far away. She would never marry, never have children, but all in all—

Drat, the newcomer had noticed her watching him. She glared and returned to kneading the dough.

“Maybe this one ain’t so bad. I wonder why he’s here.” Sally shut off the tap and headed for the coffee room.

“I don’t care.” Daisy was tempted to close the door so she couldn’t see him and therefore he couldn’t see her, but damned if she would let any man’s appraisal discomfit her. She no longer minded the bold stares of some of the smugglers. They meant nothing by it.

Daisy covered the dough with a cloth and set it aside to rise. The only true advantage to being ruined—and to leaving her brother’s home to live at a disreputable inn—was that she was learning how to cook and bake. A Warren doing menial labor! Her mother’s shroud must be twisted into knots by now.

Sally returned with several empty tankards. “He’s on a riding tour, visiting Roman ruins.”

“Is that so,” Daisy said flatly. A scholar, was he? Thanks to her late father, she had a soft spot for those studying the ancient world, but she knew better than to let nostalgia affect her. He might seem appealing, he might even be knowledgeable, but when it came right down to it, he was just another man.

Sally never stopped moving. Already she was wiping the tankards preparatory to filling them again. A group of locals, most of whom were involved in smuggling to some degree, had come in for their customary darts and ale. “Finished with the dough, have you? Then if you don’t mind, Miss Daisy, I think those rock buns are about done.”

It had taken Sally months to get used to Daisy in her kitchen, and only recently she’d begun to ask for help rather than waiting for Daisy to volunteer. She would never have done so if Daisy hadn’t proposed writing a cookery book, and said she needed to learn how to do things herself, not just watch how they were done.

Daisy opened the oven and shoveled the little cakes out. They were likely to cool as hard as their names indicated, but tasty all the same.

“They don’t look bad,” Sally said, “but what we really need is that recipe from Mr. Warren’s cook.”