Page 11 of Love and the Shameless Lady

“Ho, mon cher marquis!” Julian reined in to speak to the last man he expected to see anywhere near the Diving Duck.

Philippe de Bellechasse slowed his horse as well but put up a hand. Consternation crossed his angular features. “Julian!” He seemed as surprised as Julian felt. “Do not use my title, I beg of you. The denizens of the Diving Duck, where I am staying, are ignorant of my former status.”

Julian frowned. What the devil?

“You are aware of my views on the rights of man,” Philippe said. “When consorting with the canaille, I shed my title and become a man of the people.” The Marquis de Bellechasse was one of the rare aristocrats who’d supported the revolution in France. He’d managed to escape with his head, and hadn’t allowed the Reign of Terror to turn him against the unwashed masses.

They continued slowly along the last stretch of road to the inn. “And when amongst the ton in London, you are once again a marquis,” Julian said cynically.

The Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug. “But of course. If I am to marry well . . .”

Indeed, the marquis wasn’t a rich man, although not impoverished like many émigrés. He would naturally seek to enlarge his coffers by the acquisition of a wealthy wife. Julian too might have been forced to seek a well-dowered wife if he hadn’t been hired by the Home Office.

“I fail to understand why you must consort with the common folk, particularly at such a lowly inn.” An unpleasant suspicion raised its ugly head. Julian liked Philippe and considered him a close friend. He didn’t want to discover that he was a French spy.

“I might ask you the same,” the marquis drawled. Playing for time?

“I am here to visit Mr. Bennett, a fellow enthusiast of all things Roman.” They approached the inn, and Julian gestured toward the older man’s house at the far end of the village. “And you?”

“Antoine, my valet, has business with the smugglers,” the marquis said. “Since we are now equals, his concerns carry some weight, although as his employer mine of course take precedence.”

“Of course.”

“When I am free of social obligations, I accompany him to this deplorable inn.” They reined in at the Diving Duck. “Antoine buys smuggled silks and lace to sell to ladies of quality, while my observations of the common people aid me in developing my theories of how to improve the lot of the masses through education rather than violence.”

The marquis often spoke of his magnum opus on education, so this explanation was plausible. Julian wished he were free to believe it. “Shall you remain here long?”

“A few days, perhaps a week. After that I am invited to stay with friends, where I shall assume the mantle of aristo once again.”

“Then we shall surely meet again, as Mr. Bennett and I will likely spend our evenings at the Diving Duck.” Julian schooled his countenance to nothing but polite interest. “By what name shall I call you while you are here?”

“Bonaventure,” the marquis said.

No surprise, but . . . damn.

Just before she reached the Diving Duck, Daisy realized the one thing she should have thought of earlier.

No one knew she’d written The Lady’s Revenge, or her other books for that matter. How had someone known to whom to send that threatening letter?

The answer was obvious. Her publisher, Mr. Doughty, must have betrayed her confidence. Fury seized her. Mr. Doughty had promised to keep her identity a deep, dark secret. If one person knew, soon two people would, then ten, then hundreds.

Including her brother, who would forbid her to write any more novels. She couldn’t imagine losing the one pastime that made life bearable.

She would write to Mr. Doughty, giving him a piece of her mind. Then she would find another publisher, one who knew what was good for him. She would disappear from Lancashire, take an assumed name, support herself with what little she had accumulated . . .

“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”

She started, reining in at the entrance to the stable yard, and spied a familiar Frenchman seated on the bench outside the inn, smoking a cigarillo. Beside him lounged Sir Julian, similarly occupied. Consumed as she was with her thoughts, it took a moment to switch into her persona of barmaid. “Good-day, Mr. Bonaventure. It’s good to see you back at the Diving Duck.” She nodded at Sir Julian with what she hoped was a meaningful scowl.

He didn’t rise as he would ordinarily do when greeting a lady, so perhaps he’d understood. Instead, he put his head back and blew several perfect smoke rings.

Mr. Bonaventure stood and came over, peering into her baskets. “Ah, shall we have a salad tonight? Or shall you cook us a stew, Daisy?”

“Happen I will.” Not a bad notion. Chopping vegetables would work off some of her ire, but first she would write that letter and send it express.

“How progresses your cookery book?”

Why was he so friendly today? Ordinarily Mr. Bonaventure was somewhat aloof, as one would expect from a Frenchman of good birth. Not that she knew anything about his antecedents, but his French was that of an educated man, and he had a supercilious air that spoke of privilege. Or former privilege, perhaps. It wasn’t easy for the émigrés to shake off the attitudes of their upbringing. And he was blowing a cloud with Sir Julian, which seemed to clinch it.