Page 12 of Love and the Shameless Lady

She didn’t mind chatting with the customers—it went with the job of barmaid—but today she was too preoccupied. “Very well, sir, thank you kindly.” She nodded and proceeded into the stable yard.

After bringing the vegetables and pastries indoors and taking one cream puff for herself, as otherwise she might not get one at all, she hastened upstairs.

“Oof!” As she turned the corner into the corridor, she bumped into Antoine, Mr. Bonaventure’s valet, who dropped the sheets he was carrying.

He let out a furious French curse and glared at her. Then his face cleared, and he made a swipe at her derriere instead. She dodged, and he grinned as he retrieved the linens. “Oh, la-la, had I known I would bump into la belle Daisy, I would have been better prepared.”

He was a typical Frenchman, and she’d had to slap his roving hands more than once, but he was harmless enough and a favorite with Sally and Alice, the scullery maid who lived in a cottage down the road. “You are using the inn’s sheets?” she asked, surprised. The linen store was at this end of the passage, just before her bedchamber, but Antoine habitually insisted on using Mr. Bonaventure’s own sheets.

Antoine scowled. “It is not what we like, Monsieur Bonaventure and I.” As a firm republican, he always spoke of himself and his master as equals. “But our own sheets are damp, thanks to the stupid washerwoman where we last stayed.”

One of the most common complaints at inns, apart from bedbugs, was damp sheets, so some travelers brought their own. “Our washerwoman would no longer have work if she made that mistake.” She slipped past Antoine before he had a chance to try pawing her again.

In her chamber, she took out ink and paper, and sharpened her pen.

Dear Mr. Doughty,

Today, to my utter shock, I received an anonymous letter ordering me to refrain from publishing The Lady’s Revenge. Needless to say, I intend to ignore this ridiculous demand, which almost certainly comes from a person or persons who feel the novel is actually about them, which of course it is not, as they will realize when they read it. In any event, I assume you have already published it and eagerly await my copies, but regardless, I would not give in to such a demand.

There was no point in mentioning the nonsensical death threat, which might seriously worry Mr. Doughty. Yes, Daisy intended to upset him, but not because of that.

However, I am extremely incensed at you, Mr. Doughty. You are, or were, the only person aware of my true identity. To whom did you reveal my secret, and why? I require an immediate explanation. You are aware, I am sure, that this betrayal on your part may well cause the severance of our hitherto excellent relationship.

I remain, for the time being, etc., etc.

She contemplated the letter while eating the cream puff, then signed and sealed it before marching downstairs.

She had the groom saddle the cob and rode the few miles into Preston. The cob wasn’t trained to a lady’s saddle, but his placidity made up for the occasional confusion. She arranged for the letter to be sent express, the reply to come to her brother’s house, because of its proximity, rather than the usual address in Liverpool. If Mr. Doughty knew what was good for him, he would respond as quickly.

She put up with the cob’s desultory pace on the return journey. She didn’t feel much like chopping vegetables anymore. It had been a long, rather tiring day. She looked forward to a relaxing evening, serving tankards of ale and plotting her next novel.

Mr. Bonaventure still occupied the bench by the inn. The huge gray kitchen cat, usually a cantankerous creature, purred under his caressing hand. She nodded to him and continued toward the stable.

He beckoned. “Viens ici.”

Automatically, Daisy reined in, stiffening at such a mode of address. Come here, in the French familiar form, as if he were speaking to a servant.

Which he believed he was doing, and she was used to that sort of familiarity in English, but not in French.

Bonaventure chuckled. “You are affronted. You scowl at me.” The cat jumped off his lap and stalked away. Daisy wished she could leave as well. She tried to wipe the annoyance off her face.

“Why did I not realize it before?” he asked. “You are not the, er, country bumpkin you pretend to be.”

Damn! What had brought this on?

“Et vous parlez français.” And you speak French. This time he used the more formal, respectful form.

“Un peu.” A little. She slid down off the cob and slapped it on the rump. Willingly it headed for the stable and its ration of oats. She continued in French, which she understood reasonably well but spoke too seldom to be fluent. “I was never an attentive student. Good day, sir.” She headed for the door.

“Your accent is not bad,” he remarked, “for an Englishwoman. An English lady, I should say. And why, I ask myself, does a lady serve ale in this hovel?”

She whirled and stormed over to him, her eyes narrowed. “Who told you? Was it Sir Julian? I’d like to wring his neck.”

“No one told me. I guessed.” Mr. Bonaventure motioned to the space next to him on the bench.

She clenched her fists. “Was it Mr. Bennett? He introduced me as if I were a lady.”

“Very proper, but no, he told me nothing. Your demeanor is not that of a servant, nor do Ned and Sally treat you as one. I’m surprised I didn’t realize it earlier.” Bonaventure gave her his faint, cynical smile. “Come, sit with me and explain.”