Page 14 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Chapter 3

Julian eyed Daisy’s retreating back. He handed a tankard to the Frenchman and sat next to him on the bench.

“Was that stony expression directed at you, me, or all males of the species?” he asked.

“All, I believe,” Philippe de Bellechasse said. “An attractive woman, is she not?”

Julian liked the marquis—good Lord, they’d known one another since Philippe had left France just before the darkest days of the Revolution—and the thought that his close friend might have become a French spy was frankly sickening. I’m not cut out for this work, Julian told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. Usually, his difficulty was sympathy for the radical thinkers. He hated having to turn them in only because they’d gone a step too far with their beliefs, but one couldn’t condone the festering of unrest during wartime. Wait till we’ve beaten Napoleon, he told them, but often they wouldn’t listen, giving him no damned choice.

If the marquis was a spy, he should get what he deserved. And yet Julian loathed the notion that this forward-thinking man, this friend who had escaped the guillotine, might end up on the gallows. Even worse, by Julian’s contriving.

It helped to think of him as Bonaventure rather than his friend Philippe. But not much.

Regardless of these mixed feelings, his mission did not include entanglement with a woman, attractive or otherwise. He ignored his flicker of annoyance at Bonaventure’s comment and merely grunted an assent.

Bonaventure took a swallow of ale and glanced at Julian from the corner of his eye. “An attractive lady, I should say.”

So Bonaventure too was privy to Daisy’s so-called secret. “I believe she would rather you didn’t.” In spite of his best intentions, he’d said it too stiffly.

Bonaventure’s brows went up. “You have an interest there?”

Julian suppressed the automatic no that rose to his lips. “She is indeed attractive, but I am not in the mood for marriage.”

Bonaventure shrugged. “Marriage might not be required.”

“I would not so insult her,” Julian snapped. Damn.

“Bah,” the Frenchman said. “Why should it be considered an insult? Have not women as much right as men to the pleasures of the flesh? In France, where we treasure equality, we almost achieved it for women as well . . . but alas, the people were not ready for so great a liberty.” He continued talking, and Julian attempted to listen. He attended many philosophical discourses in the course of his work for the Home Office, and knew all about the marquis’ theories. For the first time, he had the feeling that behind his serious words, the Frenchman was amused. Could be cynicism, could be insincerity, could be a ruse to mask covert activities . . .

Could be my heightened imagination, Julian told himself. “Philosophy is all very well, but it does not stand up against the complications which would invariably ensue,” he said. “And she would be insulted if I offered her a carte blanche.”

“It is shameful that because of an antiquated notion of propriety, she must hide herself in this backwater.”

Julian wished he weren’t so much in sympathy with Bonaventure’s views. “Maybe she prefers it to being shunned by the members of her own class.”

“But she cannot be comfortable with these canaille,” Bonaventure said. “It is different for you or I. We cannot be what we are not, but it does not harm a gentleman’s reputation to mingle with the common people.”

“It seems to me,” Julian said in spite of himself, “that it is you who have an interest in Miss Warren.”

“Merely curiosity,” the Frenchman said. “Have you heard her sing?”

“Some highly inappropriate songs,” Julian retorted.

“Precisely. She plays pianoforte well, and yet she resorts to vulgar tunes rather than the sonatas a lady should rightly play. She works in the kitchen and writes a cookery book, of all foolish starts.”

“You, too, are writing a book,” Julian said.

“A philosophical tome.” The marquis gestured grandiloquently. “Of great import about the rights of mankind.”

“Perhaps, but a cookery book is of far more practical use.” Julian stood and drained his ale. “A well-prepared dinner should be one of the rights of mankind.” He bowed and returned to Mr. Bennett’s house, feeling that he had accomplished very little so far.

After a humdrum evening serving ale, trying another batch of rock buns, and pondering the plot of her new novel, Daisy wrote well into the night. If she was going to be prevented from writing future novels, or supporting herself precariously on the proceeds, she must get the next one finished quickly. No one disturbed her peace and quiet. Perhaps she’d misread Mr. Bonaventure’s sudden interest. She hoped so.

Sir Julian made an excellent hero. She wavered between making him a pirate, a smuggler, or a spy, but she wasn’t in the mood to write about sea voyages, which would have required special research, and she’d had enough of smugglers, so she made him a spy. Where, she hadn’t made up her mind. She’d never been out of England, but what would be the use of a British spy in England? She couldn’t make him a French one, because a French spy couldn’t be a hero. He could be in the business of catching French spies, she supposed . . .

She slept late and woke to the sound of hooves on the cobblestones. She opened the window and leaned out. “Good heavens, is it already afternoon?”

Snappish whinnied a greeting, and Harry dismounted from his hack with a grin. “Aye, Miss D—” He stopped himself, remembering her rule, but he could never bring himself to call her just plain Daisy in this environment. “A package came this morning, miss. From London.” He’d brought two baskets of herbs on his hack and therefore had put the package in one of Snappish’s saddlebags. He sidestepped neatly to avoid being bitten whilst retrieving it.