Page 17 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Oh, they must be discussing bathing again. “I suppose so.” Once again, she shut out the memory of that shot whistling past her head, of seeing the hole in her hat and realizing how very easily she might now be dead.

But no one was trying to kill her. This was merely an accident, a poacher who’d shot wide. Or low.

She hadn’t seen any birds about, and it wasn’t the shooting season yet, so she couldn’t blame it on a shooting party.

Just because she’d received that letter, it didn’t mean anyone really wanted her dead.

Somehow she managed to carry her end of the conversation until they arrived at the Diving Duck. Sir Julian carried on toward Mr. Bennett’s, while she rode into the yard and handed Snappish over to Harry, who was waiting to take him home.

She went upstairs immediately, removed her riding habit, dressed in one of the old round gowns she wore in the kitchen, and sat down to mend the bonnet. She soon gave up. Not that she couldn’t mend it perfectly well. She wasn’t a good needlewoman, but she could manage simple stitchery or, if she chose, give the work to one of the maids at the Hollow.

But she stopped because her hands were still trembling, very slightly, but enough to make it difficult to sew. She tossed the hat on her dressing table and went to her desk instead, where she wrote an untidy but legible description of how it felt to be shot at, to barely control her horse, to realize she had almost died. To wonder if someone wanted to kill her.

In a book, the heroine would most likely know someone wanted her dead. In real life, it was impossible to believe.

Almost.

A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. Antoine.

His grin was so insolent that she almost slammed the door in his face. He must have noticed, for he put up a placating hand. “Do not be enraged, lovely Daisy. I am a Frenchman. I cannot help but appreciate a beautiful woman.”

“What do you want?” she demanded. “Besides the obvious.”

He pressed his hands together in an attitude of supplication. “Mademoiselle, would you be so kind as to lend me the first volume of The Lady’s Revenge? I shall return it in time for you to read aloud tonight.”

Surprised, she hesitated.

“I shall take good care of it,” he said. “I read The Lady’s Ruin this spring, and now I am as eager as Sally and Alice to know what happens next, but I am often busy in the evening.”

Flattered, she gave him the book.

That evening, Julian and Mr. Bennett were ensconced at a corner table in the Diving Duck. “Do you see many poachers hereabouts?” Julian asked.

“No more than anywhere else,” Mr. Bennett said. “Why do you ask?”

Julian took a swallow of ale. “Because Miss Warren was almost killed today by a stray shot. It blew a hole through her hat, and if she wasn’t such a good rider, her horse would have thrown her.”

Bennett tsked. “I can’t imagine any of our local lads being that careless. Where did it happen?”

“On the road by Mr. Linden’s land.”

“Mrs. Linden might want Daisy dead.” Bennett chuckled. “No, I’m not serious, but her husband has a soft spot for Daisy, so the stupid woman imagines Daisy is out to seduce the old boy.”

“I got the impression, for a moment at least, that Daisy really thought someone had tried to kill her.” Julian recounted Daisy’s whispered statement, swiftly amended.

“She’s a woman,” Bennett said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if she became hysterical for a moment or two.”

Except that she’d managed her plunging horse and coolly faced Julian with a gun. On the other hand, she’d been upset only a day earlier by some unwelcome news. The problem with investigating the possibility of espionage was that everything that smacked of the unusual required investigation.

She did seem on quite friendly terms with the supposed Mr. Bonaventure. In fact, she’d served him ale a few minutes ago and now was seated next to him in low-voiced conversation. About what? A woman in league with a spy might easily be in danger of her life.

As if aware of Julian’s scrutiny, she stood and left the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a leather-bound volume. “Here it is. Don’t touch it with inky fingers.” The marquis was in the process of writing letters by lamplight and had already mended his pen twice.

“Perhaps you might hold it open for me, whilst I write the pertinent information,” Bonaventure said. “Antoine assures me it is a most lively tale, just the sort my sister will enjoy.”

There, Julian was ascribing motives to her that didn’t exist. She hadn’t left because he’d been watching her, or because they’d been conferring about espionage. She’d left to fetch a novel.

She held it open close to the light, and the marquis dipped his pen in the ink and wrote.