Page 18 of Love and the Shameless Lady

“Antoine is correct, but I am surprised that he read it,” Daisy said. “Men do not usually enjoy stories such as The Lady’s Ruin.”

“He found it at the house of some friends of mine, and was sufficiently ennuyé to try it. He was pleasantly surprised and urged me to read it, too.”

Daisy made a face. “I doubt you would enjoy it, Mr. Bonaventure. Such novels are meant for women dreaming of adventure they will never have. I do not say men never read them, which is obviously untrue, but most men consider them absurd.”

He finished writing, and she shut the book. “Leave it here, please,” he said. “I should like to glance through it once I finish my correspondence.”

“You do realize, I hope, that such novels contain much talk of love, which I think frightens most men.”

“I am a Frenchman, mademoiselle,” he purred. “I do not fear love.”

She laughed and sashayed back to the kitchen.

Julian did his utmost not to glare.

Daisy smiled to herself. She hadn’t forgotten how to flirt, and couldn’t help but enjoy Mr. Bonaventure’s playful remark. It felt safe enough. She doubted he would make an improper offer, since he’d stayed at the inn several times before, when he’d thought her a barmaid, and had never done so.

She hoped he wouldn’t read her book. She didn’t care whether or not he liked it, but it revealed a little too much of her own heart. He didn’t know who had written it, but soon he might. Soon everyone might.

Oh, she needn’t worry. His usual fare was lengthy tomes about wars and history and the rights of man. After two pages, he would throw it down in disgust. She settled herself at the deal table, where Sally and Alice were cleaning beans, and recommenced reading The Lady’s Revenge aloud. They had just reached the part where Dianthus recovers the first charm, when a shout interrupted them.

“Ho, Sally! We’re parched and dyin’ out here!”

“Honestly,” Sally muttered, “I don’t see why my brother can’t serve the ale now and then.”

Ned could, but he thought reading was a waste of time. Sally filled several tankards with home-brewed and stomped out to the coffee room. “Meanwhile, we’re dyin’ to hear The Lady’s Revenge,” she admonished the locals.

“Oo, floggin’ with a wet ribbon, I’ll bet,” said one of the boys.

“I’ve got a sword,” another said, “and I’ll sheath it for her, too.”

“The lady’s got a much longer sword than anything you could provide, Walt,” Sally quipped. “Beware the man who jests at her expense. Just ask Antoine. He’s reading it too, and he knows.”

“A nithing of a Frenchman,” someone said.

“You’re just jealous,” Sally said, “’cause us girls like him.” She headed for the kitchen, tossing a parting remark over her shoulder. “I’m serving no more ale for fifteen minutes, so don’t waste your breath calling for it.” She hurried back into the kitchen. “At this rate, Antoine will finish the book before we do, and that’s not fair.”

Unfortunately, Antoine might soon find out that Daisy had written it. Before, it had been a delightful secret. Any day now, she, and her improper secret thoughts, might be exposed to the world.

Fine, she would weather the infamy as she’d done before, but no one was trying to kill her.

She tried to read with her usual verve, tried to revel in the enjoyment of her listeners, but she didn’t quite succeed.

Julian had never before visited a tavern where the serving wench told them they would have to wait for their ale. Where the servants lounged in the kitchen being read to instead of doing their work. The fifteen minutes had passed. He pondered going to the tap and serving himself.

“It’s not usually this bad,” Mr. Bennett said with a grin. “They’ve been waiting for this particular novel for months, or so I hear.”

“Good God.” Julian threw a glance at Bonaventure, who seemed immersed in the book Daisy had given him.

The Frenchman raised his head. “Do not scoff until you try it. This one is quite entertaining.”

“No, thank you,” Julian said. “I’ll suspend my scoffing in order to avoid being subjected to such nonsense. My cousin tried reading The Mysteries of Udolpho to me. Never again.”

“What do you like to read?” the marquis asked, “apart from Livy?”

Although they had never discussed fiction, Julian and Philippe had frequently conversed about the secessio plebis in Ancient Rome versus the French Revolution. Now, Julian couldn’t help wondering if there’d always been a note of insincerity in Philippe’s championing of the common people. Perhaps he sought out radical thinkers, potential seditionists, for a more sinister reason.

Julian had never loathed his occupation more than now. It wasn’t just the prospect of informing on his friend. He also didn’t like to think he’d been a dupe all these years. He yearned for outspoken frankness, for truthfulness at all costs—characteristics never to be found in his own close-mouthed family, who were a stodgy, insincere bunch of bores.