Page 19 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Characteristics he thought he’d found in Philippe de Bellechasse.

He couldn’t afford bitterness now, especially when he had to play the role of an unsuspecting friend. “Poetry: Donne. Marvell. Shakespeare. Some of our more recent playwrights, for example, Sheridan, as well as some French and Spanish masters, Molière and Lope de Vega.”

“This book,” Philippe said, indicating the novel, “is no more absurd than Shakespeare’s or Sheridan’s comedies. Perhaps it is to female writers that you object?”

“Not at all,” Julian said, nettled. “England has produced some estimable female playwrights. Who is the authoress of these novels?”

“No one knows. Society guesses, hitherto without success, and she chooses not to identify herself.”

“That seems cowardly,” Julian said.

“Not at all,” an irritated female voice said. Daisy Warren set two tankards of home-brewed before them and deposited the third on Bonaventure’s table. “She would be ruined if her identity were revealed.”

Julian frowned. “Why? Does she make a veiled attack on prominent people?”

“No, she portrays ladies as not only energetic and capable, but also naturally wanton.”

“So do many plays.”

“Written mostly by men or actresses. Ladies are expected to be entirely proper, not to see lustiness as a quality to be desired.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “I believe most men enjoy lustiness in their women.”

She raised her brows, coloring delicately. “In ladies as well?”

“With their husbands, yes indeed. No one wants a boring bedmate.”

The pretty color vanished from her cheeks, and the pleasant expression gave way to her habitual glare.

“Perhaps the author isn’t a lady,” suggested Bonaventure.

“Perhaps even a man,” Julian quipped.

Daisy wrinkled her nose. “Not likely, but one never knows.”

The door swung open, and a group of loud, wet fellows lumbered in. Smugglers, no doubt, coming from a successful landing of cargo. They stank to high heaven and immediately began shouting for ale.

“There goes our chance of reading any more tonight.” Daisy scooped up the empty tankards and left.

“One understands, bien sûr,” Bonaventure said, once the clamor had died somewhat and the smugglers were regaling themselves and making bets about how long it would be before the revenuers realized they’d been led on a wild goose chase. The Frenchman had joined Julian and Mr. Bennett at their table. “Miss Warren allowed her natural lustiness free rein without bothering with a husband, and is now an outcast. She would not wish that to be the fate of some other lady, merely for expressing the truth.”

Did that explain her blush followed by pallor? Julian mused. What had he said? Something about ladies being lusty with their husbands. He’d offended her, although he couldn’t see why.

A pity and entirely unintentional, but he must shrug it off and concentrate on assessing the marquis.

Who seemed genuinely interested in the behavior of the smugglers, commenting on the similarities between them and any group of lively young men. “Young bloods behave much the same way with far less reason—all they’ve done is shared some women or boxed the watch, hardly an accomplishment compared to landing a cargo at the risk of their lives. The principal difference is education and the choices it offers.”

All quite true, and there was no reason why the marquis mightn’t hold such beliefs and also spy for Napoleon. Julian pondered leaving Mr. Bennett’s house to take a room at the inn, thus providing himself the opportunity to search the rooms of the other guests. Miss Warren, he’d learned from observation, rented the large room at one end of the inn, and two of the three other rooms were occupied by the marquis and his servant. They weren’t likely to keep anything incriminating there, but one never knew.

He had a feeling Mr. Bennett would strongly object to being confined to bed with an entirely fictitious illness, necessitating Julian’s instant removal, and he didn’t wish to annoy Bennett any more than he had to. Even more, he hesitated to spy upon his friend. Come tomorrow, he might have no choice.

Antoine appeared, seated himself next to one of the more senior of the smugglers, and began to discuss terms for the purchase of some contraband lace, to be sold later at the homes of the wealthy and well-connected. This was indeed excellent cover for espionage.

The patrons got steadily drunker and the odors of seaweed and unwashed men grew stronger, combined with the reek of piss. “Yet another way in which the rich and poor are much alike,” the marquis commented, as one of the men missed the pot in the corner.

And through all this, Sally, Alice, and even Daisy weaved through the melee, serving ale, wiping up spills, and fending off slaps and pinches.

“She shouldn’t have to do this,” Julian muttered.