Page 3 of Love and the Shameless Lady

The woman took firm hold of its leg and examined its paw more minutely, murmuring to it all the while.

The little girl came out again, carrying the tweezers and an earthenware mug. “Are we going to make him drunk, like when they dug the shot out of Ned’s bum?”

The woman laughed. What a pity she was still inspecting the injured paw, or Julian might have had a glimpse of her smile. “It would certainly mask the pain, but no, Jenny, I fear he has pushed a thorn or splinter deep into his paw by walking on it. I’ll use it to clean the wound.”

Granted, the brandy here was smuggled and therefore relatively cheap, but it wasn’t that cheap. An odd sort of barmaid, to appropriate the landlord’s brandy to clean a dog’s paw.

Except, Julian realized, that she didn’t sound like a barmaid. She spoke like a lady; both her accent and her confident manner spoke of privilege.

“Hold him firmly now.” She nipped quickly in with the tweezers and pulled out a long, vicious splinter of glass. “Where the devil did he pick that up?” she muttered.

The accent of a lady and the vocabulary of a barmaid. Fascinating.

She squeezed a little blood out and poured a drop or two of brandy on the wound. The dog yelped. “Oh, hush. It’s good for you.” She poured once more, then took the strip of rag and bound the foot.

“He’ll tear that off as soon as can be,” she told little Jenny. “Ask one of the grooms to carry him to the kitchen. Then stay with him and make him leave his foot alone for a half hour or so.”

“I’ll carry him,” Julian said, promptly suiting action to words. “Lead the way, Jenny.”

“Thank you, sir,” the little girl said. As they made their way toward the inn door, Julian glanced back. The woman was watching him . . . with interest, he thought, but then her eyes narrowed to cool slits. She picked up the cup and tweezers, and Julian went into the inn.

After depositing the dog in a corner of the kitchen, he returned to the coffee room. The dark-haired woman hadn’t followed them into the kitchen, but she was no longer outdoors. He dusted his breeches and sat next to Mr. Bennett again.

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Can’t help being nosy, can you?” the older man said sourly. “In fact, I’ll wager it’s required for the job.”

“Call it curiosity. I’ve had to develop it.” Julian had learned to let disdain roll off his shoulders. Everyone resented spies, including himself, but it paid well. “When I encounter something unusual, I’m obliged to learn more.”

Mr. Bennett huffed. “Trust me, she’s nothing to do with your damned job.” He raised his voice. “Sally!”

The redhead reappeared and curtsied. “Thank you kindly, sir, for helping out with that godforsaken mutt. I don’t suppose Daisy thanked you.” She grinned, and Julian caught amusement in her eyes. “She’s that unfriendly, sir.”

“It was my pleasure,” Julian said neutrally.

“Do I smell baking?” Mr. Bennett asked. “Your delightful rock buns, perhaps?”

“Oh, you!” Sally said. “They just come out of the oven, Mr. Bennett, but till we get a proper recipe, they’ll be hard as ever. Not fit for a cookery book, that’s for certain.”

“Ask Miss Daisy to bring us some, will you?”

Sally grimaced doubtfully but sashayed back to the kitchen.

Miss Daisy? Another indication that the dark one was a lady. “Cookery book?”

“Aye, Miss Daisy and Sally are collaborating to write one.”

The dark-haired girl glided gracefully into the coffee room with a plate of rock buns and a scowl. She set them on the table and glowered at Mr. Bennett. “They’re fresh from the oven and haven’t hardened yet, so you’d best eat them quickly, although they don’t go at all well with ale.” Interestingly enough, her accent was now much more like that of the locals.

“What do you suggest, Miss Daisy? Tea? By the way, allow me to introduce Sir Julian Kerr, a friend and fellow scholar. Sir Julian, Miss Warren.”

Julian stood hurriedly and bowed.

Daisy didn’t bother to curtsey. After another quick glare at Bennett, she put her nose in the air. “Delighted, I’m sure. Tea or coffee, suit yourself, just let Sally know.” Brusque to the point of rudeness, she stalked—still gracefully—back to the kitchen and slammed the door between the two rooms.

What a pity. Despite her bad manners, she was still good to look at. “Who is she?” Julian asked again, reseating himself. “She seems to be a lady by birth, but if so, what’s she doing in an inn frequented by smugglers?”

Mr. Bennett sighed. “Her name is Desdemona Warren, Daisy for short. She’s the sister of Colin Warren, who lives not far from here, and a cousin of Lord Garrison.”