Page 4 of Love and the Shameless Lady

“Garrison,” Julian said. “I’ve met him . . . at Brooks’s? No, a couple of times at Tattersall’s, I think.” He took a bite of rock bun. “He doesn’t belong to any of the usual clubs. There was a scandal years ago, I believe, at which point he resigned his memberships and told the beau monde to go to hell.”

“Something of the sort,” Bennett said.

“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with her brother, but the name sounds familiar. Still, none of this explains why his sister—unmarried sister—resides in a disreputable inn.” He took a sip of ale and another bite of the rock bun. Miss Warren was correct. The flavors didn’t go well together.

“Because when only eighteen years old, she seduced a smuggler, and is now persona non grata with people of her sort.”

Julian choked. “She what?” When his fit of coughing finally subsided, he said, “Her brother turned her into the street, I suppose.”

“No such thing,” Bennett said. “Warren would prefer to keep her safe at home, but she chose to leave because the local gentry will have nothing to do with her. Here we’re not so fussy. Warren gives her an allowance and lets her go her own road.”

Julian tried to imagine permitting a sister of his such freedom, and couldn’t. “No decent brother could allow his sister to live in such a place.” He recalled something Bennett had said earlier. “If she needs a gun and a knife by her at all times . . .”

“She doesn’t, but I believe she was fearful at first that every Tom, Dick, and Harry would think her fair game. Now it’s a safeguard, and if it makes her more comfortable, so be it.”

The kitchen door banged open. Sally came through with a tray of tankards. Behind her in the kitchen, Miss Desdemona Warren swept the floor with brisk, vigorous strokes.

Unbelievable.

“Besides that, they’re all afraid of her brother, who is a crack shot and an excellent fencer, and most of them wouldn’t want such a termagant in any case.”

Julian watched Daisy sweeping until she shut the door again. He still wondered what she looked like when she smiled.

His eyes were indeed blue, just as she’d suspected.

Why the devil had Mr. Bennett introduced them, Daisy wondered, as if she were still a lady? Admittedly, it was partly her fault—she’d been too preoccupied whilst tending to the dog and had forgotten to alter her accent, which had probably aroused the visitor’s curiosity—but Mr. Bennett knew full well that she preferred to keep her circumstances secret from strangers. She didn’t relish being gaped at like a freak at a fair.

Although to be just, Sir Julian didn’t gape. He had a thoughtful sort of gaze that boded no good.

No, most likely that was just her general distrust of the opposite sex, apart from her brother Colin, who’d been extremely patient and kind. Whatever Sally might choose to imagine, Sir Julian’s gaze probably indicated nothing but an alert mind, a quality she couldn’t deprecate, no matter how prejudiced she had become.

He might just do as the hero of her next novel. All her books so far had done well, but The Lady’s Ruin had sold beyond all expectation. Any day now its sequel, The Lady’s Revenge, would be published. The dashing hero was based on a handsome Frenchman who’d frequented the Diving Duck on and off over the last year and more. The scion of an émigré family, Monsieur Bonaventure was typically dark and angular. The attractive, tidily dressed newcomer, his fairish hair touched with burnished copper, had an air of . . . calm competence and would do perfectly for the next story.

The heroine? Oh, regardless of her size, shape, or hair color, the heroine was always Daisy herself. All her lustful longings, all her anger and indignation at the inequalities between women and men, as well as the certain knowledge that her fate was her own stupid fault, were poured into those stories.

It didn’t change anything, but it felt good. Cathartic. She could get it out of her system over and over again, while thumbing her nose at society’s rules. Her heroines always took risks, invariably suffered misfortunes and betrayals, but hers were not cautionary tales. In the end, the heroine won the hero and a happily ever after.

Just like a fairy tale, if a rather naughty sort. Needless to say, her identity was a secret between her and Mr. Doughty, the publisher.

Daisy put the broom away, stoked up the fire in preparation for baking the bread, and made herself a pot of tea. Then she shooed the kitchen cat off the chair, sat at the deal table, and bit into one of the rock buns. Half an hour and it still wasn’t hard. Better than last time, but perhaps they needed more butter, another egg, juicier raisins . . .

Below the notes she’d made of their latest attempt at rock buns, she added a shorthand description of Sir Julian Kerr from a lusty heroine’s point of view. The cookery book was an excellent excuse for the hours she spent alone in her chamber, the expensive candles she burned, and the copious amounts of paper and ink she used. Fortunately, the allowance Colin gave her more than covered these supplies, and she was beginning to accumulate quite a nest egg, thanks to the popularity of her novels.

Sally had been going back and forth to the coffee room, but it didn’t matter anymore if she left the door open, for the newcomer was now playing darts and out of Daisy’s line of sight, which meant she was also safely out of his.

The last thing Julian intended was to pursue the intriguing Miss Daisy. In the first place, ruined or not, she was a lady, and he was an honorable man with no intention of marrying. In the second place, he was here to become familiar to the locals, so that if the French émigré and his servant reappeared, they would have no reason to consider him out of place.

He was a tolerable darts player, but not as adept as some of the locals. They would enjoy winning some of his money, which in turn would encourage friendliness and good will. Mr. Bennett, who was doing an excellent job of pretending to like him, rocked in a chair by the window and read a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Julian sympathized with the former smuggler’s dislike of informing for the government, but needs must in time of war. Julian divided his time between London and wherever the Home Office sent him. He played the role of a scholar and progressive thinker, attending philosophical meetings all over England, occasionally reporting someone who seemed to have crossed from radical thought to genuine sedition. He reminded himself regularly that he needed the money, but that didn’t make the work any more palatable.

Mr. Bennett, on the other hand, stayed at home, read his books, and pottered in his garden. He had merely to alert the government of anyone whom he suspected of spying for France. He’d informed on a Frenchmen, Mr. Bonaventure, and his servant, who frequented the Diving Duck from time to time. He didn’t understand French well, but enough to guess that they were up to no good.

Their very presence at this inn made that highly likely. Whether or not they were spies was another matter. Julian intended to find out.

In the meantime, he played darts middling well and got mildly soused on ale.

“Daisy! Daisy!” One of the locals pounded the table with his empty tankard.