Page 6 of Love and the Shameless Lady

Rightly so. Any decent woman, and many an indecent one, would balk at some of those lyrics. More than bawdy, they were downright vile, which was hardly surprising considering how many of the men were sailors. Good God, someone had even put a lewd poem by the Earl of Rochester to music.

He watched Daisy’s face for some sign of mortification. None. She was extremely competent on the keyboard, hardly glancing at it as she moved from one key to another, one song to the next. The instrument was out of tune, but that didn’t seem to matter. She smirked and winked at the men, jested at their requests, glowered at Mr. Bennett, and avoided Julian’s eyes entirely.

Did that mean she was embarrassed by his presence? Perhaps. Or perhaps because he was so strongly attracted to her, he was seeking redeeming qualities where there were none.

In any event, it was his mission to fit in, so he clapped and cheered with the rest, even joining in when he knew the lyrics.

At last, when they were all uproariously drunk on songs and ale, she played “Hush-a-Bye Baby.” They all laughed. Evidently a lullaby meant she was done. She ignored the few desultory pleas for more, curtsied lavishly, and was gone.

Daisy grabbed her notebook, pen, and ink from the kitchen, snatched a slice of newly baked bread, and went upstairs without a word to Sally or anyone else.

There. She’d degraded herself once again. It felt horrid, but it was a relief all the same. Since she could never prove herself to be good and worthy, she made a point of showing her worst possible side. She’d done a bang-up job of it tonight.

Sir Julian’s gaze had burned into her the entire time. Was he likely to make an attempt to bed her? She didn’t think so. He’d seemed appalled, but men were strange creatures. She locked her door, then verified that her gun was loaded and set it beside her on the desk.

One benefit of being bad: it gave her good ideas for her naughty heroines. Since she’d decided to use Sir Julian for the next hero, she would reproduce the very scene below—the bawdy songs, the brooding blue eyes . . .

She wouldn’t call Sir Julian brooding, exactly. His gaze was more like a knife, sharp and cutting. In her case, any judgment Sir Julian made was bound to be wrong, not that she cared. If he dared come to her bedchamber, he would regret it.

The fictional version of Sir Julian, on the other hand, would judge the heroine fairly. He would understand her instinctively. He would respect her. And bed her, of course, but that had to take place behind closed doors or no one would publish the book.

Still, she didn’t mind that. The last thing she wanted was to try describing an experience she’d only had once and was doing her damnedest to forget.

She wrote the scene, reveling in the realism of it, and the one that followed, where the fictional Sir Julian displayed both the intensity of his desire and the power of his self-control. That, of course, was pure imagination. No one disturbed her. The noise below subsided as the revelers trickled out and Sally and Ned, her brother, retired to bed. Daisy wrote well into the wee hours and slept late.

What a pity Sir Julian of the thoughtful stare hadn’t tried to bed her. She would have taken great pleasure in refusing him. He came to the Diving Duck the following two evenings, once with Mr. Bennett and once without, but he seemed to have lost interest in her, thank God. She found out the next day that he’d left on another leg of his riding tour. Good riddance.

A fortnight later, she copied what she’d written of the new book into shorthand, packed up the originals, ordered the gig, and drove the few miles to Warren Hollow, her brother’s house.

A lonely place just now, as Colin and his family had gone to Ireland to inspect an orphanage and visit his wife Bridget’s Irish relations. A pity, as Daisy had become quite friendly with Bridget and actually felt welcome there. They’d tried to convince her to leave the Diving Duck and return home, but she’d refused. Bridget was good company, but the other ladies in the area would still shun her. Besides, she’d forgotten how to be ladylike and well-mannered. At the Diving Duck, they accepted her as she was.

She secreted the manuscript pages in the strongbox she kept in her old bedchamber, still hers officially, although she rarely spent a night there. She always kept a copy of her current novel there for safekeeping. If someone broke into the strongbox to see what it held, she would know about it. So far, no one had. No one seemed to care. She didn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved.

She went downstairs to where Snappish, her stallion, was saddled and ready, and set off on the long ride to Liverpool. All the mail from her publisher was delivered there. Did Colin know about it? If so, he’d never said so. Which was a good thing, she reminded herself.

She spent several hours in town, first taking a solitary meal at an inn patronized by the gentry, then being fitted for two new gowns, buying some gloves and a hat, and pondering a fur cloak and muff for the winter. Everything would be delivered to her brother’s house in due course.

At the receiving office, she found two letters waiting. One came from her publisher, and included payment and the information that The Lady’s Revenge would be published immediately. The initial orders, he wrote, were stupendous. She grinned at that. How could she not? She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the other and put it into her reticule for later. For now, she must hurry to the bank.

It was then that she got a strong feeling of being watched.

She stopped, turned, and looked about her. Carts, carriages, and pedestrians crammed the street. Curs and children dodged here and there, narrowly missing being kicked or crushed. In other words, the usual chaos of a busy town.

She recognized no one and headed quickly toward the bank. Quite possibly, Colin had set someone to keep an eye on her whilst he was in Ireland, or arranged for Mr. Bennett to have someone do so. Annoying, in fact, infuriating, but they both meant well.

She went into the bank and met briefly with the manager, a dear old man who might easily have told Colin about the publisher’s payments deposited to her account. Hopefully, the cookery book project explained that, because kind as Colin was, he wouldn’t approve of her scandalous novels.

On her way out, the same sensation of being watched assailed her. She turned, but there was only the doorman, hurrying to open it for her.

She went out into the sunshine, still uneasy. This wasn’t like her at all. She’d never been the nervous sort. She was used to going about unescorted, even in the town.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she should stop by the bakery. Sally and Ned at the inn always appreciated a treat from Liverpool.

No, today she would go directly home. She hastened to the livery stable to retrieve Snappish. A groom sauntered away to saddle him up. As she waited, she had plenty of opportunity to gaze about and reassure herself. This uneasiness was sheer folly. She shook it off and, for something to do, opened the other letter.

Under pain of DEATH, do not publish The Lady’s Revenge.