Page 82 of Love and the Shameless Lady

A few short hours ago, she’d decided to trust Julian. It didn’t say much for her emotional fortitude that a few words from another man, unsupported by any explanation, would turn her against him. She now understood all too well the difficulty faced by Dianthus in The Lady’s Revenge, who’d refused to trust her paramour until they were actually married. Dianthus hadn’t been determined to keep her honor at all costs, although readers might like to interpret it that way. No, she’d been a coward, utterly unable to trust.

Daisy didn’t want to be like Dianthus. Not only that, she didn’t have to accept the first explanation that came to mind. She had preferred the vengeance theory of the death threat at first, but the string of thefts made much more sense.

In which case, why had the Marquis de Bellechasse locked her in here? Was he the murderer? That made no sense either. If he’d wanted, he could have killed her just now. Besides that, they were friends.

Or so she had thought. If he were the thief . . . He wasn’t a collector, as far as she knew, but she didn’t know much about him, did she? He had recently visited some of the places where thefts had taken place. So, for that matter, had Julian . . .

No, she was done with suspecting Julian, at least for now. Back to considering the marquis. He had the connections to visit the richest collectors, to be welcomed into their homes. He could have decided what to steal, then sent someone back later to commit the actual burglary. Perhaps Antoine, another man she thought of as a friend. Or someone else.

She’d known the marquis for a good while now. If she’d accidentally overheard him plotting . . . In French, perhaps . . .

The memory bloomed within her mind. She hadn’t heard it. She’d seen it!

Late one evening, when she’d come to collect Mr. Bonaventure’s coffee cup, he had sketched a rough circle, no, more of an untidy oval, like a bracelet carelessly tossed onto a table. Around it at intervals were the names of cities and French words. She must have automatically translated them in her mind—a painting, a queen, and so on.

So that was where the idea for the charm bracelet had originated. A pity she’d remembered it too late.

She stood, her blood running cold. If the marquis was the thief, why had he put her here? To get her out of the way while he stole the chess set? Would he come back and kill her at his leisure?

She had to get out. There was a ladder in here someplace, and the pole to raise the trapdoor, but if he had clicked the latch shut, she wouldn’t be able to get it open. Unless she found something to force it with, something metal, something slim . . .

The knife in its sheath nudged her thigh. At least she’d done something right tonight.

In the Great Hall, Julian found a footman pushing himself up off the floor, clad only in a shirt. A wooden box lay next to him. Julian opened it and found the chess set they’d used last night. The man sat up, clutched his head, and cried out, “God, that hurts.”

Julian crouched next to him. “What happened?”

“I dunno, sir. Last thing I remember, I was doing my rounds, keeping watch like his lordship said.”

“You didn’t see who attacked you?” He eyed the man’s bare legs. “Looks like he stole your clothing. Did you bring this chess set here?”

The footman turned his head, wincing, and frowned. “No, sir, I never touched that. It was in the drawing room, all set out on its board, last I saw.”

“Your master will be down in a minute. Tell him I’m trying the French doors first. Can you remember that?”

“Aye, sir. The French doors.”

Conjecture raced through Julian’s mind as he hurried away. Had the footman surprised the thief in the process of stealing the chess set? The man was likely concussed and didn’t remember all that had happened. Besides, why would the thief steal the man’s clothing, unless to disguise himself while he prowled the house?

That chess set wasn’t particularly old or valuable, definitely not in the same class as other items the thieves had stolen.

Sure enough, the French doors in the billiard room weren’t locked. The rose garden was quiet and still in the moonlight. No sign of Daisy.

But on the far side of the garden, two men lurched into view from behind a tree, clutched in deadly combat. Swiftly and silently, Julian made his way through the garden paths. He was close enough now to identify them: Philippe de Bellechasse and his servant Antoine, who wore the purloined livery and wig. The men staggered back and forth, cursing in French, each trying to topple the other.

Julian didn’t give a damn about either of them. “Where is Daisy?” he demanded.

Philippe didn’t so much glance his way. Briefly, the servant gained the advantage, then lost it again. The wig fell to the ground. They grappled, panting.

These two could murder each other, for all Julian cared. “Where, damn you?”

“Safe enough,” Philippe panted.

Antoine tore himself out of his master’s grip and sprinted away across the lawn.

The marquis set off in pursuit. Julian followed, determined to get her whereabouts from Philippe if he had to strangle him to do so. He caught up and made a grab for Philippe’s sleeve. “Where is she?”

“Mordieu, do you think I tried to kill her?” Philippe wrenched himself away.

Which meant Antoine was the would-be murderer—if Philippe was telling the truth. Julian raced after him. Antoine turned to pass the summerhouse. They were closing in on him . . .

A female form, clad in white, flowing garments, appeared in the doorway to the little house. Antoine swerved and headed straight for her.

Daisy!