Well, upon second thought, perhaps it wasn’t quite as bad as it seemed. Unlike her mother, Dianthus in The Lady’s Revenge only experienced carnal longings when she met the man she was to marry. The novel was just as exciting. While recovering the missing charms for her mother’s bracelet, Dianthus fought off several lecherous villains and punished her mother’s ravisher, but she remained a virgin until after marrying the hero.
Which was an act of pure cowardice, both by Daisy and the heroine she’d written, for it meant that neither of them trusted the hero. Not that Daisy had anything against waiting until marriage in real life—for many reasons, that made sense—but it was different in fiction. The whole point of consummating the marriage before the ceremony was to prove that the heroine trusted the hero, and to prove that he was indeed to be trusted.
No matter how hard she’d tried, Daisy couldn’t make Dianthus trust the hero implicitly. But wasn’t that what mattered most in love, a deep, abiding trust?
Not that Daisy knew anything about love, the Warren family being so utterly devoid of it, at least until recently. It seemed that both Colin and Lord Garrison loved their wives, but most likely that wouldn’t last. On the other hand, Colin had proven to be trustworthy, and—
The stable boy was standing there patiently, watching her. As she turned, he went bright red to the tips of his ears. She rolled her eyes and bit back a reprimand. Harry wasn’t more than fourteen years old, but he couldn’t help being male, and she’d brought this sort of interest upon herself.
She folded the letter and stuffed it into her reticule. If anyone believed the book was about Diana Bilchester, which they wouldn’t, for Daisy couldn’t imagine a friend of Andrea’s fighting off anything worse than an irritable goose, by the end she would be proven a virtuous girl, and no eligible man, however stupid, would have reason to believe otherwise.
“Bring Snappish to me tomorrow afternoon,” Daisy told the now-anxious Harry. She climbed into the gig and drove away.
Was this gossip the source of the death threat? Did it come from Lady Bilchester or the unfortunate Diana? Only a few hundred yards from the Hollow, she pulled the gig to a halt and dug in her reticule. Sure enough, the threatening letter had been sent from London almost a month earlier, when she would still have had time to stop publication of The Lady’s Revenge.
Not that she would have done anything so craven. She reread Andrea’s letter with scorn. Her ladyship and Diana were foolish society ladies, and neither of them would actually come north to murder her.
“Ho, mon cher marquis!” Julian reined in to speak to the last man he expected to see anywhere near the Diving Duck.
Philippe de Bellechasse slowed his horse as well but put up a hand. Consternation crossed his angular features. “Julian!” He seemed as surprised as Julian felt. “Do not use my title, I beg of you. The denizens of the Diving Duck, where I am staying, are ignorant of my former status.”
Julian frowned. What the devil?
“You are aware of my views on the rights of man,” Philippe said. “When consorting with the canaille, I shed my title and become a man of the people.” The Marquis de Bellechasse was one of the rare aristocrats who’d supported the revolution in France. He’d managed to escape with his head, and hadn’t allowed the Reign of Terror to turn him against the unwashed masses.
They continued slowly along the last stretch of road to the inn. “And when amongst the ton in London, you are once again a marquis,” Julian said cynically.
The Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug. “But of course. If I am to marry well . . .”
Indeed, the marquis wasn’t a rich man, although not impoverished like many émigrés. He would naturally seek to enlarge his coffers by the acquisition of a wealthy wife. Julian too might have been forced to seek a well-dowered wife if he hadn’t been hired by the Home Office.
“I fail to understand why you must consort with the common folk, particularly at such a lowly inn.” An unpleasant suspicion raised its ugly head. Julian liked Philippe and considered him a close friend. He didn’t want to discover that he was a French spy.
“I might ask you the same,” the marquis drawled. Playing for time?
“I am here to visit Mr. Bennett, a fellow enthusiast of all things Roman.” They approached the inn, and Julian gestured toward the older man’s house at the far end of the village. “And you?”
“Antoine, my valet, has business with the smugglers,” the marquis said. “Since we are now equals, his concerns carry some weight, although as his employer mine of course take precedence.”
“Of course.”
“When I am free of social obligations, I accompany him to this deplorable inn.” They reined in at the Diving Duck. “Antoine buys smuggled silks and lace to sell to ladies of quality, while my observations of the common people aid me in developing my theories of how to improve the lot of the masses through education rather than violence.”
The marquis often spoke of his magnum opus on education, so this explanation was plausible. Julian wished he were free to believe it. “Shall you remain here long?”
“A few days, perhaps a week. After that I am invited to stay with friends, where I shall assume the mantle of aristo once again.”
“Then we shall surely meet again, as Mr. Bennett and I will likely spend our evenings at the Diving Duck.” Julian schooled his countenance to nothing but polite interest. “By what name shall I call you while you are here?”
“Bonaventure,” the marquis said.
No surprise, but . . . damn.
Just before she reached the Diving Duck, Daisy realized the one thing she should have thought of earlier.
No one knew she’d written The Lady’s Revenge, or her other books for that matter. How had someone known to whom to send that threatening letter?
The answer was obvious. Her publisher, Mr. Doughty, must have betrayed her confidence. Fury seized her. Mr. Doughty had promised to keep her identity a deep, dark secret. If one person knew, soon two people would, then ten, then hundreds.
Including her brother, who would forbid her to write any more novels. She couldn’t imagine losing the one pastime that made life bearable.
She would write to Mr. Doughty, giving him a piece of her mind. Then she would find another publisher, one who knew what was good for him. She would disappear from Lancashire, take an assumed name, support herself with what little she had accumulated . . .
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
She started, reining in at the entrance to the stable yard, and spied a familiar Frenchman seated on the bench outside the inn, smoking a cigarillo. Beside him lounged Sir Julian, similarly occupied. Consumed as she was with her thoughts, it took a moment to switch into her persona of barmaid. “Good-day, Mr. Bonaventure. It’s good to see you back at the Diving Duck.” She nodded at Sir Julian with what she hoped was a meaningful scowl.
He didn’t rise as he would ordinarily do when greeting a lady, so perhaps he’d understood. Instead, he put his head back and blew several perfect smoke rings.
Mr. Bonaventure stood and came over, peering into her baskets. “Ah, shall we have a salad tonight? Or shall you cook us a stew, Daisy?”
“Happen I will.” Not a bad notion. Chopping vegetables would work off some of her ire, but first she would write that letter and send it express.
“How progresses your cookery book?”
Why was he so friendly today? Ordinarily Mr. Bonaventure was somewhat aloof, as one would expect from a Frenchman of good birth. Not that she knew anything about his antecedents, but his French was that of an educated man, and he had a supercilious air that spoke of privilege. Or former privilege, perhaps. It wasn’t easy for the émigrés to shake off the attitudes of their upbringing. And he was blowing a cloud with Sir Julian, which seemed to clinch it.
She didn’t mind
chatting with the customers—it went with the job of barmaid—but today she was too preoccupied. “Very well, sir, thank you kindly.” She nodded and proceeded into the stable yard.
After bringing the vegetables and pastries indoors and taking one cream puff for herself, as otherwise she might not get one at all, she hastened upstairs.
“Oof!” As she turned the corner into the corridor, she bumped into Antoine, Mr. Bonaventure’s valet, who dropped the sheets he was carrying.
He let out a furious French curse and glared at her. Then his face cleared, and he made a swipe at her derriere instead. She dodged, and he grinned as he retrieved the linens. “Oh, la-la, had I known I would bump into la belle Daisy, I would have been better prepared.”
He was a typical Frenchman, and she’d had to slap his roving hands more than once, but he was harmless enough and a favorite with Sally and Alice, the scullery maid who lived in a cottage down the road. “You are using the inn’s sheets?” she asked, surprised. The linen store was at this end of the passage, just before her bedchamber, but Antoine habitually insisted on using Mr. Bonaventure’s own sheets.
Antoine scowled. “It is not what we like, Monsieur Bonaventure and I.” As a firm republican, he always spoke of himself and his master as equals. “But our own sheets are damp, thanks to the stupid washerwoman where we last stayed.”
One of the most common complaints at inns, apart from bedbugs, was damp sheets, so some travelers brought their own. “Our washerwoman would no longer have work if she made that mistake.” She slipped past Antoine before he had a chance to try pawing her again.
In her chamber, she took out ink and paper, and sharpened her pen.
Dear Mr. Doughty,
Today, to my utter shock, I received an anonymous letter ordering me to refrain from publishing The Lady’s Revenge. Needless to say, I intend to ignore this ridiculous demand, which almost certainly comes from a person or persons who feel the novel is actually about them, which of course it is not, as they will realize when they read it. In any event, I assume you have already published it and eagerly await my copies, but regardless, I would not give in to such a demand.
There was no point in mentioning the nonsensical death threat, which might seriously worry Mr. Doughty. Yes, Daisy intended to upset him, but not because of that.
However, I am extremely incensed at you, Mr. Doughty. You are, or were, the only person aware of my true identity. To whom did you reveal my secret, and why? I require an immediate explanation. You are aware, I am sure, that this betrayal on your part may well cause the severance of our hitherto excellent relationship.
I remain, for the time being, etc., etc.
She contemplated the letter while eating the cream puff, then signed and sealed it before marching downstairs.
She had the groom saddle the cob and rode the few miles into Preston. The cob wasn’t trained to a lady’s saddle, but his placidity made up for the occasional confusion. She arranged for the letter to be sent express, the reply to come to her brother’s house, because of its proximity, rather than the usual address in Liverpool. If Mr. Doughty knew what was good for him, he would respond as quickly.
She put up with the cob’s desultory pace on the return journey. She didn’t feel much like chopping vegetables anymore. It had been a long, rather tiring day. She looked forward to a relaxing evening, serving tankards of ale and plotting her next novel.
Mr. Bonaventure still occupied the bench by the inn. The huge gray kitchen cat, usually a cantankerous creature, purred under his caressing hand. She nodded to him and continued toward the stable.
He beckoned. “Viens ici.”
Automatically, Daisy reined in, stiffening at such a mode of address. Come here, in the French familiar form, as if he were speaking to a servant.
Which he believed he was doing, and she was used to that sort of familiarity in English, but not in French.
Bonaventure chuckled. “You are affronted. You scowl at me.” The cat jumped off his lap and stalked away. Daisy wished she could leave as well. She tried to wipe the annoyance off her face.
“Why did I not realize it before?” he asked. “You are not the, er, country bumpkin you pretend to be.”
Damn! What had brought this on?
“Et vous parlez français.” And you speak French. This time he used the more formal, respectful form.
“Un peu.” A little. She slid down off the cob and slapped it on the rump. Willingly it headed for the stable and its ration of oats. She continued in French, which she understood reasonably well but spoke too seldom to be fluent. “I was never an attentive student. Good day, sir.” She headed for the door.
“Your accent is not bad,” he remarked, “for an Englishwoman. An English lady, I should say. And why, I ask myself, does a lady serve ale in this hovel?”
She whirled and stormed over to him, her eyes narrowed. “Who told you? Was it Sir Julian? I’d like to wring his neck.”
“No one told me. I guessed.” Mr. Bonaventure motioned to the space next to him on the bench.
She clenched her fists. “Was it Mr. Bennett? He introduced me as if I were a lady.”
“Very proper, but no, he told me nothing. Your demeanor is not that of a servant, nor do Ned and Sally treat you as one. I’m surprised I didn’t realize it earlier.” Bonaventure gave her his faint, cynical smile. “Come, sit with me and explain.”
She didn’t want to, but she complied. “It is supposed to be a secret.” Were all her secrets to be uncovered, one by one? “From strangers, that is. The locals all know.”
“I am no longer a stranger, and whether you like it or not, Miss . . .”
“Warren,” she grumped. “Desdemona Warren, but kindly continue to call me Daisy.”
“Warren,” he repeated meditatively. “A relative of Lord Garrison, perhaps?”
“He is my cousin.”
He raised his brows. “Is that so? I shall shortly visit him and his charming wife at Garrison House. A weeklong party with a few friends.”
“How pleasant for you,” she said, trying to stifle her envy.
“Shall you be there, Miss Warren?”
“Daisy,” she retorted. “Definitely not.”
“You are not welcome at your cousin’s house?”
She hunched a shoulder. She didn’t know the answer to this question. Miles had never been unkind to her, but in return she had not visited his estate since her ruin. “I don’t wish to embarrass them and their guests.”
“This becomes more interesting by the minute, Daisy. Whether you like it or not, your quality distinguishes you from the bumpkins hereabouts. Why, may I ask, is your identity a secret?”
She didn’t much care what the Frenchman thought of her, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed explaining herself. She hoped he wouldn’t suddenly decide she was fair game. He was an attractive man, attractive enough to be the hero of a novel, but she’d only thought of him that way once or twice, and only because she’d been imagining how her heroine felt. “Because I am a ruined woman.”
“But from a family known for its many scandals.” His expression was far too amused. And rather warm, damn him.
“Yes.” She always locked her door, but now she would also have to check that her gun was loaded and make sure her knife was handy. What a nuisance.
He chuckled. “Life would be tedious without a scandal now and then, and in your family, it is hardly surprising. That does not explain why you are obliged to become a servant.”
“It is a matter of choice, not obligation. I choose to live here, and I choose to work, and I don’t choose to explain myself to every stranger who passes by, which is why I would prefer that my circumstances be kept a secret. And now, I have business to attend to.”
She stood and left. On the way indoors, she met Sir Julian em
erging with two tankards. She glared at him and stormed past.
Chapter 3
Julian eyed Daisy’s retreating back. He handed a tankard to the Frenchman and sat next to him on the bench.
“Was that stony expression directed at you, me, or all males of the species?” he asked.
“All, I believe,” Philippe de Bellechasse said. “An attractive woman, is she not?”
Julian liked the marquis—good Lord, they’d known one another since Philippe had left France just before the darkest days of the Revolution—and the thought that his close friend might have become a French spy was frankly sickening. I’m not cut out for this work, Julian told himself for perhaps the thousandth time. Usually, his difficulty was sympathy for the radical thinkers. He hated having to turn them in only because they’d gone a step too far with their beliefs, but one couldn’t condone the festering of unrest during wartime. Wait till we’ve beaten Napoleon, he told them, but often they wouldn’t listen, giving him no damned choice.
If the marquis was a spy, he should get what he deserved. And yet Julian loathed the notion that this forward-thinking man, this friend who had escaped the guillotine, might end up on the gallows. Even worse, by Julian’s contriving.
It helped to think of him as Bonaventure rather than his friend Philippe. But not much.
Regardless of these mixed feelings, his mission did not include entanglement with a woman, attractive or otherwise. He ignored his flicker of annoyance at Bonaventure’s comment and merely grunted an assent.
Bonaventure took a swallow of ale and glanced at Julian from the corner of his eye. “An attractive lady, I should say.”
So Bonaventure too was privy to Daisy’s so-called secret. “I believe she would rather you didn’t.” In spite of his best intentions, he’d said it too stiffly.
Bonaventure’s brows went up. “You have an interest there?”
Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3) Page 4
