Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3)

by Barbara Monajem

  Julian suppressed the automatic no that rose to his lips. “She is indeed attractive, but I am not in the mood for marriage.”

  Bonaventure shrugged. “Marriage might not be required.”

  “I would not so insult her,” Julian snapped. Damn.

  “Bah,” the Frenchman said. “Why should it be considered an insult? Have not women as much right as men to the pleasures of the flesh? In France, where we treasure equality, we almost achieved it for women as well . . . but alas, the people were not ready for so great a liberty.” He continued talking, and Julian attempted to listen. He attended many philosophical discourses in the course of his work for the Home Office, and knew all about the marquis’ theories. For the first time, he had the feeling that behind his serious words, the Frenchman was amused. Could be cynicism, could be insincerity, could be a ruse to mask covert activities . . .

  Could be my heightened imagination, Julian told himself. “Philosophy is all very well, but it does not stand up against the complications which would invariably ensue,” he said. “And she would be insulted if I offered her a carte blanche.”

  “It is shameful that because of an antiquated notion of propriety, she must hide herself in this backwater.”

  Julian wished he weren’t so much in sympathy with Bonaventure’s views. “Maybe she prefers it to being shunned by the members of her own class.”

  “But she cannot be comfortable with these canaille,” Bonaventure said. “It is different for you or I. We cannot be what we are not, but it does not harm a gentleman’s reputation to mingle with the common people.”

  “It seems to me,” Julian said in spite of himself, “that it is you who have an interest in Miss Warren.”

  “Merely curiosity,” the Frenchman said. “Have you heard her sing?”

  “Some highly inappropriate songs,” Julian retorted.

  “Precisely. She plays pianoforte well, and yet she resorts to vulgar tunes rather than the sonatas a lady should rightly play. She works in the kitchen and writes a cookery book, of all foolish starts.”

  “You, too, are writing a book,” Julian said.

  “A philosophical tome.” The marquis gestured grandiloquently. “Of great import about the rights of mankind.”

  “Perhaps, but a cookery book is of far more practical use.” Julian stood and drained his ale. “A well-prepared dinner should be one of the rights of mankind.” He bowed and returned to Mr. Bennett’s house, feeling that he had accomplished very little so far.

  After a humdrum evening serving ale, trying another batch of rock buns, and pondering the plot of her new novel, Daisy wrote well into the night. If she was going to be prevented from writing future novels, or supporting herself precariously on the proceeds, she must get the next one finished quickly. No one disturbed her peace and quiet. Perhaps she’d misread Mr. Bonaventure’s sudden interest. She hoped so.

  Sir Julian made an excellent hero. She wavered between making him a pirate, a smuggler, or a spy, but she wasn’t in the mood to write about sea voyages, which would have required special research, and she’d had enough of smugglers, so she made him a spy. Where, she hadn’t made up her mind. She’d never been out of England, but what would be the use of a British spy in England? She couldn’t make him a French one, because a French spy couldn’t be a hero. He could be in the business of catching French spies, she supposed . . .

  She slept late and woke to the sound of hooves on the cobblestones. She opened the window and leaned out. “Good heavens, is it already afternoon?”

  Snappish whinnied a greeting, and Harry dismounted from his hack with a grin. “Aye, Miss D—” He stopped himself, remembering her rule, but he could never bring himself to call her just plain Daisy in this environment. “A package came this morning, miss. From London.” He’d brought two baskets of herbs on his hack and therefore had put the package in one of Snappish’s saddlebags. He sidestepped neatly to avoid being bitten whilst retrieving it.

  A package from London could mean only one thing. “Bring it into the kitchen, and ask Sally to give you something to eat.” She hurried into her riding habit and went downstairs.

  Antoine lounged by the back door with a cup of coffee, or more likely his habitual café-au-lait. In typical French fashion, he flirted with Sally and Alice, the scullery maid who came in during the day, while Harry sat at the deal table, watching in mixed envy and disapproval of the foreigner.

  At sight of Daisy, he stood and presented her with the packet.

  “Oh, excellent, I’ve been longing for some new books.” She had standing orders with a few publishers for the latest romantic novels. It was easier to keep her identity secret if she received books from others besides Mr. Doughty.

  An unhappy thought intruded: it wasn’t much of a secret anymore.

  She could do nothing about that except wait and see. She opened the box and grinned at Sally. “Guess which?”

  Sally looked up from rolling pastry, her eyes sparkling. “The Lady’s Revenge?”

  “Yes! It’s out at last.”

  There was a yelp from Antoine, followed by a French curse. Coffee had slopped over the lip of his cup and dripped to the floor. He shook his hand vigorously and cursed again, his face suffused and furious.

  “Oh, you spilled your coffee. Are you badly burnt?” Sally went over with a rag and wiped his cup.

  Antoine controlled his ire and sniffed. “It is nothing.”

  “You just wanted my sympathy, is that it, you rogue?”

  “Peut-être.” Antoine slid his free arm about her waist.

  She released herself with a grin. “I don’t understand your frog talk, but I’m a respectable woman, I’ll have you know.” Sally returned to the pastry. “Shall you read to us tonight, Daisy? Me and Alice can’t wait!”

  “Nor can I.” Daisy took the box and a cup of coffee upstairs to examine her books in private. Like The Lady’s Ruin, Doughty had published The Lady’s Revenge as a standard three-volume set. Joyfully, she caressed the volumes bound in calf, with the lettering in gold. She put the last two volumes on the shelf with all her other books, and the first she left on her dressing table for that evening. Alice still couldn’t read and didn’t care to, but Sally’s literacy had improved by leaps and bounds since Daisy had introduced her to novel-reading. Soon she would be ready to do the reading aloud herself.

  Daisy finished her coffee and loaded her pistol with the last of her powder and shot. She must remember to get more next time she went to her brother’s house. She donned a bonnet and gloves, and went down to the stables.

  What a glorious summer afternoon, a little on the warm side but for a brisk breeze. Soon she and Snappish were indulging themselves in a good gallop. He was a wonderful creature, as temperamental as his name, and would let very few people ride him. The breeze tugged at her hat, and locks of hair escaped its confines and whipped about her face. She turned for home, and was about to stop and tuck her hair back in when she had the misfortune to encounter Mr. Linden, a nearby landowner, and his wife, out for a sedate afternoon ride.

  “The nerve of that woman,” Mrs. Linden said loudly, kicking her horse into a trot to pass all the faster. “Careering about the countryside like a hoyden, her bonnet all anyhow and her hair in her face, when she should hide herself in shame.”

  It was entirely true about her bonnet and hair, but Daisy had never felt even a whisper of shame. Regret, certainly. Chagrin, oh, buckets of it.

  If Mr. Linden had been alone, he would have greeted her and exchanged a word, but with his wife there he had to pretend to shun her. His eyes roamed from the clouds in the sky to the birds in the trees to the cattle in the fields. It was cowardly, but she didn’t really blame him. He probably suffered, married to such a shrew.

  Daisy waved gaily and cantered past them with a grin, not a genuine smile, but
she was good at pretending, and then laughed at a sudden thought. Perhaps it was all for the best that she would never marry, for judging by the way she’d treated the few men of her class that she’d met lately, she had become quite the shrew herself.

  Around the next bend, a stretch of woods gave a little shelter from the wind. She reined Snappish in and removed her hat. She tucked her hair behind her ears, but even here the breeze snatched at it. The wind grabbed at the hat as she tried to put it on, so she bent forward, hoping for a little more shelter.

  A shot rang out! Snappish shied and reared. Daisy grabbed the pommel, remaining on by sheer force of muscle, and her bonnet flew in one direction while Snappish galloped in the other.

  “Stupid fool,” she cried. “Watch where you’re shooting!”

  A few hundred yards down the road, she managed to slow Snappish, and suddenly heard hoof beats behind her. Alarmed, she pulled her pistol from the saddlebag and wheeled her still-agitated mount.

  A horseman approached at a canter, slowing as he neared her. Sir Julian Kerr. Shaking a little, she soothed the stallion.

  Sir Julian eyed the pistol coolly and without surprise, and rode up to her. “Your bonnet, Miss Warren. The wind blew it right into my hands.”

  Daisy stowed her pistol in the saddlebag and took the hat with a word of thanks.

  “I fear it is ruined, though,” he said.

  Julian watched in concern as Daisy spied the hole in the crown. Her eyes widened. “Oh, God.” She’d been rosy from exertion—she was an excellent rider, judging by her control of that runaway stallion—but now she paled and whispered, “Someone tried to kill me.”

  He couldn’t have heard that correctly. “I beg your pardon?” After a pause, he said, “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  Her bosom heaved. Her dark hair flew about face. She looked wild, beautiful, and understandably distressed. Visibly, she took hold of herself. “Did I say that?” Her voice shook. “That was shock speaking. It’s not what I meant. I meant that shot almost killed me.”

  That made sense, more or less. She had every reason to be overset and yet, what a strange thing to say.

  “It must have been a poacher,” she said doubtfully.

  “A very stupid poacher, but you may be right.” Julian said. “I don’t think it was an attempt at robbery.”

  “The only highwayman hereabouts knows me,” said Daisy. “He wouldn’t harm me.”

  “Who owns the land here? We should let his gamekeeper know.”

  “Mr. Linden. You can call on him if you like. They won’t open the door to me.”

  “Then to hell with them,” he said.

  “Oh, Mr. Linden isn’t so bad, but he lives under the cat’s paw.” She blinked at the hat. “It’s lucky I’d leaned down to put it on again. It wasn’t quite on my head, but I suppose he didn’t realize that.”

  “You think the shooter was aiming at you?”

  “What? No, no of course not.” Absently, she pushed her hair back. “Why would a poacher shoot at me?”

  “Why indeed?”

  “Maybe he mistook my hat for a grouse.” Which was ridiculous, but he wasn’t about to question it.

  “He ruined my perfectly good bonnet,” she grumped.

  “Perhaps Sally could mend it for you.”

  “I can mend it myself, thank you very much. She’s not my maid.” She took a deep breath and said in a tone of dismissal, “The driveway to Mr. Linden’s estate is about half a mile behind us. You’ll recognize it by the wrought-iron gates.”

  He wasn’t sure whether or not she truly felt endangered, but he didn’t intend to leave her on her own. “That can wait. I’m expected back at Mr. Bennett’s, so I’ll accompany you home.”

  Did she sigh a little with relief? Who, damn it, would want to kill her? Mrs. Linden, who doubtless knew her husband didn’t dislike Daisy? Someone more sinister? Julian was on the lookout for spies, so his mind naturally moved in that direction.

  Or maybe no one wanted to kill her, and she was just the hysterical sort.

  He didn’t quite believe that either.

  She crammed the bonnet willy-nilly over her hair, tied the ribbons, and headed her stallion toward the Diving Duck. “Were you also out for exercise, Sir Julian, or did you have business to attend to?”

  “An urgent letter regarding my estate. I rode into Preston to put it on the mail coach.” This was untrue. He’d certainly intended to write to the Home Office, via an innocuous address, for all available information about the Marquis de Bellechasse, but he’d been unable to bring himself to do so. The marquis would be forever under suspicion if formal inquiries were initiated, and Julian wouldn’t risk doing that to a friend. Instead, he would wait and see.

  “Where is your estate?” she asked.

  Not that Daisy cared a button about Sir Julian’s estate, but she needed to carry on a meaningless conversation with the man. She had to stop her imagination from running wild.

  Which was ironic, because usually she wanted to leave her imagination free to race wherever it led. How else was she to write exciting stories?

  “In Somerset,” he said, “on the coast, but not terribly far from Bath. That’s where I first became interested in Roman ruins.”

  What had just happened wasn’t a story, but she could make use of the experience of almost being shot and controlling a runaway horse. She’d had to control Snappish before, but never in such circumstances.

  Sir Julian was speaking again in a gentle voice that made it clear he thought her a hysterical female in need of soothing, and small blame to him, after she’d blurted that someone wanted to kill her. She wasn’t hysterical, but still she appreciated his escort.

  “You really must try it sometime, Miss Warren. It’s quite different from a lake or river.”

  Oh, they must be discussing bathing again. “I suppose so.” Once again, she shut out the memory of that shot whistling past her head, of seeing the hole in her hat and realizing how very easily she might now be dead.

  But no one was trying to kill her. This was merely an accident, a poacher who’d shot wide. Or low.

  She hadn’t seen any birds about, and it wasn’t the shooting season yet, so she couldn’t blame it on a shooting party.

  Just because she’d received that letter, it didn’t mean anyone really wanted her dead.

  Somehow she managed to carry her end of the conversation until they arrived at the Diving Duck. Sir Julian carried on toward Mr. Bennett’s, while she rode into the yard and handed Snappish over to Harry, who was waiting to take him home.

  She went upstairs immediately, removed her riding habit, dressed in one of the old round gowns she wore in the kitchen, and sat down to mend the bonnet. She soon gave up. Not that she couldn’t mend it perfectly well. She wasn’t a good needlewoman, but she could manage simple stitchery or, if she chose, give the work to one of the maids at the Hollow.

  But she stopped because her hands were still trembling, very slightly, but enough to make it difficult to sew. She tossed the hat on her dressing table and went to her desk instead, where she wrote an untidy but legible description of how it felt to be shot at, to barely control her horse, to realize she had almost died. To wonder if someone wanted to kill her.

  In a book, the heroine would most likely know someone wanted her dead. In real life, it was impossible to believe.

  Almost.

  A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. Antoine.

  His grin was so insolent that she almost slammed the door in his face. He must have noticed, for he put up a placating hand. “Do not be enraged, lovely Daisy. I am a Frenchman. I cannot help but appreciate a beautiful woman.”

  “What do you want?” she demanded. “Besides the obvious.”

  He pressed his h
ands together in an attitude of supplication. “Mademoiselle, would you be so kind as to lend me the first volume of The Lady’s Revenge? I shall return it in time for you to read aloud tonight.”

  Surprised, she hesitated.

  “I shall take good care of it,” he said. “I read The Lady’s Ruin this spring, and now I am as eager as Sally and Alice to know what happens next, but I am often busy in the evening.”

  Flattered, she gave him the book.

  That evening, Julian and Mr. Bennett were ensconced at a corner table in the Diving Duck. “Do you see many poachers hereabouts?” Julian asked.

  “No more than anywhere else,” Mr. Bennett said. “Why do you ask?”

  Julian took a swallow of ale. “Because Miss Warren was almost killed today by a stray shot. It blew a hole through her hat, and if she wasn’t such a good rider, her horse would have thrown her.”

  Bennett tsked. “I can’t imagine any of our local lads being that careless. Where did it happen?”

  “On the road by Mr. Linden’s land.”

  “Mrs. Linden might want Daisy dead.” Bennett chuckled. “No, I’m not serious, but her husband has a soft spot for Daisy, so the stupid woman imagines Daisy is out to seduce the old boy.”

  “I got the impression, for a moment at least, that Daisy really thought someone had tried to kill her.” Julian recounted Daisy’s whispered statement, swiftly amended.

  “She’s a woman,” Bennett said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if she became hysterical for a moment or two.”

  Except that she’d managed her plunging horse and coolly faced Julian with a gun. On the other hand, she’d been upset only a day earlier by some unwelcome news. The problem with investigating the possibility of espionage was that everything that smacked of the unusual required investigation.