The mattress arrived a half hour later, brought by a footman. A maid entered behind him with a tray containing her dinner. The footman built a fire in the grate, then left, and the maid began laying out her meal on the deal table nearest the window.
Helena eyed the mattress suspiciously. “How long has it been since that mattress was used?”
“Lord have mercy, I’ve no idea,” the maid answered. “Some months, I expect. Most people prefer a bed, y’know, even if two or three have to share it.” The maid wrinkled her nose. “Sleeping on the floor ain’t so pleasant, if you take my meaning.”
Unfortunately, Helena took her meaning quite well.
The buxom girl shot her a curious glance when she went to make up the mattress. “My master says you prefer to sleep alone. Don’t know as I could do that meself, not with a husband as fine as yours to share my bed.”
The maid’s tiny, knowing smile pricked Helena raw, and though Helena’s frosty glare made it vanish, the chit’s assumptions still irritated her. No doubt she was calculating how easy it would be to get Daniel into her own bed. After all, any man who refused to sleep with his wife…
Oh, Lord, now she was even thinking of herself as his wife. Next she’d be wondering what it would be like to share a bed with him, to have his large frame nestled against her, bared except for his drawers—
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the girl asked, having finished with the mattress.
Helena snapped her gaze away from the imposing bed and colored in spite of herself. “No, that will be all. Thank you.”
As soon as the girl was gone, she sat down to her meal, but could do no more than pick at it. Food did not interest her just now. The Madeira, however, was another matter. She did not overimbibe as a general rule, but tonight she wanted to ease the ache in her heart.
Between sips of Madeira, she unpacked the meager contents of the saddlebag, hanging her other gown over the leather screen to air, examining what else she’d been allowed to keep. Her extra petticoat was there and her night rail, but little more beyond a few toiletries and her sketch pad. She sighed. Mrs. N’s guide had been left behind.
Truth be told, however, she was finding its guidance vastly unhelpful. She began to suspect that Mrs. N had limited experience with men. Why else would she make rules so impossible to follow as The Well-bred Young Lady never loses her temper?
At least Helena had her sketch pad. Settling down with the remains of the flagon, she took out the pad and her pencil and sketched out the shapes of the furniture in their room. Then she set the whole mess aside.
She was in no mood to draw. She was in no mood to do anything but stare into space and replay her conversation with Daniel. The trouble was, every time she replayed it, she came out looking worse.
She’d been utterly wrong about him in more than one respect. Considering his background, it was astonishing how much he’d taught himself, how he’d risen to a position of respect and responsibility. And to have amassed so much money, he must be very competent and far more intelligent than many privileged gentlemen. No wonder Griff placed such faith in him.
Contrary to Daniel’s opinion of her, she did not believe birth was everything. After all, Mama had been a mere actress fortunate enough to marry a gentleman, yet she’d been the most refined woman Helena knew.
Helena had placed some store by breeding and education, but this afternoon Daniel had behaved in a more civilized way toward her than she had toward him. He’d proven kinder and more apt to look beyond appearances than any of the proper gentlemen she’d known, which made her feel quite ashamed of her unfair treatment of him.
She still did not approve of his dalliances, of course, and she still thought him annoyingly arrogant at times. But beyond that, he was a better man than she had guessed. That was what made him hard to resist, what tempted her into shameless behavior around him. It had been years since she’d met a man she truly believed was good at heart. And it was perhaps the only time she’d met one who roused such naughty thoughts and urges in her.
After a while, she glanced at the clock on the mantel, shocked to discover it well past eleven and the candles already guttering in their sconces. She ought to go to bed. After her exertions today, she needed rest, even if she didn’t feel the least bit sleepy.
As she performed the necessary ablutions at the basin, she wondered if she dared change into her night rail. No, best not to. Daniel had been rather firm about her roaming the room in such a state, and she refused to give him anything else to complain about. Though she cringed to think how her dress would look in the morning, she kept it on, only taking down her hair. Trying not to dwell on the bugs lurking in the shadows, she lay down on the mattress on the floor and pulled the wool blanket up to her chin.
She was convinced she was too edgy to sleep, so it was with something of a shock when she awakened to discover from the clock that she’d been asleep nearly two hours. It must have been the Madeira she’d drunk on an empty stomach. Indeed, she still felt a trifle foggy-brained.
Sitting up, she glanced about to find the bed still empty. She grabbed her cane and got up, wincing as her aching leg protested. A quick examination of the clock revealed that it was indeed past one A.M. And Daniel was still downstairs.
For heaven’s sake, how long did it take a man to question a lot of scoundrels? He’d been down there for hours.
An image of the buxom maid flashed into her mind, and her heart sank. What if he was doing more than asking questions? She’d certainly given him no reason not to practice his usual…indiscretions.
Well, she refused to wait about in the morning for him to rise after a night of drinking and…and other debaucheries. He could do his wild living on someone else’s schedule—she wouldn’t tolerate it on hers.
Hastily, she pinned up her hair. As she left the room to descend the narrow stairs, clinging to the banister for support, she told herself it was only her concern for their schedule that led her toward the taproom. Nothing more.
Finding the taproom was easy—loud and raucous snatches of drinking songs and laughter spilled from it. A faint apprehension seized her as she neared its entrance. She had every right to come fetch Daniel, she reminded herself. To all appearances she was his wife, and surely that was what wives did.
Still, she was unprepared for the sight that greeted her eyes. The walls of the low-ceilinged room were hung with sporting prints, and smoke clogged the air from freely lit pipes and cigars. The taps flowed in regular bursts, and the only women in the room—the taproom maids—were kept busy filling glasses and rushing them to tables where men clamored for “more ale.” Though the girls were dressed a trifle…casually, and one or two flirted with the men, they seemed to have little time for more than that.
Which explained why the men were all in varying stages of inebriation. What a pitiful collection of drunken louts. One man stumbled over his companion trying to dance a jig beside his joint stool, another pinched a maid’s bottom as she passed and only laughed when she swatted his hand away.
Oh, dear, this was no place for a woman of good reputation, to be sure.
“Helena?” rasped a disbelieving voice somewhere to the right of her. Swallowing hard, she turned to find herself the object of scrutiny by six men crowded around a lopsided oak table. Daniel was one of them, and his surprise rapidly altered to annoyance.
The others, however, looked pleased to see her. One even rose to bow and say, “Welcome, madam. Do come and join us. We’ll buy you a pint of ale, won’t we, lads?”
As the man’s companions grinned and chorused the invitation, she hesitated. Lord, what had she got herself into?
“That’s my wife you’re talking to, you fool,” Daniel ground out as he rose from the table, “and the only place she’s going is back to our room.”
That sparked her temper. Yes, she’d behaved badly this afternoon, but that was no reason to pack her off to bed like some child. These men did not look so awful as she might have expe
cted. Why not join them?
She walked toward their table with a smile. “Don’t be silly, Danny. I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes narrowed ominously at her use of his nickname, but she ignored it. “I’m tired of waiting upstairs. I believe I will join you and your friends.”
“Now see here, Helena—”
“Relax, Brennan, and sit down,” the man who’d invited her said as he hurried to pull up a chair next to him. “Yer wife’s perfectly safe with us, eh, lads?”
“Thank you,” she said primly as she took the proffered seat. “Danny is far too overprotective sometimes. He thinks he’s the only one who should have any fun.”
Her overprotective “husband” did sit down, but he shot her a thunderous glare across the table. She sighed. If he insisted on being angry at her anyway, she could hardly make matters any worse.
“Well, now, Mrs. Brennan,” one of the other men said, “mayhap your husband’s got his reasons for bein’ overprotective—with you such a fine woman and all.”
“Pish-posh. A fine woman deserves entertainment as much as any other.”
“She deserves ale, too,” the first man said at her side.
“She don’t need ale,” Daniel put in. “She ain’t staying.”
She blinked, unused to such poor grammar from Daniel. But of course, he would want to play his part thoroughly, wouldn’t he? Well, she would play a part of her own.
“Of course I’m staying.” She bestowed a smile on the man beside her. “Ale would be nice, thank you.” The Well-bred Young Lady does not overimbibe, niggled a voice in the back of her mind. Oh, a pox on that Well-bred Young Lady. She’d probably never had to chase after an unruly sister.
Daniel snorted and shook his head, but made no other move to keep her from staying. Not that she would have let him. She was tired of waiting on Daniel’s leisure, taking only the crumbs of information he’d offered. She didn’t see why she couldn’t participate in their investigation.
The man next to her called for a maid, who hurried over to take his order. Then he laid his arm about Helena’s shoulders and winked. “The name’s John Wallace, ma’am, though it’s John Thomas Wallace that the ladies like the best. And either one will suit for you.”
At her bewildered expression, the other men burst into laughter. Daniel rose half out of his seat to growl, “Best be watching your coarse tongue around my wife, you sot!”
“It’s all right,” Helena put in, not sure what she’d missed, although Daniel’s expression implied it was rather improper. Lord, were they all as flirtatious as Daniel? She picked up Mr. Wallace’s arm and dropped it in his lap. “Actually, I think ‘presumptuous’ suits you best of all.”
He chuckled. “‘Pre-sump-tuous,’ eh? By damn, you’re a fancy female to be married to a rascal like Brennan there. Yer husband claims to be a dealer in smuggled goods—been tellin’ us about it for the past hour.” Suspicion glinted in his eyes. “But mayhap he’s not such a rascal after all.”
The tension at the table instantly heightened. She didn’t dare look at Daniel. “Well, of course he is.” She folded her hands in her lap to hide their trembling. “How else do you think we met?” Oh, dear, why had she said such a ninny thing?
“That sounds very interestin’,” Mr. Wallace commented. “Met yer wife while free tradin’, Mr. Brennan? Do tell us about this odd courtship.”
“I’ll let my wife do it,” his deep voice answered. “She tells it much better than me.”
Her gaze shot to him in a panic. Daniel was the one who could twist the truth—what was she to do now? But his cursed eyebrow just crooked upward in challenge.
She stiffened. He thought she’d ruin everything, didn’t he? Well, how hard could it be to convince a lot of drunken men that her tale was true?
“It’s very simple, really,” she began, stalling for time. The taproom maid set a foaming glass of ale in front of her, and she stared at it, an idea forming. “My father is a London liquor merchant. Danny was the one to sell Papa French brandy and wine and such. That’s how I first spotted him.” She let a dreamy expression cross her face as she looked over at Daniel. “I lost my heart to him the minute I saw him at Papa’s place of business.”
A faint, mocking smile touched Daniel’s lips.
“Oho!” one of the other men said. “And did your father approve?”
“Of course not. He had great aspirations for me, wanted me to marry a fine lord. How do you think I learned to speak like this? Papa sent me away to…Mrs. Nunley’s School for Refined Ladies.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice as she warmed to her tale. “My grandfather was a publican, and Papa improved his fortunes by marrying a merchant’s daughter. But he wanted better for me, you see. And since he had the wealth to tempt a lord, he was determined to see me marry well.”
“Yet you married this scoundrel,” the man sitting next to Daniel said with a laugh, clapping him on the back. Daniel rolled his eyes.
She lifted her pint of ale and sipped, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the musty smell. It tasted far better than it smelled, though, sort of nutty.
She set the ale back down. “That’s rather good.”
“You have had ale before, haven’t you?” Mr. Wallace asked. “I mean, with yer father bein’ a liquor merchant and all.”
Had her surprise been that obvious? “Now that I’m married to Danny, I drink what I want. But Papa always said that proper ladies do not drink ale, so he never let me have anything stronger than ratafia. And once in a while, champagne.”
That sent the other men into gales of laughter. “Ratafia, eh?” Mr. Wallace remarked. “Well, you won’t find any ratafia or champagne here, Mrs. Brennan.”
“Thank heavens.” She drank some more ale. “I prefer the stouter stuff.”
They laughed again and Daniel snorted, but she was surprised to discover the taste was growing on her. As were its effects—a general warmth and feeling of grand well-being throughout her body.
“How did you get around your father’s expectations so you could marry Brennan?” one of the men asked.
Best to stick as close to the truth as possible, Daniel had said. “Well, I realized Papa’s hopes for me were far too lofty, even if he did not.” She pointed to her leg. “It’s hard to catch a fine lord if you can’t even dance at balls.”
“Have you always been lame then?” the youngest of the group asked from his seat on the other side of Mr. Wallace.
Mr. Wallace cuffed him. “That’s a rude question, you chawbacons.”
“I don’t mind,” she said quickly, unsettled by the casual violence against a lad who looked little older than Juliet. But when they glanced to her expectantly, she froze. She rarely spoke of her illness to anyone, deflecting all questions with polite evasions. And to expose herself so wholly to these strange men…
Taking a fortifying sip of ale, she looked at Daniel. His encouraging smile oddly reassured her. “Well, you see, I contracted an illness, a very rare one, around the time of my coming out. I first had fever and headache, and then it attacked my muscles. When the fever passed, I discovered that my legs didn’t work.”
“Both legs?” Mr. Wallace glanced down at them. “But yer other one seems fine.”
She nodded. “Papa consulted a surgeon familiar with the disease, and he said I might recover some facility in my limbs if I exercised them.” She shrugged. “So I did, and I managed to recover all the strength in one leg and partial use of the other.”
That was all she’d planned to say until Daniel spoke up. “Tell them how long it took you.”
Her gaze shot to his to find a question in his eyes. Heavens, he wanted to know for himself, and his interest warmed her even more than the ale. “It was three or four years before I could manage with only a cane. My…er…maid Rosalind helped me enormously. She prodded and pushed me even when I didn’t want to try. It’s thanks to her that I can walk at all.”
“Thanks to her and yourself,” Daniel corrected. “It must’ve taken g
reat strength of will. And I doubt your ‘maid’ would’ve succeeded if you hadn’t wanted it so bad.”
She stared at him, her heart in her throat. Approval shone in his face, and she drank it up more thirstily than any ale. “I suppose not,” she admitted.
“So you didn’t have your show in grand society after all,” one of the men put in.
She tore her gaze from Daniel. “M-my show?”
“Your ‘come out.’”
“Oh. No, I did not.” She took a great swig of ale, drowning the memory of her first public appearance in Stratford when her cane had garnered her pitying glances from the squire’s son. That pity was echoed later by men of higher rank. “By the time I regained use of my legs, I was too old and lame to suit any of those stuffy lords.” The liquor spreading through her body made her reckless, made her want to confess things she told no one. “Besides, I didn’t want them anyway. I think a man ought to appreciate a woman for more than just her appearance, don’t you?”
The men quickly chimed their agreement, protesting that they wouldn’t be so “mutton-headed,” that she was fine enough for any man and all those “lords” were fools.
Their enthusiastic response surprised her, though she didn’t quite believe them. They were smugglers, after all. “Thank you. But now you see why I was eager to marry Danny. He was so sweet to me. Those chaps Papa kept throwing at me only wanted my inheritance.”
Mr. Wallace eyed Daniel with a hint of mischief. “And how did you know Mr. Brennan here did not want yer inheritance?”
Daniel bristled, but she hastened to say, “Oh, I knew I could trust him from the start.” She caught his gaze and held it. “He’s an honorable man. He’d never court a woman for her money.”
She prayed that he’d accept her apology this time, and for a moment it seemed that he might, for his expression held a sort of bemused surprise.
Then it hardened. “My wife exaggerates. She wasn’t always so trusting.”
A keen disappointment sliced through her. She finished off her ale, taking solace from the heady brew. “Well, what did you expect? Your profession doesn’t precisely inspire trust, my dear.”
A Notorious Love Page 12
