A Notorious Love

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Too late, she realized she’d insulted the entire table.

  But they didn’t seem to take offense. Indeed, Mr. Wallace laughed broadly. “A clever woman, eh? So what did he do to change yer mind, Mrs. Brennan?” Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, “Did he dance the mattress jig with you afore the weddin’?”

  “I told you, I can’t dan—” She broke off, realizing what he must mean. A blush spread over her cheeks that she could only pray was hidden by the taproom’s poor light. Daniel was looking as if he might dance a jig on Mr. Wallace’s head at any moment, and he didn’t even know what the man had said.

  “Of course not,” she whispered and edged away from the smuggler. Then she explained to the others, “I…he…asked for my hand from Papa, and when Papa threatened to disinherit me if I married him, Danny carried me off anyway. He didn’t care one whit about my inheritance. That’s how I knew I could trust him.”

  “I said she’d tell it better than me,” Daniel remarked. “My wife’s a born storyteller.” The sarcasm in his voice wounded her, though no one else seemed to notice.

  “Another pint of ale for the storyteller!” Mr. Wallace called to a maid passing by and tapped Helena’s empty glass.

  “No,” Daniel ordered. “She’s had enough ale for one night.”

  “Nonsense!” Helena protested, though she did feel substantially more foggy-brained than she had earlier. And her tongue seemed a trifle…unwieldy.

  Still, if drinking ale was a requirement for the deception, she would drink ale. She turned to Mr. Wallace. “You see what I mean about Danny? He’s so careful of me. But I don’t know why he bothered to bring me if he’d planned to be so cautious.”

  “I didn’t want to bring you, remember?” Daniel downed the contents of a tumbler in front of him. As the taproom maid appeared with Helena’s second pint, Daniel tapped his own glass. “More gin.”

  So he could drink and she couldn’t? The taproom maid set down Helena’s pint, and she drank from it with a defiant flourish, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she’d seen the men do. “Well, I’m here now, so I intend to enjoy myself.”

  The smugglers cheered.

  “I swear, Helena—” Daniel began.

  Mr. Wallace cut him off. “Be a good sport, Brennan—it’s just a touch of ale between friends. It’ll liven up yer trip.” He turned to Helena. “Where are you two goin’ anyway, Mrs. Brennan?”

  Helena shot Daniel a quick glance, wondering how much he’d told them. He looked thoroughly irritated, touched his hand to his coat pocket where lay the sketch, and gave a tiny shake of the head.

  He hadn’t yet asked about Pryce? For heaven’s sake, he’d been down here all this time and still hadn’t learned anything? Well, she’d take care of that. “Danny’s going to the coast to buy things from free traders. And I came along to keep him company.”

  When Mr. Wallace’s glance narrowed and Daniel went rigid, she knew she’d said something wrong. “Why not just go to Stockwell?” Mr. Wallace asked Daniel.

  Stockwell was near London. Why would he go there?

  “They cheat you in Stockwell,” Daniel retorted. “I get a better price at the coast.”

  That answer seemed to satisfy Mr. Wallace, but only a little. “But you never came to the coast before. I know all the dealers who come down to Kent and most of those who come to Sussex. I never seen you.”

  “This ain’t my usual route.” Daniel drank gin as casually as if he were speaking to old friends. “I generally go to Essex.”

  The suspicion in Mr. Wallace’s gaze eased a little more. “Then you know Clancy in St. Giles.”

  “Clancy’s a good friend of mine,” Daniel said. “His son George works for me from time to time.”

  “I heard George was a clerk now,” Mr. Wallace said conversationally.

  “Aye, but ain’t much money in clerking.” Daniel winked. “Not as much as in free trading, to be sure.”

  The men laughed, and the tension around the table eased considerably. Talk began to center around smugglers in Essex. Helena found it an intriguing conversation. If anyone else had heard it, he would have thought these men fishermen or farmers. They spoke of their profession as if it were perfectly acceptable. They didn’t boast of murder and mayhem; indeed, they didn’t mention violence at all—which made her wonder if she’d been a trifle misinformed about smugglers.

  And about Daniel’s connection to them. He seemed awfully familiar with their world for someone who claimed not to have associated with them in years. He knew all about “tubmen” and “owlers” and “batsmen.” She’d never seen this wicked side of him, and she found it shamefully appealing.

  Had she misconstrued his involvement with smugglers? No, how could that be? He’d been so young. Yet the boy with them, who boasted of his last run to France, couldn’t be more than eighteen. And Daniel did seem to know so much about their business.

  Which meant he ought to be able to find out about Juliet and Pryce. From what she gathered, these men were returning from selling their goods in London. That was probably why they were so open in their speech. They had nothing incriminating in their possession at present, and Daniel had made it clear he was one of them.

  Yet the rascal still didn’t ask about Juliet. Well, she fully intended to correct that.

  As soon as the conversation lagged, she jumped in. “Actually, we also came this way because Danny’s looking for a friend he knew before. He heard that the man works in the south of England now.”

  A swift kick to her good leg under the table made her start. Her gaze snapped to Daniel; he scowled at her. She kicked him back, vastly satisfied when it caught him by surprise. If she left this matter to him, they’d be drinking with the smugglers clear into next week.

  “I think the man’s name is Morgan or something,” she continued blithely. She gulped some ale. It tasted better the more she drank. “What’s his name again, my dear?”

  “Pryce,” Daniel bit out. “Morgan Pryce.”

  “I know that fellow,” one of the smugglers offered without any apparent suspicion. “Matter of fact, he stopped here a couple o’ days ago when we was on our way to London. Had a lady with him.”

  Her heart began to pound. “Oh, he must be traveling with his wife, too. How odd. I didn’t know Mr. Pryce was married.”

  “It weren’t his wife,” the young man on the other side of Mr. Wallace offered. “Mr. Wallace, didn’t you say that—”

  Mr. Wallace cut him off with a pop on the head. “Don’t be talkin’ about things you don’t know nothin’ about.”

  Helena’s smile hid gritted teeth. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. It doesn’t change the fact that Danny’d like to speak to Mr. Pryce. Wouldn’t you, Danny?”

  Daniel looked as nonchalant as ever, but his sharp gaze showed he was taking everything in. “I would indeed. He used to get me the best price on French brandy. Had a contact in Boulogne who gave it to him cheap. I was thinking he might tell me who the chap was.”

  Mr. Wallace leaned forward. “Trouble is, you can’t deal with Mr. Pryce without talkin’ to Crouch. Crouch don’t take kindly to his men makin’ private arrangements.”

  Crouch? Helena wondered. Her brain now felt truly soggy. What or who was a Crouch?

  Daniel had gone pale. He knocked back another gin, then set the glass down hard on the table. “Pryce works for Jolly Roger?”

  Mr. Wallace smiled, obviously pleased that Daniel knew of this Jolly Roger person. “Aye.”

  “For how long?”

  “Not sure. Awhile now.”

  “You’re sure he works for Crouch and ain’t just using Jolly Roger’s contacts on occasion?” Daniel probed. “Or p’raps sharing one of his cutters?”

  “Who is Crouch?” Helena couldn’t help asking, though she followed the question with a mortifying hiccup.

  The men laughed. “Jolly Roger Crouch, the King of the Smugglers,” Mr. Wallace explained. “He’s got a large gang on the coast. The
y control all the free tradin’ in Sussex. That’s where Pryce and the lady were headed—toward Hastings or thereabouts.”

  And Daniel looked miffed about it. She couldn’t imagine why. They already knew Mr. Pryce was a free trader, and Daniel had said he might be headed for the coast. What did it matter whom he worked for?

  “Why does the King of Smugglers have such a shhtrange name?” she asked. My, that sounded rather slurred. How odd. She tried again. “Jolly Roger.” There, that was better. “It shounds…sounds like a pirate.”

  Mr. Wallace chuckled. “I think the ale is goin’ to yer head, Mrs. Brennan.”

  “It is not!” she protested, then hiccupped again. Was hiccupping covered in Mrs. N’s guide? She couldn’t remember.

  She drank the rest of her ale to silence her hiccups, but when she set the glass down, it fell over. Now how had that happened?

  All the men laughed now. Then one of them added, “His Christian name is Roger and he likes to jest with his men, so they call him Jolly Roger.”

  “He’s also got a pirate’s greed,” Daniel grumbled. “Not to mention lack of scruples.”

  “You seem to know the man well enough,” Mr. Wallace commented, eyes narrowing.

  “I’ve heard of him,” Daniel said. “Who hasn’t?”

  Mr. Wallace leaned across the table and stared at Daniel. “Wait a minute. Yer name’s Brennan, ain’t it? Like Wild Danny Brennan, the highwayman? Didn’t Jolly Roger used to have—”

  “Aye, he did,” Daniel interrupted. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best take my wife upstairs. She’s had all the ‘fun’ she can stand for one night.”

  Chapter 10

  I took this fair maid by the lily white hand

  And on the green mossy bank set her down

  And I planted a kiss on her red ruby lips

  And the small birds a-singing all around.

  “Queen of the May,”

  anonymous ballad

  Daniel had to get them both out of here before they said or did something to give themselves away. So far matters had gone well, but now that he realized Crouch was involved, not to mention that Helena was drunk to the gills…

  Christ, on two pints of ale and naught else. He’d never seen her drunk, never even imagined the possibility. This was pure disaster.

  He called the taproom maid over. “How much do I owe for the drinks?”

  She glanced over to Wallace, then back to Daniel. “You’ve got to settle up at the bar, sir. The proprietor keeps accounts up there. He don’t let me take money at the table.”

  “Be right back,” he told Helena as he rose and headed for the bar.

  The proprietor took his time about settling the bill, and when Daniel headed back to the table he discovered why. Apparently Wallace had signaled the taproom maid to delay Daniel, for he now had Helena on his lap and was trying to kiss her while she protested. Rage seared Daniel, even after he saw Helena draw back and slap the man.

  “What was that for?” Wallace asked, rubbing his cheek. “All I wanted was a little kiss, and you said you wanted fun—”

  “Not that kind. And not with you.” Helena attempted to climb off the man’s lap, but instead fell heavily onto the chair next to him.

  At her cry of pain, Daniel nearly hurdled the-table in his eagerness to get his hands on Wallace. Daniel lifted him bodily from his chair and held the smaller man dangling in the air so they were nose to nose. “In future, you keep your bloody hands off my wife or I’ll break them both. D’you understand?”

  Wallace glared at him, and Daniel shook him until the smuggler nodded. Then Daniel set him down.

  Straightening his clothes, Wallace said with a sneer, “Don’t worry. Nobody wants yer crippled wife anyhow.”

  Daniel heard Helena’s pained gasp and saw red. Before he could even think, he’d planted a facer on Wallace, laying him out flat. As he stood staring down at the man who lay moaning on the floor, he growled, “That’ll teach you to insult a lady, you bloody arse.”

  The others half-rose from their chairs, and he brandished his fists at them. “The rest of you want a bunch of fives? Do you?”

  But they weren’t as stupid as their leader. He glowered at them all, and they took their seats again, mumbling into their ale. They might outnumber him, but anybody could see he wasn’t nearly as drunk as them. Besides, he was in the right, and they knew it. Nobody touched a man’s wife, even smugglers.

  He turned to Helena. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes riveted on Wallace.

  “Let’s go.” He picked her up and strode for the door. Between the ale and her weak leg, she probably couldn’t manage to walk.

  As they headed for the stairs, he grumbled, “You do know how to shake up a room, lass.”

  “So do you.”

  He glared down at her, only to find her laughing—laughing, the little witch! “What do you find so funny?”

  She twined her arms about his neck and smiled with the breezy manner of a woman well into her cups. “You warn’d me not to insult people. Then you go and knock ’em in the head. P’raps you ought to take your own advice, Danny.”

  “If you hadn’t been so bloody friendly with that arse Wallace and got yourself drunk, I wouldn’t have had to knock him in the head.”

  “I do appreciate your rescuin’ me, y’know. I didn’t like Mr. Wallace at all.” Her eyes shone up at him. “I like you so much better.”

  Despite being a mite slurred, her words turned all his annoyance into pure need. Combined with the soft weight of her in his arms, they sent a sudden surge to his wayward pego that was downright criminal. Christ, he wished he were drunk. At least drunkenness would blunt the edge of his lust.

  He climbed the stairs as fast as he could manage, trying not to think of her breasts a few inches from his hand, her legs draped over his arm, her sweet little arse bumping against his belly every step he took.

  She stared up at him with an unsteady gaze. “Danny?”

  “Yes?” Strange how it didn’t bother him so much when she called him Danny. She meant it for an endearment, not a reminder of his highwayman da, and that made all the difference.

  “You’re still cross at me, aren’t you?”

  He glanced down at her and raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m cross at you?”

  She bobbed her head. “You look ex-tre-e-emely vexed.”

  He bit back a smile. She was going to have a devil of a headache tomorrow. “I’m not vexed, although God knows I ought to be. I told you to stay in our room, and you didn’t. Our agreement was that you were to do as you were told, and you’ve already broken it repeatedly.”

  Her brow wrinkled up in a frown. “Our ’greement was that you were s’posed to find out what happen’d to Juliet. If not for me, who knows how long it would’ve taken?”

  “I was coming to it, Helena. I didn’t want to rouse their suspicions.” Which I probably have now.

  “Pish-posh.” Her lips curved into a pout, and it only made him want to kiss them. “Thanks to me, we know where Pryce took Juliet. Yet you’re vexed.”

  “I’m not bloody vexed!” he growled, then lowered his voice as he reached the floor where their room was. “Not at you, anyway.” No, he was far more vexed at himself. For not seeing what should have been obvious—that Crouch was involved in this. For letting her come along.

  For wanting her so badly he ached with it.

  “Then who’re you vexed at?”

  “Never mind who. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” Not that he wanted to discuss the implications of Crouch’s involvement, but he must. She should know all his suspicions. “You’re in no condition to discuss anything now.”

  “I’m perfectly well, y’know,” she said with a lofty air so typical he laughed at her.

  “I can see that.”

  “Even if I did drink a bit too much, everything turn’d out wonderfully.”

  “You nearly got mauled by an arse—I don’t
call that ’wonderfully,” he muttered as he strode down the candlelit hall toward their room.

  She stabbed a finger at his chest. “You’re only annoyed ’cause a lot of men were nice to me. You think it’s fine for women to drape themselves naked over you, but let me have a teeny bit of fun and you turn into a bully ruffian.”

  “A bully ruffian?” he said, amused. “Wherever did you hear that term?”

  “That awful Mr. Wallace said it.”

  He scowled. “D’you know what it means?”

  “It means you’re a bully and a ruffian. And you are, sometimes.”

  “No. It means I’m a highwayman who’s rude to his victims. You should be sure of your cant before you start throwing it around.”

  “Oh.” She frowned, apparently trying to assimilate the new information. Then her brow cleared. “Well, you were rude to those men, y’know.”

  He rolled his eyes. “They’ll get over it.”

  She looked pensive all of a sudden. “They weren’t at all like what I’d expect of smugglers. Except for Mr. Wallace, they were terribly nice.”

  So nice they’d steal her blind as soon as look at her. He chuckled as he reached their room. “And you, sweetheart, are drunk.”

  “I am not!”

  Setting her down, he reached for the door, but he’d scarcely shoved it open when she lost her balance and swayed into him. He picked her up again, laughing. “You’re right—you’re not drunk, you’re very drunk.”

  She peered up at him as he strode into the room and kicked the door shut. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He scanned the room, noting the extra gown hanging over the screen. “D’you have something to sleep in?” But then he’d have to put her in it, and he’d never survive that. “Never mind, you can sleep in your gown.”

  “Nonsense. It’ll get all wrinkled, and I only have two. I’ll sleep in my chemise.” With typical Helena loftiness, she added, “But you have to play lady’s maid, since you wouldn’t let me bring one.”