Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3) Read online

  “Was Gloriana always like this?” Julian asked, trying to decide what was best for Daisy at this juncture, regardless of the opinions of Lord Garrison, his sister, and his wife.

  Sadness crossed Daisy’s already anxious face. “Not as a child. She was my dearest friend, and such fun.”

  “Our mother was overly concerned with status and precedence,” Miles said. “She taught Gloriana to set her sights high.”

  “That’s true. In our games she always married a duke,” Daisy said. “She hated it when Miles and Colin told horrid stories about our ancestor, the murderer, not because it frightened her, but because it was never proven and therefore, by her estimation, untrue. She insisted that he was too noble to be guilty.”

  “Why should it matter?” Julian asked. “Every noble family has a villain or two.”

  “Especially in Tudor times,” Melinda said. “With all the plotting and beheading going on, how could it be avoided?”

  “Does your family have a villain?” Daisy asked Julian.

  “We’re mostly gentry, not nobility, so villainy is not required,” Julian said. “Instead, we suffer under the burden of too much propriety.”

  Daisy huffed.

  “I mean it.” He wouldn’t be stuck tattling on earnest citizens who merely wanted change, if he weren’t so damned respectable, so proper and unassuming that no one would suspect him of being a spy. “We’re rigidly polite and deadly boring.”

  Daisy’s brows drew together. “I loathe that word.”

  “Which?”

  “Boring. I don’t think anyone should ever be called boring.”

  This outburst surprised him, seeing as he couldn’t imagine anyone telling Daisy she was boring, and yet, that reaction was definitely a personal one.

  “One person’s tedium is another’s excitement,” Melinda, ever the peacemaker, said. “But I agree, it’s horrid to call someone boring to his or her face.”

  Daisy nodded, picking moodily at a morsel of chicken on her plate. Who had called her boring? Julian wondered.

  Miles picked up the story. “My deplorable scandal hit just before Gloriana’s first season. She has never forgiven me. She’s convinced that if I’d behaved respectably, she would be a duchess by now, never mind the fact that there were no available dukes when she went on the market.”

  “My scandal happened not long after yours, making our family reputation even worse,” Daisy said. “I can’t help but hold myself at least partly to blame.”

  “Not at all,” Lord Garrison said. “She has plenty of suitors, some of them decent men, but this is her first peer.”

  “And she’ll be miserable with him.” Melinda sighed. “Fortunately, we encountered the Marquis de Bellechasse in York not long ago, quite fortuitously, as he was just passing through. He heard me lamenting and invited himself along, as leaven, he said. And you two will make it a much livelier gathering.”

  “Not a good kind of liveliness, I’m afraid,” Daisy said. “I wish I could leave.”

  “Nonsense, we’ll enjoy ourselves in spite of Lord Hythwick,” Melinda said. “The marquis will make a charming guest.”

  “I know him well,” Julian said, hoping this was true.

  Finally they all retired to the drawing room, Lord Garrison bringing the port along with him. A footman brought the tea tray and left, closing the door behind them.

  At last, they could discuss what really mattered.

  “Melinda,” Daisy said, “can you think of anyone else in society whose story parallels the ones I wrote?”

  Julian refrained from rolling his eyes.

  “I’ve been thinking about it ever since you told me,” Melinda said, “but there’s no one.” She passed a dish of tea to Daisy. “It’s far too preposterous a story, and there can’t have been two young ladies abducted by smugglers twenty years ago.”

  “Then why would someone want to kill me?”

  “I believe we should turn our attention to other aspects of your novels,” Julian said.

  “Such as what?” Daisy nipped a lump of sugar and stirred it into her tea.

  “Smuggling, for one,” he said.

  “None of the smugglers I know would seek to murder me!”

  “Perhaps you revealed some of their secrets,” he suggested. “Perhaps they feared you would reveal more.” He accepted a dish of tea with a word of thanks.

  “I don’t know any of their secrets. As I told you before, any tricks I mentioned, such as common signals and hiding the brandy in tombs, are known to everyone thereabouts, including the revenuers, and if I mentioned different ones in the second book, they, too, were well known.”

  “And now they are known to a great number of readers,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter, because the smugglers think of new ideas all the time to avoid being caught.”

  “Nevertheless,” Miles said, “Sir Julian is right. One or more smugglers might have cause to wish you out of the way, and if I understand correctly, the house was full of smugglers the night you were attacked.”

  “Drunken smugglers, most of whom went home. A few slept on the settles in the coffee room.”

  “One of them, or some other patron, must have gone to your room to steal the gun and knife,” Julian said. “Do you remember any patrons that evening who weren’t known to you?”

  “I’m sure there were some, but I don’t remember clearly. We were very busy.” She flapped a hand. “I simply don’t believe it. If I were truly in danger from one of the fraternity, Mr. Bennett would have learned of it. Or Andy Evans. He’s a friend of my brother. Besides that, none of them know I write books. I don’t leave my manuscript out where prying eyes can find it, and most of the smugglers can’t even read.”

  “But some of them can. Tell me, what goods do they smuggle in your stories? So far, I’ve noticed nothing but brandy.”

  “Weapons to Ireland?” Miles suggested.

  “No,” she said. “I stuck with brandy.”

  “Gold?” Miles asked. “From England to France, as has been done on the southeast coast.”

  “Only brandy.” Daisy began to look seriously annoyed. “The smugglers are only a means to an end for the heroine of the first story to escape persecution, and for her daughter, in the second story, to recover all the charms her mother had sold or lost. Neither heroine actually engages in smuggling.”

  “Except for one former French aristocrat, but she was smuggled into England after concealing her identity for ten years as a prostitute,” Melinda said.

  “By God, Melinda, is this what you enjoy reading?” Lord Garrison demanded.

  His wife patted his hand. “The prostitution was in her past, Miles, and it wasn’t her fault. The alternative was the guillotine. She was trying to begin a new life, and the heroine of the story helped her.” She frowned. “Surely you don’t think someone would threaten Daisy for writing that. It’s all the rage to support institutions for the reform of fallen women.”

  “I hate that expression,” Daisy said. “It’s so unfair.”

  Melinda made a sympathetic face. “It must have been coined by a man. No woman would have dreamed up that stupid pedestal metaphor.”

  “It wouldn’t make any sense to say it of men,” Miles said.

  “Because it’s your nature to be ‘fallen’?” Daisy rounded on her cousin. “Because you can’t help it? What about women? Might it not be in their nature, too? Why are we stuck on a pedestal and then punished if we don’t like it up there?”

  “Might we return to the subject at hand?” Julian said.

  Daisy turned on him, a curse on her lips . . . and subsided. “Yes, let’s. I don’t wish to quarrel, particularly when it’s obvious that I’ll never, ever win.”

  “I don’t think Miles meant it quite tha
t way,” Melinda said. Julian agreed with her, but wished she’d said nothing. Miles gave no sign of caring one way or the other, but Daisy was incapable of letting this particular issue lie.

  Daisy flapped a hand. “Miles is entitled to his stupid male opinion. It’s nothing to me what he thinks.”

  Oh, damn. Now she’d upset Melinda. “I’m sorry,” Daisy said. “I shouldn’t speak so of your husband.” Even if he deserves it.

  Melinda’s eyes narrowed. “No, you should not, considering how kind both Miles and Colin have been to you.”

  “But they shouldn’t have had to be particularly kind,” Daisy raged. “I did nothing that they, and countless other men, have not done hundreds of times.”

  “Not necessarily hundreds,” Julian protested.

  She rounded on him. “No? Why not? No one shuns you for it. You can buy it anytime you like.”

  “That’s boring, love.”

  “Ah,” she flashed, “and who would want a boring bedmate?” A blush surged hotly into her face.

  Melinda muffled a giggle and Miles raised an amused brow, while Julian eyed her with an air of having made a discovery.

  Damn him. Why must he keep noticing things about her?

  “To return to Miles and Colin,” she said hurriedly, “I’m grateful to them, but still, what virtue is there in treating me fairly?”

  “The virtue is in ignoring the dictates of society and doing what they believe is right,” Melinda said.

  This reasonable response annoyed Daisy even more.

  And God, oh God, why had she blurted that comment about bedmates?

  Julian took her hand. She tugged, but then controlled herself. Or maybe he was controlling her. For some strange reason, his touch leached some of her fury away.

  She took a deep breath. “That’s true. Again, I apologize for losing my temper.” But ignoring society was easy for them. It didn’t do them any harm. She shouldn’t leave that unsaid. “Still, I—”

  Julian squeezed her hand. He was right. There was no point in continuing this discussion. And Melinda was correct to a great extent. Nevertheless—

  “Let’s assume you didn’t write anything that upset a smuggler,” Julian said before she could form her argument. “What other sensitive subject matter do you deal with?”

  “Such as what?” Daisy grumped.

  “Well . . . espionage, for example.”

  “There are no spies in my stories.”

  “Perhaps not, but spies use smugglers to get information from England to France and vice versa.”

  “Not the smugglers in my stories.”

  “There’s nothing in there that could be misconstrued as espionage? No secret passwords or letters written in code?”

  She sighed. “Yes, there is a password.”

  Melinda chuckled. “Petticoats prevail!”

  “That’s definitely true,” Miles murmured, and immediately put up a hand. “For God’s sake, don’t fly into the boughs, Daisy. Do try to realize that tyrannical though we frequently are, we men are so slave to our desires that all too often the petticoats do indeed prevail.”

  Daisy suppressed the many possible retorts that rose to her lips.

  “Whether occasionally or hundreds of times,” Julian said with a grin.

  “Maybe the murderer believes ladies should be meek and submissive,” Melinda suggested. “Maybe he feared that another book by the same author would stir up a feminine revolution.”

  “Unlikely, but not completely impossible,” Miles said. “People are frightened of revolutions just now, because of France.”

  “I don’t aspire to be a revolutionary,” Daisy griped. “I just want to tell stories.”

  “Maybe the murderer believes you’re corrupting the women of England by encouraging their, er, impure thoughts,” Julian said.

  The others laughed, and he winked at Daisy, a world of understanding in his eyes.

  Their blue was tempered with gray, she noticed for the first time. A peaceful sort of color. She actually managed a tiny giggle—at a sensual matter, no less. What was it about him that made her feel so differently?

  “A mite extreme, but there are plenty of madmen out there,” Miles said.

  Daisy sighed. “Anything seems possible at this point.”

  “If we knew who learned your identity, we would have a better starting point,” Julian said.

  “I wrote to my publisher.” Daisy counted the days on her fingers. “If he sends a reply by express, I may receive it tomorrow. I told the footman at the Hollow to bring any letters here immediately.”

  “Then I suggest we adjourn this discussion for now,” Julian said. “I believe we have at least a day’s grace before the murderer learns where Daisy has gone.”

  “I told my people I’ve had word of disreputable men seen nearby. They’ll keep an eye out for strangers, and I shall have a footman on guard all night,” Miles said. “As for the sleeping arrangements, Melinda and the baby will stay in my chamber instead of hers. Julian will remain officially in the bedchamber Mrs. Reams assigned to him, but there is an empty room next to Daisy’s where he may sleep if he so chooses, to be close at hand if there is cause for alarm.” He paused. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Daisy said, abashed. “Thank you, Miles.”

  They drank their tea. Julian picked up The Lady’s Ruin again. Melinda would soon leave to feed the baby, so Miles challenged Daisy to a game of chess. “I need to keep up my practice,” he said. “Melinda beats us all to flinders at piquet, but I can still best her at chess.”

  “Just barely,” Melinda said with a grin.

  “Oh!” Daisy cried when he brought the chess set into the drawing room and began to set up the pieces. “I remember this set.” The ivory figures looked as if they were planted in pots, with leaves growing up around them.

  “Pretty, isn’t it? It’s one of my favorite possessions,” Miles said. “Far more interesting than most of my father’s collection.”

  Daisy began to set up her pieces when it hit her. “I didn’t realize until now, but the white queen was my inspiration for the queen on the charm bracelet in my novel.”

  Melinda turned from the doorway. “Is that so? Of course! I remember the description. She does look as if she would like to get out of that uncomfortable pot.”

  She left, and Daisy smiled fondly on the little queen before launching into a not-very-serious game. It was almost like returning to their easy rapport of years ago, before Miles’s scandal had hit, and then hers.

  Eventually, it was time for bed. Julian escorted Daisy upstairs, carrying her bedroom candle. At the top of the stairs, she put out her hand for the candle.

  He shook his head. “I’ll take you all the way to your bedchamber.”

  “Why? I’m sure I’m not in danger. You said yourself that he doesn’t yet know where I am.”

  “Probably not.”

  “It will appear improper if you accompany me.”

  “Perhaps, but how else am I to get the next volume of The Lady’s Ruin?”

  “Oh.” Pause. “Very well.” Once again, she had no reason to object. He was merely doing his best to protect her and identify the murderer as soon as possible. She proceeded down the corridor, head high. If there were any servants about, she would at least seem properly aloof.

  “I like your family,” he said.

  That surprised her into smiling at him. “You do?”

  He smiled in return. She wished his smile weren’t so friendly and warm. “For one thing, there are many of them, a real family. I’m an only child, my parents are dead, and the only near relatives I have left are some starched-up cousins.”

  “It sounds lonely. Even in my disgrace, I see quite a lot of my brother and his wife and children.”
/>   “It can be lonely, but I have good friends. More important, your family members are straightforward, often blunt. Even Melinda, who always tries to mediate, is not afraid to say what’s on her mind. It’s refreshing.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. My family, those who died and those who survive, are just the opposite. We’re excruciatingly polite for fear of giving offense.”

  “Even with each other?”

  “Yes, it’s incredibly frustrating. One never knows what the others are thinking. We daren’t say what is really on our minds, because it might cause embarrassment. There’s no chance of giving advice, or worse, of receiving it. In that way, it really is damned lonely.”

  “Well, don’t be too polite with me,” she said.

  “I’ll try, but you may not want to hear what I’m thinking,” Julian said. They had reached the door before hers. He halted and pushed it open, holding the candle high. The room was smaller than Daisy’s, but with a bed and other furnishings. “It will do.” He closed the door again.

  “Now I have no choice but to ask, dratted man,” Daisy said, as they continued toward her door. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I’m thinking . . . that you have a beautiful smile,” he said.

  Oh. She’d rather not hear that.

  “I’ve been longing to see it ever since we met. I knew it would be lovely, but not how lovely until now.”

  She didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m thinking how much I like you,” he said.

  She turned away, fumbling for the door handle. Her heart fluttered uneasily, between pleasure at the compliment and fear of the consequences. She mustn’t let this affect her, mustn’t let him affect her. Theirs was an arrangement of convenience, nothing more.

  “You’re right, I’d rather not know.” She pushed open the door, snatched the candle, and marched inside. “Wait right there.”