Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3)

by Barbara Monajem

  “I need help!” she said grumpily.

  “How did you get up there?”

  “Out the window.” She glanced about and spoke just above a whisper. “Please, just help me get down. There’s a ladder behind the stable. I don’t think it’s long enough to use at the front, but it should reach the roof at the back.”

  “All right, but why the devil are you up there?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Oh, please hurry! Someone might hear us.”

  What, was she fretting about her non-existent reputation?

  “Please! It’s not safe!”

  That was genuine panic in her voice. With a regretful glance at her shapely legs, Julian went in search of the ladder.

  Five minutes later, after stubbing his toes twice against invisible debris and almost falling over a rain barrel in the shadows, he found the ladder and brought it around. At first he couldn’t see her. She had come halfway down the roof and was crouched behind the kitchen chimney. He set the ladder against the wall and climbed up until his head and shoulders cleared the eaves.

  “Come on, now. You won’t fall.”

  “I know that,” she muttered. Was that a penknife in her hand?

  “Then why are you still way up there, brandishing a knife of all things?”

  “Because.” She tucked her nightdress around her knees and inched slowly down on her bum. “Get out of the way. In fact, get off the ladder.”

  “I’m here to make sure you don’t slip.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best not to look up your skirts, but I’ve seen most of it already, you idiotic woman.”

  “I am not idiotic,” she retorted. “I had a good reason for climbing onto the roof.” She took the penknife between her teeth and waved him away.

  He went down a few steps. She turned her shapely arse in his direction, and he guided one of her bare feet onto a rung. Once she was safely on the ladder, he descended the rest of the way.

  She reached the ground and removed the knife from between her teeth. “Thank you, Sir Julian.” She tried the kitchen door, which was locked. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me around to the front door, I would greatly appreciate it.”

  I should have phrased that differently, thought Daisy. He might take it as an invitation. “Just until I can rouse Ned and let him know.” She picked her way slowly around the inn across refuse and uneven cobbles. Whoever he was, she didn’t think he would try to murder her while she was with Sir Julian. As fear dissipated, anger took its place. How dare someone try to kill her?

  “Let him know what?” Sir Julian asked.

  “That someone tried to get into my bedchamber.” She reached up to ring the bell, but Sir Julian forestalled her by opening the inn door.

  “It shouldn’t be open. It’s kept locked at night!” she hissed.

  The coffee room was lit only by a shaft of moonlight. Snores told her that a few smugglers had been left to sleep it off on the settles by the wall.

  “Maybe one of the smugglers woke and left, and no one was awake to lock the door behind him,” Sir Julian said.

  Yes, or maybe the intruder had given up on murdering her tonight and gone away.

  “There was a light in your room when I first saw you on the roof,” Sir Julian said. “There still is. I happened to glance up before we reached the door.”

  Her heart thumped. “Did you see movement?”

  He shook his head. He took a candle from the mantelpiece and lit it at the banked fire.

  “Then it may just be the lamp on my table.” She surely hoped so.

  “We’ll go find out,” Sir Julian said. “No need to wake Ned yet.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need your help anymore.”

  Sir Julian didn’t answer, merely going up the stairs without so much as a by-your-leave, and she didn’t argue. She didn’t want to be alone just yet. He turned down the corridor toward her bedchamber. The door to the linen room was ajar. He pushed it open and went in.

  “Be careful!” she squeaked.

  He made a dismissive noise. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. The intruder, if there was one, is gone by now, unless it was one of last night’s drunkards. The one who was wearing a yellow cap, no doubt.”

  “Walt Henson?” she scoffed. “No, he wouldn’t k—wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s at home with his longsuffering wife.”

  Julian turned from the linen room to hers and pushed the door open. The lamp on her bedside table still burned. With typical male insouciance, he raised the candle and checked the dark corners of the room. He even glanced under the bed. “There’s no one here.”

  “Not any longer.” In spite of herself, Daisy shuddered. Whoever her intruder was, he had succeeded in picking the lock and raising the latch. “He must have left when he saw I wasn’t here.”

  “You’re certain someone was trying to get in?” His skeptical lift of the brows infuriated her.

  “In the first place, I’m not deaf. I heard him picking the lock. In the second place, the door was unlocked just now, which means he succeeded. In the third place— Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m absolutely sure.” She’d almost blurted it again, that someone was trying to kill her.

  What was she going to do? Go home to Warren Hollow? She didn’t like it there anymore. The servants were respectful enough, but she didn’t belong.

  “You didn’t think to scream for help?”

  “Who would have heard me? I chose this room because it’s quiet.”

  He absorbed that. “What about your knife and gun? Are those just fairy tales?”

  “No, they’re not tales. Someone took them. My knife was no longer by my bed, and my gun . . .” She turned in the direction of the table. The knife lay beside the lamp. She yanked open the drawer.

  The gun was there, right where it belonged.

  “My gun wasn’t here earlier. Nor was my knife. That’s why I took the penknife when I went onto the roof. I thought I could stab him if he tried to climb out, too.”

  “Your gun and knife are here now,” Sir Julian said.

  “But they were not here earlier.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “You don’t believe me. You think I’m a hysterical female, but I’m not!”

  “I don’t know what I think, but whatever the truth of the matter, you wouldn’t have climbed onto the roof if you hadn’t felt endangered.” He found the key where it had fallen, and locked the door.

  He picked up the gun and examined it. “It’s not loaded.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not loaded? Of course it’s loaded.”

  “Sorry, but it’s not. Give me your powder and shot. I’ll reload it.”

  “I can do that myself.” She reached into the back of the drawer and remembered. “I don’t have any left.”

  “Go back to sleep,” he said. “I’ll give you some powder and shot tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and guard you.”

  “You can’t stay here,” she said.

  “Without a loaded gun, you’re vulnerable. Knives aren’t much good unless one knows how to use them. I doubt your intruder will return, but how much sleep will you get if I leave?”

  “How much will I get if you’re here?”

  “For God’s sake, woman, I’m not expecting to bed you. Believe it or not, this is pure chivalry on my part.”

  He’d been protective before. Twice. Maybe he was just that sort of man, but it was far too unlikely. “I don’t believe in pure anything.”

  He threw himself onto the sofa. “Believe what you please. I’m not saying I don’t find you attractive, I do, but I’m a gentleman. And even if I weren’t, your ill temper renders you unappealing, no matter how lovely your legs.”

  Infuriated, hurt, and relieved, she got
back into bed. She turned down the lamp and pulled the bed curtains shut. For several minutes she lay there, unaccountably fuming. She should be glad. But she was bad-tempered on purpose. She chose to drive men away, and it worked.

  Julian dozed for a while. When he woke, he listened carefully. Daisy Warren’s breathing was soft and slow. Dawn had broken, and the sun would soon rise.

  He eased himself off the sofa, opened one of the window curtains just enough to let in some light, and took a good look around her room. A dressing table with a chair, a clothes press, a bookshelf with various romantic novels and a copy of Camden’s Britannia, which she’d mentioned on their ride together from Liverpool.

  He seated himself at her desk. She did believe someone intended to kill her. She’d almost said so, then changed what she was going to say. He assumed it was the third reason on her list, the one she’d said didn’t matter.

  Who would want to kill Daisy, and why? It might have something to do with his mission, and searching her room was the way to find out. Nevertheless, his motives were largely chivalrous. If she’d shown some sign of interest in him, he might have had an ulterior motive, but she treated him with much the same disdain as any other man. However, she needed protecting, and therefore it behooved him to protect her.

  He hoped to God he wouldn’t be obliged to inform on her. As far as he could tell, she had no reason to be in league with spies, but one never knew, and spies often had good reason to commit murder.

  As quietly as possible, he went through the drawers of her desk one by one. Several recipes for rock buns. Some notes in a crude shorthand which wouldn’t be hard to decipher, given a little time. He pocketed one of the pages, planning to return it later, hopefully unmissed.

  About fifty pounds in banknotes. A large packet of correspondence, which appeared to be mostly gossip, from someone called Andrea. In a locked drawer, easily picked, several pages of copperplate about a smuggling run, in which a ginger-haired woman played a leading part. Another page, with a much untidier description of the experience of being shot at and controlling a panicked horse.

  And beneath these pages, the letter Daisy had dropped in Liverpool, and then snatched up before he could read it.

  The curtain rings opened with an ominous rattle. Caught, which was perhaps for the best, for he would have had to confront her otherwise.

  “What in hell are you doing?” Miss Warren leapt out of bed and descended on him, a tousled fury.

  “Snooping,” he said. She snatched the letter again, but this time he knew what it said. “Someone really is trying to kill you.”

  “Yes.” Her lip quivered.

  “Because a book was published? The one you were reading aloud last evening.”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “How should I know? How dare you break into my desk and read my correspondence?” She put her hands on her hips, her aplomb back in place. “I suppose you’ll say that’s pure chivalry, too.”

  “Not quite. There was some curiosity involved.” He eyed her. She was truly lovely in this tousled state, and he’d lied when he said her bad temper made her unappealing. He didn’t like it much, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her, from longing to see her smile.

  Did she seriously not know who wanted to kill her, or why?

  She huffed, grabbed the letter and the other pages, and shoved them back into the drawer. “Go away.”

  Suddenly it dawned on him. “You’re an authoress. You wrote that book, the one you read aloud last night, as well as the one Bonaventure was reading. You’re writing another now, something about smugglers.”

  Under the nightdress, her bosom heaved. A panicked sort of misery dawned in her eyes.

  Julian hastened to reassure her. “I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you, but please just go away.”

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. “Clearly, it’s not safe.”

  “I realize that,” she said. “I’ll go home to the Hollow. My brother’s house.”

  “Excellent. Pack up whatever you need, and I’ll take you there.”

  For a long moment, Daisy eyed Julian, trying to think clearly. She was furious at his invasion of her privacy. She couldn’t afford to rely on him.

  But sneak though he was, he’d kept her safe the rest of the night and, more important, he hadn’t tried to seduce her. “Now?”

  “Yes, now. Whoever is after you, they’re not likely to be up at dawn hiding in the forest with a rifle. They’re sleeping off their failure preparatory to planning their next move. Have there been other attempts apart from the two I know of?”

  She shook her head. “You needn’t escort me. I’ll send a message to the Hollow to send a carriage. I’ll be fine.”

  “Why give whoever it is time to make new plans? Why risk the lives of your coachman and groom?”

  “Surely they wouldn’t kill my servants to get to me!”

  “How should I know?” he said, echoing her earlier words. “It depends on who they are.”

  She pondered silently, then nodded. “Very well. Thank you.”

  “Lock the door after me, and if anyone approaches, hang out the window and shriek bloody murder. If I’m not mistaken, Sally is already up and about, and the grooms should be up by now, too. I’ll return in half an hour with Mr. Bennett’s gig.”

  “Don’t tell Sally what happened. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I shan’t,” he said. “Bring both of the books with you.” He left.

  Could she trust him to keep his mouth shut? Maybe not, but the more people that knew her secret, the less it seemed to matter, especially since she might end up dead.

  It didn’t occur to ask why he wanted her to bring the books until he’d gone. After a moment’s annoyance at being ordered about, she decided she had no reason not to comply. Hurriedly, she packed some clothing, the books, and the contents of her desk. Most of her better clothes were at Warren Hollow. She didn’t need them here.

  She dressed and lugged her cases downstairs. Sally was waking the hungover revelers and sending them home so Alice could mop the coffee room floor.

  “I’m going to my brother’s house for a few days,” Daisy said. “Sir Julian offered to escort me.”

  “Aye, so he told me.” Sally’s brow creased. “You don’t usually want an escort. Summat amiss?”

  “Not at all,” Daisy lied. “I’m needed at the Hollow to take care of some business, and I’d rather get it over with. I’ll be back soon to read the rest of The Lady’s Revenge.”

  “We’ll be dyin’ for more.” Sally jabbed one of the smugglers in the ribs. “Rouse yourself, you great lummox. Get on home, or I’ll have Ned put your head under the pump.”

  Daisy left her cases by the door and went into the kitchen. There was coffee in the pot from the night before. She warmed it over the fire and ate a rock bun and a slice of cheese.

  Sir Julian wandered in as tidily dressed as ever. He had even found time to shave. “Do I smell coffee?”

  “It’s last night’s.” She poured him a cup, all that was left, and offered him a rock bun. It was the strangest experience, almost as if they had now become friends. Or colleagues of some sort. She didn’t quite know how to behave.

  She let him help her into the gig. How strange to be driving with a gentleman early on a summer’s morning, birds merry in the trees, a mist in the copses and hollows, the sky pale, and the breeze soft and sweet . . . as if she were young again and courted by an eligible man.

  The moment they drove away, he asked, “Did you bring the books with you?”

  So much for foolish imaginings of being courted, but they’d almost made her forget about murder. “Yes, but why did you ask me to?” she demanded.

  “I m
ight like to take a look at them.”

  Not bloody likely, she thought crudely. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I disagree. Who knows you wrote those books?”

  “Almost no one,” she said. “Until recently, that is. My publisher, Mr. Doughty, and perhaps his assistant. He swore to keep it a secret, but he must have told someone else. I sent an irate letter demanding to know whom.”

  “You have no idea who it might be?”

  “Oh, yes.” She recalled her grievance against him. “You didn’t read quite all my correspondence, or you would know.”

  “The letters from someone called Andrea? I glanced at a few, but they seemed to be gossip and nothing else. Not my idea of good reading material.”

  “As pointless as romantic novels, I suppose.”

  “Much worse, as gossip maligns real people,” he said.

  “That’s why I carry on a correspondence with Andrea. The Beaumonts move in the best circles, and she sends me all the news.”

  “Andrea Beaumont? She’s one of the most frightful gossips in London. How do you come to be her friend?”

  “We went to school together. She’s very useful to me. She delights in writing to me about everything I’ve missed by ruining myself. It’s the only way I know of to make sure nothing I put in my novels will accidentally ruin someone else.”

  He chuckled at that. “Which of her letters should I have read?”

  “You shouldn’t have read any of them,” Daisy reminded him.

  “True, but I felt I had no choice,” he said, and she couldn’t decide whether his expression was rueful, or whether she merely wished it were.

  Odious man. “According to her latest letter, the events in The Lady’s Ruin reminded people of an old scandal in Lady Bilchester’s life. It was some twenty years ago, so I knew nothing about it. She was abducted by a smuggler. I don’t know whether the smuggler ravished her before setting her free, but if so it was hushed up, for she soon married Lord Bilchester. Everyone had forgotten about it until now. The heroine of the book is also abducted by a smuggler, but . . .”