Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3)

by Barbara Monajem

  Even more interesting was the name of the recipient at the Diving Duck. Antoine Breton. A coincidence, that the surname was the same as the man who, years before, had auctioned a number of stolen items to collectors? Perhaps not Antoine himself. He would have been in his teens at the time. But a father, a brother, a cousin? If so, was Antoine engaged in stealing back the very same items? If so, why?

  Julian put the documents where he’d found them and returned to his own room. No sound came from the bedchamber next door. No doubt Daisy was fast asleep. Yawning, he settled himself to wait for a chance of private speech with Philippe. He heard Melinda Garrison speaking to a maid. A while later Lord Hythwick’s loud, stomping footsteps went down the opposite wing. A coach rolled by below the window, probably Gloriana returning to the Dower House. At last, more voices, Lord Garrison and the Marquis de Bellechasse. Julian opened his door very slightly.

  “Surely you don’t mean to let your sister marry that loud-mouthed fool,” Philippe said.

  “I don’t have much choice.” Miles Garrison sounded grumpy. “She is of age.”

  “But you hold the purse strings, do you not?”

  “No, she inherited a house in London and a considerable independence from an aunt. But I don’t suspect Hythwick of fortune hunting. He doesn’t need the money. He lusts after my sister, and so he will have her.”

  Philippe let out a French oath. “It disgusts me, the thought of him with Gloriana.”

  There was a silence. “Do I infer that you have an interest in my sister, marquis?”

  Philippe gave a harsh laugh. “At one time, I thought so. She seemed intelligent, and she is very pretty when she lets her guard down. But, forgive me for speaking plainly, she has proven to be a fool, so . . . no longer.”

  “A pity,” Miles said. “She will be miserable with Hythwick.”

  Perhaps, but even Hythwick was better than a murderer. And if Philippe proved innocent . . . well, Julian wouldn’t wish Gloriana on anyone, particularly not his valued friend.

  They went their separate ways, and Julian sat down to wait until he and Philippe would be assured privacy for their discussion, or altercation, or fistfight—whatever it might prove to be.

  The soft footsteps of servants passed back and forth. The old house creaked as it settled for the night. At last, Julian took his candle and went into the dark corridor.

  Then hesitated.

  Daisy was fine. He had no reason whatsoever to check on her. She was a grown woman with a gun and a knife, and she knew enough to lock her door.

  Oh, hell. She’d been in a defiant mood. He had to at least check the door, very, very quietly, so as not to waken her. He tiptoed down the hall and pushed on the door.

  It swung open. Fool woman—

  A dark shape hurled itself at him. A knife flashed. Instinctively he struck out, sending the blade skittering. He rolled away. His candle clattered to the floor and went out. Julian launched himself at the intruder, knocking him to the floor of the passageway, gripping him with one hand whilst groping for the knife.

  Fear arced through him. Had the man already killed Daisy?

  That moment’s inattention was enough. The intruder wrenched himself from Julian’s grasp and fled for the stairs. Julian let him go and returned to Daisy’s room, sick with fear.

  “Daisy?” Nothing. He groped his way to the bed, felt about, but she wasn’t there. Not dead. Thank God, not dead.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  Miles Garrison stood in the doorway in his nightshirt, a candle in his hand.

  “Give me that.” Julian snatched the candle and held it up, searching the room, even under the bed. She wasn’t there. “Thank God.” He let out a breath. “There was an intruder in her chamber. He escaped me, but Daisy’s not here.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “I don’t know.” He found a candle on the mantel, lit it, and passed the other to Lord Garrison. He headed for the stairs. “But I’m going to find out.”

  Daisy stood, gingerly putting her weight on her twisted ankle. Nothing but a twinge of pain and a lingering soreness, thank heavens.

  It was nothing to the pain in her heart. What a frightfully trite thought that was. She’d written that phrase of her heroines, but now she knew what it really meant.

  She gazed blindly into the darkness. She wasn’t really afraid. She’d been here before many times. You couldn’t pretend you were a vestal virgin being buried alive if a little darkness scared you.

  But that Julian wasn’t what he seemed? That he was the one who wanted to kill her? That was true anguish.

  She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. She sat on the cold floor and thought about it, and realized that it might be true.

  She must not shirk from the truth. With a sore heart and cold determination, she made a mental list.

  He had shown interest in her from the day they had met. She’d read his intent gaze correctly right from the start. It did indeed indicate a working mind, not the prurient interest she’d come to believe. Definitely not a man struck with love almost at first sight, not that she’d ever believed that.

  She remembered a feeling of being watched in Liverpool. What if he’d been watching her, to see her reaction to the threatening letter—that he had sent?

  He’d been just down the road when someone had shot at her.

  He’d been awake when someone tried to get into her room at the inn. He’d been in the Diving Duck earlier that evening. He could have taken her gun and knife then, and restored them, too, after she escaped onto the roof. He certainly knew she had weapons in her room; he’d asked if they were just tales.

  He was related to Lady Bilchester, who might be a lovely person who would never countenance murder, but that didn’t mean an angry male relative wouldn’t kill on her behalf.

  He’d insisted on protecting Daisy, which would enable him to remain near her, waiting for another opportunity to kill her.

  The betrothal ruse was an excellent way to divert suspicion, as were his so-called attempts to find other motives for the death threat. As were his protestations of love.

  It now became clear why he didn’t mind if he had to marry her. He needed money, according to Miles. If he married her, he could get hold of her dowry and kill her later!

  Appalled, she covered her face with her hands. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and she welcomed their sting. She ordered her heart to accept the fact that Julian was a villain worse than any she’d ever written.

  It didn’t work. After several moments of utter misery, she realized that the problem was worse than she’d thought. She didn’t believe a word of her list. Which meant she was a complete fool, in love with a murderer.

  Or . . . that the list was all wrong.

  A few short hours ago, she’d decided to trust Julian. It didn’t say much for her emotional fortitude that a few words from another man, unsupported by any explanation, would turn her against him. She now understood all too well the difficulty faced by Dianthus in The Lady’s Revenge, who’d refused to trust her paramour until they were actually married. Dianthus hadn’t been determined to keep her honor at all costs, although readers might like to interpret it that way. No, she’d been a coward, utterly unable to trust.

  Daisy didn’t want to be like Dianthus. Not only that, she didn’t have to accept the first explanation that came to mind. She had preferred the vengeance theory of the death threat at first, but the string of thefts made much more sense.

  In which case, why had the Marquis de Bellechasse locked her in here? Was he the murderer? That made no sense either. If he’d wanted, he could have killed her just now. Besides that, they were friends.

  Or so she had thought. If he were the thief . . . He wasn’t a collector, as far as she knew, but she didn’t know much about him
, did she? He had recently visited some of the places where thefts had taken place. So, for that matter, had Julian . . .

  No, she was done with suspecting Julian, at least for now. Back to considering the marquis. He had the connections to visit the richest collectors, to be welcomed into their homes. He could have decided what to steal, then sent someone back later to commit the actual burglary. Perhaps Antoine, another man she thought of as a friend. Or someone else.

  She’d known the marquis for a good while now. If she’d accidentally overheard him plotting . . . In French, perhaps . . .

  The memory bloomed within her mind. She hadn’t heard it. She’d seen it!

  Late one evening, when she’d come to collect Mr. Bonaventure’s coffee cup, he had sketched a rough circle, no, more of an untidy oval, like a bracelet carelessly tossed onto a table. Around it at intervals were the names of cities and French words. She must have automatically translated them in her mind—a painting, a queen, and so on.

  So that was where the idea for the charm bracelet had originated. A pity she’d remembered it too late.

  She stood, her blood running cold. If the marquis was the thief, why had he put her here? To get her out of the way while he stole the chess set? Would he come back and kill her at his leisure?

  She had to get out. There was a ladder in here someplace, and the pole to raise the trapdoor, but if he had clicked the latch shut, she wouldn’t be able to get it open. Unless she found something to force it with, something metal, something slim . . .

  The knife in its sheath nudged her thigh. At least she’d done something right tonight.

  In the Great Hall, Julian found a footman pushing himself up off the floor, clad only in a shirt. A wooden box lay next to him. Julian opened it and found the chess set they’d used last night. The man sat up, clutched his head, and cried out, “God, that hurts.”

  Julian crouched next to him. “What happened?”

  “I dunno, sir. Last thing I remember, I was doing my rounds, keeping watch like his lordship said.”

  “You didn’t see who attacked you?” He eyed the man’s bare legs. “Looks like he stole your clothing. Did you bring this chess set here?”

  The footman turned his head, wincing, and frowned. “No, sir, I never touched that. It was in the drawing room, all set out on its board, last I saw.”

  “Your master will be down in a minute. Tell him I’m trying the French doors first. Can you remember that?”

  “Aye, sir. The French doors.”

  Conjecture raced through Julian’s mind as he hurried away. Had the footman surprised the thief in the process of stealing the chess set? The man was likely concussed and didn’t remember all that had happened. Besides, why would the thief steal the man’s clothing, unless to disguise himself while he prowled the house?

  That chess set wasn’t particularly old or valuable, definitely not in the same class as other items the thieves had stolen.

  Sure enough, the French doors in the billiard room weren’t locked. The rose garden was quiet and still in the moonlight. No sign of Daisy.

  But on the far side of the garden, two men lurched into view from behind a tree, clutched in deadly combat. Swiftly and silently, Julian made his way through the garden paths. He was close enough now to identify them: Philippe de Bellechasse and his servant Antoine, who wore the purloined livery and wig. The men staggered back and forth, cursing in French, each trying to topple the other.

  Julian didn’t give a damn about either of them. “Where is Daisy?” he demanded.

  Philippe didn’t so much glance his way. Briefly, the servant gained the advantage, then lost it again. The wig fell to the ground. They grappled, panting.

  These two could murder each other, for all Julian cared. “Where, damn you?”

  “Safe enough,” Philippe panted.

  Antoine tore himself out of his master’s grip and sprinted away across the lawn.

  The marquis set off in pursuit. Julian followed, determined to get her whereabouts from Philippe if he had to strangle him to do so. He caught up and made a grab for Philippe’s sleeve. “Where is she?”

  “Mordieu, do you think I tried to kill her?” Philippe wrenched himself away.

  Which meant Antoine was the would-be murderer—if Philippe was telling the truth. Julian raced after him. Antoine turned to pass the summerhouse. They were closing in on him . . .

  A female form, clad in white, flowing garments, appeared in the doorway to the little house. Antoine swerved and headed straight for her.

  Daisy!

  Chapter 13

  Daisy ducked back inside the summerhouse, unsure what she’d just seen. Several men, running across the meadow, but who? One was headed straight for her. She shut the door, but it had no lock. She peered through the window, her heart pounding, knife at the ready.

  She’d never had to defend herself before.

  The door burst open. A man in footman’s livery came at her, snarling. Antoine?

  “Don’t let him catch you!” That was Julian’s voice. She dodged behind the easel, knocking it over.

  Antoine tripped, but righted himself quickly, then grabbed at her, cursing. She shoved the chair in his way, but he swerved in time. She backed away, slashing madly with the knife. He let out a shriek, then lunged, catching the hem of her wrapper. She yanked herself free, leaving the lace flounce in his hands, and ran, skirting the open trap door.

  He missed falling through by an inch and kept coming. Julian leapt through the doorway. She dodged again, and Julian slammed into Antoine and brought him down, half over the hole in the floor. Antoine scrabbled for purchase, one hand grabbing at the trap door, the other swinging wildly at Julian, who struck him a ringing blow to the head.

  The marquis came through the door, panting. “Allow me.”

  Briefly, Julian’s eyes met those of the Marquis de Bellechasse. He nodded, and without letting the struggling, cursing Antoine escape, he moved aside. The marquis lifted his servant by the feet and dropped him through the hole in the floor. Antoine landed below with a sickening thud.

  Julian let out a long breath and came over to Daisy. “You’re unhurt?”

  “You-You let him drop Antoine through the floor!”

  Julian’s voice was low and furious. “Daisy, if you can’t trust me when it really matters, fine. But for now, please just trust me about this.”

  She wanted to hit him. She wanted to burst into tears. Instead, she gritted her teeth. “I am trying very hard to trust you.”

  “I know of no more trustworthy man than Sir Julian.” Philippe sounded amused.

  Daisy rounded on him, brandishing the knife. “How dare you lock me in that place?”

  “If you had stayed there, you would have been safe,” the marquis said.

  “So you could return and kill me?”

  “It was not I who wanted to kill you, but my foolish Antoine,” the marquis said.

  Gently, Julian removed the knife from her hand.

  “How was I supposed to know that?” she demanded, her voice trembling with rage as much as reaction. “In fact, why should I believe you?”

  “Why indeed?” Philippe peered into the dark hole. “If he landed on his head, there is an excellent chance that he is dead. I shall go down to see, non?” He was already feeling for the ladder with one foot.

  “I assure you, neither Daisy nor I shall do so,” Julian said coldly.

  “What if he is still alive?” Daisy asked.

  “He is not,” Phillipe said, his voice tranquil and assured. Slowly, he disappeared from view.

  “He means to make certain,” Daisy whispered, aghast.

  “I assume so,” Julian said.

  “Maybe he didn’t want to kill me, but he really is a murderer.” Appalled didn’t even
begin to describe her dismay.

  “Not by choice, I believe.” Julian sounded like one of the heroes in her book, entirely accepting of cold-blooded murder. Approving, even. It was much easier, she realized, to be callous in a novel than in real life.

  It was at this point that she remembered what the marquis had said earlier—that Sir Julian was not what he seemed. A lie to confuse her, or the truth? Just now, he had said Julian was trustworthy. She didn’t know what to believe.

  She had already decided—twice—to trust him. She wasn’t much of a heroine if she couldn’t continue to do so.

  Julian went out the door and held the knife up in the moonlight. “It’s sticky. You drew blood?”

  “When Antoine tried to grab me. Give it to me.” She took the knife, wiped the blade on her wrapper, lifted the nightdress, and put the knife back in its sheath. That was the sort of thing one of her heroines would do, including making sure the hero caught a glimpse of her legs.

  She shivered a little, for the decision to trust him had consequences.

  She raised her eyes to his, a little frightened and almost shy. He put his arms about her and kissed her hard. “Damn and blast Philippe, how dare he imprison you here?”

  She shrugged in his embrace. “I wasn’t afraid. I played here with Gloriana, remember? I know how to use the ladder and open the trapdoor. Fortunately, I had my knife. It would have been much more difficult to escape without it.”

  Julian took a deep breath, and she got the feeling he was about to scold her for leaving her bedchamber . . . but he didn’t. Instead, he tightened his arms, and his voice was rough. “Antoine knocked out a footman and took his clothing. He went to your room. He would have killed you.”