His good humor when she ached from head to foot was too much to bear. “I suppose we have good English beef to thank for your bullish manners, too,” she retorted.
“No, for that you can thank the lack of beef in the workhouse, or any kind of meat, for that matter. When a boy’s hungry, he’ll sell his mother for a bowl of good stew. He doesn’t care about manners.”
He said it matter-of-factly, as if boys raised in the workhouse who grew up to be successful men of business were commonplace.
“But surely you learned better once you were older and moving in…refined circles—”
“Refined circles?” He laughed. “The smugglers? Or after I left them, when Griff gave me the job as his man of affairs, when I acted as go-between for him and the smugglers?” His eyes narrowed. “Ah, but I think I know what you mean—my current business associates, men like the new Duke of Montfort at my office. Now, that’s a refined circle for you—his grace and all his lightskirts. He likes them low and dirty, he does. Where the devil do you think I met him? He might have lordly manners when he’s near a lass like you, but you can be sure they vanish when he’s with Mrs. Beard’s girls.”
“Who is Mrs. Beard?” she asked, then realized what sort of woman she must be.
He flashed her a pained smile. “Let’s just say she’s not a woman you’re likely ever to meet”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve already met one of
your
‘lightskirts.’”
Lord, she could not believe she’d said that. The Well-bred Young Lady never alluded to women of ill repute, especially before a man.
His mocking eyebrow quirked up again, making him look more sinfully attractive than usual. He leaned to one side and draped his arm over the back of the chair with casual ease. “Your ladyship seems mighty interested in lightskirts. This is the second time you’ve mentioned Sall. Did she bother you that much?”
“Bother me? Why would she bother me?” But Sall did bother her, and a great deal, too. It made no sense. Why should she care if the wretch had a hundred shameless women strolling about naked in his rooms?
“P’raps because you’re curious,” he remarked.
“Curious about what?”
“What all the fuss is about.”
“F-fuss? Whatever do you mean?”
“What those women do. With men. In private.”
A slow heat filled her cheeks. “I would never in a million years speculate upon what those women do.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Certainly not.”
But she would, and he knew it, judging from his unrepentant grin. He could read her so well, the beast. Somehow he’d guessed her secret thoughts, knew she was indeed…intrigued by those women’s activities.
She always had been, ever since her first time in London. When Papa had brought her to the city for her coming out, they’d been in the carriage on the way to a ball when she’d seen a woman up ahead, standing beneath a street lamp talking to a gentleman. It was a seedy part of town, and Papa generally kept the curtains tightly closed as they passed through it, but he’d forgotten to do so that night, absorbed in some other matter.
So she’d seen the couple under the lamp. Though it was years ago, Helena remembered every detail as if it were yesterday.
The man had been handsome in a base sort of way, but it was the woman who’d arrested her attention. Smoky lamplight had spilled over her low-cut scarlet dress and the two mounds of flesh it exposed. Back then it had been the fashion to wear clinging gossamer fabrics, but the woman’s fiery gown had nearly been a second skin. Like a loving flame it had licked the woman’s body, tightening in the most indecent places, leaving little to the imagination.
Yet the gown had not been the most shocking part. Just as their coach neared the couple, the man bent to kiss the woman, then thrust his hand inside her bodice to fondle her breast. Right there in public.
And the woman let him. Not only let him, but plas
tered her body to him. Strangely enough, while the shameless couple was kissing and…and touching so outrageously, the woman’s eyes remained open. And just as the coach had rumbled past, she had stared straight at Helena.
Helena had sprung back from the window, mortified and shocked. Fascinated. She’d never mentioned a word to Papa, who’d been staring absently out the other window. She’d never even told Rosalind or Juliet,
But she’d never forgotten it. Once in a while when she was alone, she dwelt on that woman’s look—the smug glance that said,
I have a secret life you and your kind will never know. And I like it.
That was absurd. What woman could…could
like
such a thing? Rosalind had said that what men and women did together was very pleasant, but Helena couldn’t believe it after Rosalind had given her all the details. To have a man see you naked? Touch all of you, even your breasts? Put his…thing inside you? It was appalling!
Yet the way that woman had looked when the man touched her breast…
The Well-bred Young Lady does not think about men touching her breasts,
Helena told herself sternly. Another stricture that did not appear in Mrs. N’s guide. She had wandered so far from the rules of propriety that she was making up new ones just to keep from sinking into the abyss.
She shifted in her chair, then groaned unthinkingly as her muscles protested the small movement.
“You all right?” Daniel asked at once.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
He started to say something else, but thankfully a servant girl brought the food then, accompanied by a
scrawny, ferret-faced woman who was apparently the innkeeper’s wife.
“I hope this’ll be sufficient for you and your wife,” the woman told Mr. Brennan in a decidedly hostile tone.
His wife? So he’d gone and done it, had he?
Mr. Brennan shot Helena a warning glance. “This will be fine, I’m sure. Won’t it, m’la—er…m’dear?”
“Of course, my dear,” she echoed, taking secret pleasure from his discomfiture.
The girl laying out the platters blanched when the woman cursed her and said, “Must you dawdle so, daughter? Back to the kitchen with you. There’s work to be done.”
When the girl fled and the innkeeper’s wife started to leave as well, Mr. Brennan said, “Excuse me, madam, but they told me there’d be pie.”
“We don’t have no more pie,” the woman growled as she stalked off. It sounded as if she added, under her breath, “Not for your sort, anyhow.”
Judging from Mr. Brennan’s frown, he’d heard it, too. Then they both heard the woman tell her daughter as she entered the kitchen to “keep an eye on those Irish around my silver. They’re like to steal a body blind.”
Mr. Brennan froze until he caught her gaze on him. Then he rolled his eyes and picked up a platter. “Hope you don’t mind being a thieving Irishman’s wife.” He leaned forward to serve her a slice of beef. “Though I’ll do my best not to steal you blind.”
“You ought to steal
her
blind—it would serve her right,” she retorted, outraged at the insult, even if he didn’t seem to be. “And while you’re at it, you could steal her deaf and dumb as well.”
He chuckled. “You may not be Irish, but you do have a touch of the Irish wit.”
“Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
Lifting his head, he shot her a warm glance. “I meant it as one.”
Some understanding whispered between them, and a strange heat flared in her belly. The way he looked at her sometimes…
She jerked her gaze down and began sawing at her meat with a wholly inadequate knife.
He was silent a moment, then cleared his throat. “You needn’t worry about this wife business, d’you hear? When we reach our lodgings tonight, I’ll take separate rooms for us. Plenty of the gentry sleep apart, so nobody will think it odd.”
What a relief. She suspected that sharing a room with Mr. Brennan would be quite…difficult.
The Well-bred Young Lady must not share a bedchamber
—There she went again, making up rules for what was not only ungovernable, but unthinkable.
One sniff of the food, however, and she forgot about strictures. She even forgot her aching legs, for she was quite hungry. She ate some beef, pleased to find it more palatable than she’d expected, though typical coaching inn fare. It was overcooked, but with a decent flavor.
Tearing off a piece of bread, she slathered it with butter and remarked, “Thank you for managing all this, Mr. Brennan.”
A faint smile touched his lips as he ladled gravy over his beef. “If you’re going to play my wife, you ought to call me Daniel. To strengthen the illusion.”
“Daniel? Not ‘Danny Boy’?” she quipped.
His smile faded. “No, m’lady—nor even Danny.”
She suddenly remembered that his highwayman father’s name had been Wild Danny Brennan. Heartily sorry
for bringing it up, she said, “Well, you should not call me ‘my lady’ either. I give you leave to call me Helena.”
“Do you? You’d allow a poor sod like me to use your Christian name?”
Though he coupled the comment with a teasing smile, his words still stung. She set down her fork. “I know what you’re getting at. I am sorry, but I often forget that I no longer have any claim to the title of lady.”
He paused in his eating to cast her a bemused look. “I didn’t mean that at all.”
“Didn’t you? We both know that I’m not…that Papa is not—”
“For all intents and purposes you are. Griff would never reveal that your father’s an impostor. He cares too much for your sister to do that. He’s content to wait until your father passes on to take up the mantle of Earl of Swanlea.”
“I know.” Yet it bothered her. She didn’t mind not truly being an earl’s daughter; her rank had never brought her any great happiness. But she did mind being in this strange position—obligated to Griff Knighton for her dowry, painfully aware of how Papa had wronged him, and probably regarded as a fraud by Mr. Brennan…Daniel.
Why she should care what he thought of her, she didn’t know. He
had
deceived them all last summer at Swan Park. And yet…he’d played the role of rich gentleman quite badly, as uncomfortable in it as Samson without his strength. Perhaps he’d actually disliked deceiving them.
She toyed with the carrot on her plate as he ate with the hearty appetite she’d expect of a Samson. “May I ask you something?”
He nodded and devoured another mouthful of bread.
“Was it
very
difficult for you? Pretending to be Griff?”
“You could say that. Playing heir to an earldom is not my cup o’ tea, as you probably guessed.” He shot her an earnest look. “I wasn’t told what he was up to until too late, or I wouldn’t have done it for any amount of money. I thought I was only helping him to what he deserved, and if it brought me a little something, then it wasn’t so bad. But when I knew it all, I wanted out right away. Ask Griff—he’ll tell you I did.”
After what his clerk had said about when he’d set up for himself in business, she believed him, and his revelation warmed her. It made a difference, knowing that Daniel had felt as hoodwinked as the rest of them. “You do realize that none of us were aware that Papa was trying to blackmail Griff into marrying one of us. It came as quite a shock.”
“I know.” He paused to flash her a smile. “And I don’t much blame him. He only wanted to protect his daughters. Any man would do the same.”
“I suppose.” But she suspected Daniel wouldn’t. He seemed too forthright to do such a thing.
They ate in a companionable silence. For the first time since she’d left home, she felt less anxious about the future. Though her body ached more by the moment, everything else was going well. The stalwart Daniel seemed capable of anything, even tracking down her foolish sister. He’d succeeded thus far, after all, and surely now that they were on the right road, they’d be done with this soon.
They had nearly finished when the obnoxious innkeeper’s wife approached. “Anything else you’ll be needing, Mr. Brennan, or shall we settle the bill?”
What did the woman think—that they’d flee the premises before she got her money? Helena was sorely
tempted to speak her mind, but before she could, Daniel did, and far more genially.
“Actually, there
is
something else.” With an ingratiating smile, he drew out the miniature of Juliet and the sketch of Mr. Pryce. “If you’d be so kind as to look at these…my wife and I are searching for this couple. I thought they might’ve come this way. Have you seen them?”
Planting her reddened hands on bony hips, the woman cast the images a cursory glance. “Can’t say as I have,” she said belligerently.
“Are you sure? I realize that a woman who runs an inn so competently must be dreadful busy, but you might’ve noticed the young lass.” He slid the miniature toward her. “It’s my darling wife’s sister, y’see, and the man in the sketch is a varlet who’s stolen her off for her fortune.”
“A fortune hunter, is it?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“Yes. You seem to be a hardworking woman, so I know you wouldn’t like to see your own daughter taken advantage of by a man who wants only to live off the work of others…” He trailed off meaningfully.
The woman unbent a little. “Aye.” She regarded Daniel steadily. “Come from London, did you? You sound like a cit”
“That’s where I live now, but I was raised in Sussex. My dear English mother ran an inn herself. You remind me of her a bit.”
“Do I? What was her name?” the innkeeper’s wife asked with clear interest.
“Molly. My father was an Irish soldier. They’re together to this day.”
“Molly Brennan of Sussex. I think I’ve heard of her. Good woman, as I recall.”
“The best,” Daniel said reverently, and the woman
softened still further. It was all Helena could do not to snort. Lord, could he spin a tale when it served him. Even she knew that his mother had been hanged alongside Wild Danny. And highwaymen’s accomplices did not run inns.
The woman peered at the sketch once more. After a moment, she poked at it with one spindly finger. “There
was
a man like this in here two days ago. Handsome gent, but I could tell he was no good He was in quite the rush.”
“There was no woman with him?” Daniel prodded.
“If there was, I didn’t see her. The fellow was in a coach, y’see. It stopped long enough to change horses, and this one ran in to fetch food from the kitchen, then run out. Never did see who else was in the coach. I don’t think he was alone, howsomever, because he asked for two of everything to go with his loaf of bread—two apples, two hunks of cheese, two glasses. He paid for the glasses, too.”