A Notorious Love (16 page)

A faint, mocking smile touched Daniel’s lips.

“Oho!” one of the other men said. “And did your father approve?”

“Of course not. He had great aspirations for me, wanted me to marry a fine lord. How do you think I learned to speak like this? Papa sent me away to…Mrs. Nunley’s School for Refined Ladies.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice as she warmed to her tale. “My grandfather was a publican, and Papa improved his fortunes by marrying a merchant’s daughter. But he wanted better for me, you see. And since he had the wealth to tempt a lord, he was determined to see me marry well.”

“Yet you married
this
scoundrel,” the man sitting next to Daniel said with a laugh, clapping him on the back. Daniel rolled his eyes.

She lifted her pint of ale and sipped, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the musty smell. It tasted far better than it smelled, though, sort of nutty.

She set the ale back down. “That’s rather good.”

“You
have
had ale before, haven’t you?” Mr. Wallace asked. “I mean, with yer father bein’ a liquor merchant and all.”

Had her surprise been that obvious? “Now that I’m married to Danny, I drink what I want. But Papa always said that proper ladies do not drink ale, so he never let me have anything stronger than ratafia. And once in a while, champagne.”

That sent the other men into gales of laughter. “Ratafia, eh?” Mr. Wallace remarked. “Well, you won’t find any ratafia or champagne here, Mrs. Brennan.”

“Thank heavens.” She drank some more ale. “I prefer the stouter stuff.”

They laughed again and Daniel snorted, but she was surprised to discover the taste was growing on her. As were its effects—a general warmth and feeling of grand well-being throughout her body.

“How did you get around your father’s expectations so you could marry Brennan?” one of the men asked.

Best to stick as close to the truth as possible,
Daniel had said. “Well, I realized Papa’s hopes for me were far too lofty, even if he did not.” She pointed to her leg. “It’s hard to catch a fine lord if you can’t even dance at balls.”

“Have you always been lame then?” the youngest of the group asked from his seat on the other side of Mr. Wallace.

Mr. Wallace cuffed him. “That’s a rude question, you chawbacons.”

“I don’t mind,” she said quickly, unsettled by the casual violence against a lad who looked little older than
Juliet. But when they glanced to her expectantly, she froze. She rarely spoke of her illness to anyone, deflecting all questions with polite evasions. And to expose herself so wholly to these strange men…

Taking a fortifying sip of ale, she looked at Daniel. His encouraging smile oddly reassured her. “Well, you see, I contracted an illness, a very rare one, around the time of my coming out. I first had fever and headache, and then it attacked my muscles. When the fever passed, I discovered that my legs didn’t work.”

“Both legs?” Mr. Wallace glanced down at them. “But yer other one seems fine.”

She nodded. “Papa consulted a surgeon familiar with the disease, and he said I might recover some facility in my limbs if I exercised them.” She shrugged. “So I did, and I managed to recover all the strength in one leg and partial use of the other.”

That was all she’d planned to say until Daniel spoke up. “Tell them how long it took you.”

Her gaze shot to his to find a question in his eyes. Heavens, he wanted to know for himself, and his interest warmed her even more than the ale. “It was three or four years before I could manage with only a cane. My…er…maid Rosalind helped me enormously. She prodded and pushed me even when I didn’t want to try. It’s thanks to her that I can walk at all.”

“Thanks to her and
yourself,
” Daniel corrected. “It must’ve taken great strength of will. And I doubt your ‘maid’ would’ve succeeded if you hadn’t wanted it so bad.”

She stared at him, her heart in her throat. Approval shone in his face, and she drank it up more thirstily than any ale. “I suppose not,” she admitted.

“So you didn’t have your show in grand society after all,” one of the men put in.

She tore her gaze from Daniel. “M-my show?”

“Your ‘come out.’”

“Oh. No, I did not.” She took a great swig of ale, drowning the memory of her first public appearance in Stratford when her cane had garnered her pitying glances from the squire’s son. That pity was echoed later by men of higher rank. “By the time I regained use of my legs, I was too old and lame to suit any of those stuffy lords.” The liquor spreading through her body made her reckless, made her want to confess things she told no one. “Besides, I didn’t want them anyway. I think a man ought to appreciate a woman for more than just her appearance, don’t you?”

The men quickly chimed their agreement, protesting that they wouldn’t be so “mutton-headed,” that she was fine enough for any man and all those “lords” were fools.

Their enthusiastic response surprised her, though she didn’t quite believe them. They
were
smugglers, after all. “Thank you. But now you see why I was eager to marry Danny. He was so sweet to me. Those chaps Papa kept throwing at me only wanted my inheritance.”

Mr. Wallace eyed Daniel with a hint of mischief. “And how did you know Mr. Brennan here did not want yer inheritance?”

Daniel bristled, but she hastened to say, “Oh, I knew I could trust him from the start.” She caught his gaze and held it. “He’s an honorable man. He’d never court a woman for her money.”

She prayed that he’d accept her apology this time, and for a moment it seemed that he might, for his expression held a sort of bemused surprise.

Then it hardened. “My wife exaggerates. She wasn’t always so trusting.”

A keen disappointment sliced through her. She fin
ished off her ale, taking solace from the heady brew. “Well, what did you expect? Your profession doesn’t precisely inspire trust, my dear.”

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. They 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.”