Daisy halted in her tracks. Was there a reason for that? Did the fellow live there?

That would put a different light on everything, one she could see clearly in. She wasn’t an innocent anymore, or like most young women in England whether they were experienced or not, for that matter. Living as she had done, in prisons and among convicts, meant she’d seen and heard about different sides of life. Men took love where they found it, and some found it in unusual ways. She’d accepted that without judging it.

Daisy sat down abruptly. Still, that was certainly something she hadn’t thought of. She’d never seen a hint of it in the earl when he’d been plain Geoff Sauvage. She cocked her head to the side, considering the matter. It could account for his peculiar friendship with the much younger, fashionable, and oh-so-affected viscount! She sensed the fellow didn’t trust her and didn’t know why, but if she was right it would make sense. He might be afraid she’d steal Geoff’s affections.

She chewed her lip and frowned. It would definitely explain why Geoff was single even now, when he had wealth and title.

But she still admired and respected Geoffrey Sauvage. The more she thought of it, the more she liked the idea of marrying him even if he preferred men. She’d be untouched but not unloved. They could always adopt a child. Hadn’t he already taken two boys under his wing, seen them grow into happily married men, and rejoiced for them?

Daisy contemplated the idea of marrying a man who’d never take her physically. It seemed too good to be true after the years of marriage she’d endured. In fact, she thought with rising spirits, if the earl were so inclined toward his fellow man, it might be the best solution of all for her.

But she didn’t know if he was. She didn’t know much of anything yet except that he was here, he still liked her, and he was still available, in one way, at least. She’d have to see about the rest. If he didn’t want to marry, maybe he had friends his age or inclination who did. She didn’t plan to marry for love or money, just for security and a place to belong, a place where she could stay on in peace, unmolested. She’d never be free until she was married, and then if she had a husband who simply cared for her like a father or a friend, it would be bliss.

She roused herself from dreams. Money, the here and now of it, was her most pressing problem. She wasn’t as cheap as Tanner had been-no one could be. But she’d learned to worry about funds going out, and they’d been draining at an alarming rate since she’d gotten here. At least she’d been smart enough to hire a maid in New South Wales. That cost was small enough; the girl had been eager to go home to England.

But what about the hotel charges, the house she had to rent? The clothes she had to buy? And the “respectable” companion she had to hire?

Respectability, Daisy thought bitterly, looking around her spare, expensive room, came dear. She’d bet whomever the earl recommended would come dearer. If her plan didn’t work, how long would her investments continue paying off? She had money, but not the golden touch Tanner had. How long could her money last and grow if she had to keep paying out at such a clip?

Daisy shot to her feet. She wouldn’t go back. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t go back. That left her only one way to go: forward.

She walked to the door to her maid’s room and called. “Amy? Please go downstairs and tell the hotel manager that he can begin sending up applicants for the position of my companion now.”


* * *

Life with a father always looking for money and with a husband always looking for a fight had taught Daisy unusual skills. She could read faces the way other women read books, and she was a fast reader who seldom missed a nuance of meaning.

She soon discovered that some of the women she interviewed pitied her for being alone and without family, and some felt superior to her. In turn, she pitied some of them, and some frankly frightened her. Only one thing was plain, and that itself was a little frightening. There were too many respectable women who needed jobs in London Town.

Daisy was ready to halt the flow of prospective companions because the interviews had taken up most of the morning and she was getting hungry. She was heartily sick of her dreary room but planned to eat in, even though it made her feel like an outcast and a prisoner again. The hotel dining room had looked splendid from afar, with its glittering glassware and clean white tablecloths and well-dressed, merrily chattering patrons. But she couldn’t eat there. She couldn’t dine alone, or with a maid; she had to have a respectable companion with her before she could dine in public.

“You have recommendations with you?” she finally asked the last woman she interviewed before she sent for her luncheon, after the woman recited her qualifications.

“Yes, of course,” the woman answered. She held out a sheaf of papers.

Daisy pretended to study the letters, but watched Helena Masters instead. She saw a woman some years older than herself. Seven-and-thirty, her papers said, but she looked older because of the barely concealed worry on her face, and the plain, sensible, drab clothing she wore. A sailor’s widow with two children who lived with her own widowed mother in the north of England, she had to work for her keep.

She seemed well bred and had a pleasant voice. Mrs. Masters’s brown hair was neat, as was her figure. Her face, with its sincere blue eyes, was plain but promising, because she had laugh lines, which meant that at least she sometimes laughed. The letters from former employers extolled her. She’d never lost a position so much as had to move on because of circumstances beyond her control.

But not all the words on those letters or the woman’s own softly voiced history impressed Daisy as much as the fact that her hand trembled when she handed over her excellent references. And the glove that covered that hand had a tiny darn in it. She needed the work, badly. Need was a thing that Daisy never missed. She knew it too well.

“I plan to buy a house in a good district and stay on in London,” Daisy said, returning the papers to her. It was also time to put her cards on the table. “Your duties would not only be to accompany me, but to advise me on current manners and fashions. I’ve been out of the country for years, you see.”

Light sprang to the woman’s eyes. “I could do that,” she said. Her hands knotted together over the papers.

“Starting immediately.”

“I could do that as well.”

“And the salary pleases you?”

The woman nodded; Daisy realized she was too tense to speak.

“If you’d like, I could give you two days off every three weeks, so you could visit with your children. Since they live so far we could see about more if you needed,” Daisy added, and then frowned, realizing she was gilding the lily because she wanted this woman to stay on with her. Need called to need, and so this woman didn’t frighten her. She took a breath. If it was going to hurt, she’d best get it over and done with.

“I came from New South Wales,” Daisy said bluntly. “I was a prisoner there, then a wife, then a widow. I was convicted with my father, and that because he poached once too often on a neighbor’s land. But I was a convict, and that is who I am.” She held up her head.

Mrs. Masters’s eyes widened. “Oh, you poor child,” she exclaimed. Her hand flew to her lips when she realized she’d said so bold a thing to a prospective employer.

Daisy’s eyes searched her face; she could see no recoil as realization of what she’d said about being a convict sank in. The pity she’d originally seen was gone in an instant, replaced by sorrow, and the woman’s obvious distress at her outburst.

“Yes, well, it was bad,” Daisy said. “Now, I want only good. Can you help me, Mrs. Masters?”

“You will have me?” the other woman asked, as though afraid to believe her good luck.

“I will. So. When can you begin?”

“Now. At once. What would you have me do?”

Daisy hesitated. Then she heaved a small heartfelt sigh, and voiced her present dearest wish. “Would you come downstairs and have luncheon in the dining room with me?”


It was the loveliest gown Daisy had ever seen up close. Red, with rose ribbons at the waist, gold ones trimming the flounces on the skirts and on the puffed sleeves, and a beautiful needlework rose climbing up the bodice and blooming at the breast. The model wearing it looked magnificent. Daisy turned a glowing face to the earl to see his reaction before she said she’d take it.

“No, not for you,” Viscount Haye drawled before she could. “A gown need not be beautiful in itself; it must make the woman who wears it beautiful.” He waved a hand. “There’s too much gown there, madame. Show us another.”

The modiste nodded. “Trust you, monsieur,” she said with a little smile. She clapped her hands to signal the next model to come out.

Daisy turned a militant face toward the viscount, but the look of approval on her new companion’s face as she gazed at him stopped her from saying anything.

“It was a work of art,” the viscount murmured to Daisy. “That’s the problem. Do you want people to notice the beautiful gown they see, or the woman in it?”

She subsided.

He nodded. “And red, my dear, can be a striking statement for a woman with your coloration. But a little goes a long way, and that gown went much too far.”

The earl laughed. “That, Lee, is why you’re invaluable. See, Daisy? I told you he’d be your best guide. I don’t know a thing about fashion. He’s right. I can’t even remember what the woman wearing that concoction looked like, and I usually have an eye for a pretty young girl.”