And Hugh could remember, even months later, the look of shock and surprise on the young lady’s face. The horror that she had inadvertently been speaking to one of the most dastardly and ill-thought of men in the ton. And the curiosity, yes, the desperate desire to know why.

  “Running away, eh?”

  “I am not running away,” Hugh said sharply, bestowing a glare upon the innkeeper.

  The man swallowed. “No offense meant, of course.”

  “Hmph.”

  Though his blood was starting to boil, Hugh managed to calm himself. Looking away from the innkeeper helped. Looking into the tankard of ale helped even more.

  Because the man was right, in a way. Oh, he would never admit to such. Dukes did not run away, and he certainly would not. Except that he had, hadn’t he?

  He certainly wasn’t running toward anything—there was nothing in France that Hugh wanted. And he did wish to return home, though precisely how he would manage to do such a thing without a single penny to rub between his fingers, he did not know.

  “You don’t have any friends?”

  Hugh chuckled with a wry shake of his head. “Few that would own me now.”

  There were probably a few members of the Dulverton Club who would raise a subscription to have him returned home, Hugh thought grimly. But he was not sure if that could be called friendship. Half would do so to laugh in his face for getting himself into such a pickle. The other half would want their money back.

  And that was the trouble with hiding his true identity. Dukes deserved, and usually got, respect. Men tramping across the French countryside rarely gained anything save pity. And even that was thin on the ground at the moment.

  This was a country at war, Hugh tried to remind himself. There was more going on than just his pathetic attempt to have an adventure, which had completely gone awry.

  “You know, I am surprised you have not gone back to England,” said the innkeeper lazily, wiping a tankard with a moldy-looking rag. “With the war going so badly.”

  Hugh smiled despite himself. No matter what was happening in the war—and information was vague to say the least, and most untrustworthy—the French always said they were winning.

  Even if they weren’t.

  “Don’t you want to go back?”

  Hugh hesitated. This innkeeper was far too inquisitive for his own good—or perhaps he had just spent too long on the road, and had forgotten what it was to have someone genuinely interested in him.

  Spending the last six months alone in brothels, gambling hells, and avoiding battles was eventually going to tire, yes. But he was too ashamed to admit he had no friends, no money, and no way of getting himself across the Channel.

  No man would wish to admit that, let alone a duke.

  “I’ll go back when I want to,” he said aloud, his voice harsher than expected.

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

  And as though Hugh’s conversation had bored him, he drifted away along the bar and struck up a conversation in his thick French guttural accent with another man.

  Hugh let out a long, slow breath he had not quite noticed he had been holding. Well, he had managed it. A conversation with someone during which he had not, mostly, embarrassed himself. He hadn’t lost any money, or made any promises he had no intention of keeping. And he had not revealed his true identity.

  That wasn’t bad going, really.

  The trouble was, Hugh mused as he drained the last dregs of the ale and wished he hadn’t, he didn’t have any idea what to do next. He hadn’t heard an English voice in days, and now he had no money at all. It was going to be almost impossible to earn enough on the card tables to secure a passage back to England.

  And that left him here. In a foreign land, with no food, no friends, and—

  “Absolutely outrageous!” came a voice, light and airy. “No, really, you simply must let go. I have very little to—”

  Hugh was tired. And he had drunk a very large tankard of ale in a very short period of time, and on an empty stomach too. Which was probably why it took him a little over a minute to realize three things.

  Firstly, the voice he had heard was a woman. A woman, in here?

  Secondly, the voice had not been speaking in French. She had been speaking English.

  And thirdly, he desperately needed to turn around and see what sort of English woman had managed to find herself at an inn like this.

  Slowly, Hugh placed the empty tankard onto the bar and turned on his heels.

  His mouth fell open.

  There, standing in the doorway and attempting most genteelly to disentangle her hand with that of a beggarwoman, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Chapter Two

  “Absolutely outrageous! No, really, you simply must let go. I have very little to offer you!”

  Beth tried to smile, but this was more than she could possibly take. Could this day not just end? Why did it have to continue on and on, each hour bringing something more disastrous than the next?

  “Please m’lady,” said the old woman, her dirty fingernails clenched tight onto Beth’s hand. “I just want—”

  It was fortunate indeed that her French was far superior to most, Beth thought as she fired back rapidly, “Take your hands off me, woman, or I promise you indeed there will be hell to pay!”

  Not, perhaps, the most elegant thing she could have said, even Beth would admit. Not that she had anyone to admit it to.

  Not for the first time, she wondered if this whole endeavor may have been easier if she had actually listened to Nancy for more than five minutes together. It certainly would have been easier if there were two of them. Or if she had accepted the suggestion of a servant. Or, in truth, had listened to her sister and not come at all.

  The old woman let go of Beth and crept away.

  Beth swallowed hard, trying to forget the encounter had ever happened. The point was, she had come here, and she was determined not to leave France until her plan was completed. She owed him that.

  But before she had a moment to look around the inn and see whether her journey all this way had finally been worth it, a man stepped before her.

  “Not lost, are you, my dear?” he said in French, a smile revealing three missing teeth.

  Beth tried to smile, but it was a challenge.

  She was absolutely exhausted. How long had she been on her feet—two days? Three? They were all starting to merge, her lack of sleep and lack of food starting to wear on her.

  Going hungry was not an entirely unknown experience. There had been times, just after her father had died, that Beth had gone hungry to ensure Matthew had enough. Her brother had always seemed hungrier. She could carry on with very little, really, in the way of food.

  That had been then.

  Now, two days after a proper meal, Beth could feel the telltale signs of lightheadedness creeping into the edges of her mind.

  But she had to stay focused—to find him. She must ensure she was not taken advantage of by Frenchmen, she thought fiercely as she looked at the man before her.

  Not in that way, of course. This may be France, but still!

  “You look lost to me, my pretty,” said the man, taking a step closer. “And I think I can help you there.”

  Beth instinctively took a step backward. “I doubt it.”

  The trouble was, as her mind whirled, attempting to find a way out of her predicament, this was the same old story. Almost every day since she had stepped onto French soil, there had been a blaggard who thought her pretty and in need of rescue. And she wasn’t.

  In need of rescue, that was. Beth was not shy about her appearance. No matter what her sister said, she saw no harm in accepting that her dark raven curls and delicate figure were precisely what society said she should be.

  It was her tongue, and her inability to keep it quiet, that was her trouble.

  “You’re all alone here, aren’t you?” said the man, his eyes glinting.

  Beth swallowed, and saw instantly that was a mistake. Admitting she was alone, unprotected, was not clever in the depths of France with winter approaching.

  Her gaze darted about the inn, just in case there was a French gentleman here breaking a journey. Perhaps he could help, Beth could not help but think.

  Unfortunately, it appeared she was to be disappointed. There were plenty of men here—at least, now that she came to think about it, there were only men here. And a few ladies in a state of undress…

  Beth’s heart sank. So, it was that sort of inn.

  She had never come across one in England, but she was a lady in England, and there were certain places a lady would never go. Here in France, she’d had no choice.

  The men here were certainly not gentlemen. Many of them were gambling, and Beth saw the glint of candlelight on knives in belts. She had thought of bringing a pistol, stealing one from her brother-in-law’s study, but what was the point? She had no idea how to use it, and even in the thick of action, was not entirely sure whether she would.

  To shoot at someone, to take a life…

  A few leers were being cast her way now, and Beth tried to hold herself as rigid and unperturbed on the outside as possible. The last thing she wanted was for them to see just how tired she was. Just how alone. Just how frightened.

  Her gaze fell on a man standing by the bar, perhaps the most suspicious of the lot. He was staring as though he had never seen a woman before.

  Beth’s gaze dropped to the floor. No gentleman would look at a woman like that.

  If only Matthew was here. Her brother would know what to do—but then, Beth reminded herself, if Matthew was here, my journey would be at an end. Her task would be over, and all she would have to worry about was getting them both home safely.

  “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you, miss?”

  Beth blinked. She had half-forgotten the unpleasant man standing before her. He was examining her with a look of delight, and not one she wished to ever see again.

  She took another step back. “I think—”

  “I think you should come with me and have a drink, pretty,” interrupted the man with a gleam in his eye. “Don’t you?”

  Beth tried not to bite her lip. It was a childish habit, that was what Nancy always said, and worst of all, it would betray just how nervous she was. And she had walked into worse places like this, she tried to tell herself. And left to tell the tale.

  But not this tired, a dark, small voice muttered at the back of her mind. Not with so many knives so obviously showing. And not with such a strange man like the one at the bar, staring as though he had seen a ghost. Why was he looking at her like that?

  “I am looking for a man,” Beth said desperately.

  It was the wrong thing to say. The man leered. “I bet you are!”

  “Not like that—a specific man, my brother,” she said hastily, wishing to goodness she had thought for more than a split second about what she had said. “His name is—”

  “I am sure we can find you someone of any name.” The man tried to grab her hand.

  Beth jerked her hand away, heart starting to patter painfully in her chest.

  This had been a mistake. She should have waited until morning, until daylight. Everything looked better in the daylight, didn’t it?

  The trouble was, as she well knew, most of these men would be back home, on their farms, in their shops. This was the best time to ask as many people as possible if they had caught sight of a dazed, confused, injured, and lost English soldier.

  Matthew Mead. Her brother.

  “You’ll enjoy y’self, I promise—”

  “No,” said Beth, and her voice caught in her throat as real panic entered her heart. The man had tried to grab her again, and this time, his fingers almost caught around her wrist. If she didn’t do something soon—

  “Ah, there you are,” said a man in smooth, melodious French. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Beth looked up, eyes wide. The grasping hands of the horrible man had gone, and in his place stood…

  The man from the bar.

  Beth swallowed. From a distance, she had not quite realized how tall he was. Or how broad. Had he been slouching? Was the place just so dimly lit it was impossible to tell?

  She could tell now. Her entire vision appeared to be filled with the man who was still staring as though he had never seen a woman before, but it was…different. Hungry.

  Her cheeks flushed. “Here I am?”

  “You are English, aren’t you?” he said, more quietly this time.

  Beth refused to meet his eye. This was the last thing she needed—an Englishman looking for a bit of English companionship. Oh, she understood the desire to speak English. She was tired of French, tired of constantly having to reach for words, stumbling over verbs.

  But that did not mean she was going to permit herself to look weak before him. Not only was it completely against her very nature, but if she was to ask the inhabitants of this inn if they had seen her brother, she needed to ensure she did not look vulnerable.

  Now that would be dangerous.

  “I am English, yes, sir,” she said coldly. “Good day.”

  She almost managed to step completely around him, but he was quicker than she’d expected.

  “Good day?”

  “Yes, it is a polite way of saying I no longer wish to talk to you,” Beth snapped.

  Her temper would be the death of her. That was what her sister Nancy had always said, and she had never believed it until this moment.

  Fire sparked in the man’s eyes, fire Beth knew would not easily be dampened.

  “Dear God, woman, you are a danger to yourself and others,” he breathed, not taking his eyes from her. “Come on.”

  And before Beth could do anything, before she could cry out, argue, exclaim, or tell him precisely what he could do with his bad manners—

  His hand was on her arm. His fingers curled around her wrist and he was pulling her. Beth was not strong enough to stop him, unable to fight against him, her mind so tired she could barely think as it was—

  They were standing outside the inn.

  Beth wrenched her wrist from his grip. “How dare you!”

  “How dare I? How dare you!” said the man with a laugh.

  They had fallen into English now. So much easier to shout in, Beth could not help but think. It was colder here, a light breeze chilling the hot rage threatening to overspill.

  Perhaps it still would. The nerve of the man, laying a hand on her and pulling her away from where she needed to go! Did he not see she had no wish to converse with him? Had she not made it expressly clear—

  “You could thank me, you know.”

  Beth’s eyes widened. “Thank you?”

  What on earth did the man, whoever he was, think he was doing? There was a smug sort of satisfaction on his face that Beth instantly loathed. One of those men who assumed whatever they did was right, that they could never be criticized for anything. A man, in fact.

  Well, she’d had enough of that sort of treatment in London, Beth thought bitterly. She wasn’t going to permit anyone to treat her like that here. France, England, it was all the same.

  Men!

  “And what if,” Beth said icily, “there was someone in there who could help me? Did you think of that, for even one second?”

  The man’s laugh was grating. “What, you think someone in there could—woman, you’re in France! Don’t you know there’s a war on?”

  Beth swallowed hard as the pain of Matthew’s disappearance rose in her chest. The pain was almost as bad as the first time she and Nancy had realized it. No letters, no news for weeks, and then that note from his captain. Injured. Missing. Presumed dead.

  Well, no Mead woman was going to permit their brother to gad about France being injured. Not a chance in hell. Beth rather wished she could say the sentence aloud, but her breeding forbade it.

  Perhaps once.

  “There is not a chance in hell,” Beth said, relishing the word, “that I will thank you, or leave here without speaking to—”

  “You cannot be serious!”

  He grabbed hold of her as she tried to walk past him back to the inn.

  Beth shook him off, truly angry now. That was what the heat flaring in her stomach was, wasn’t it? “What is your name, sir?”

  The man hesitated, so Beth knew for a fact that when he spoke, the name would be a lie. Well, she should not have expected much better.

  “Hugh,” he said eventually. “Hugh Shardlow.”

  Beth forced a grimace of a smile. “There, you are introduced; you may go on your way now.”

  For a second time, she attempted to walk past him and toward the inn, and for a second time, she was rebuffed—this time by Mr. Shardlow stepping into her path.

  “You should be grateful,” he said in an irritatingly calm tone.

  Beth tried to take a deep breath before she replied, but it was impossible. “Grateful? Grateful to you? I cannot comprehend what you think I should be grateful for!”

  “Oh, I don’t know, preventing you from being attacked by that man,” said Mr. Shardlow easily. “I don’t know your name, by the way.”

  Beth shot a glare up at his smug, irritating face. “And it will stay that way. For goodness sake, I have to go in there and—”

  “Do you have a death wish?” interrupted the idiot. He pointed at the inn. “You would have to be mad to go back in there! You, a woman, an English woman—alone?”

  It was all true, but that did not mean Beth had to like it. In fact, she rather disliked it, almost as much as she disliked him. It was most infuriating, the fact that she could not go anywhere she wished without comment or speculation. Indeed, if she had entered a similar inn in England, the ton would have the gossip before the next Almack’s.

  Something Nancy would not thank her for.

  She was tired—and not just in body. Tired of people telling her what she could do and couldn’t do. Tired of society’s rules keeping her in a place she did not want to be. Tired of embroidery, and playing the piano, and not being allowed to do anything interesting at all.