No, she’d had enough of that with her sister. Even Nancy’s marriage hadn’t improved things. Oh, Byron wasn’t too bad, she supposed. He had saved her life, which put him slightly in her favor.

  But still—the rules!

  Mr. Shardlow evidently believed he had somehow convinced her with the power of his wit, for a lazy smile slid across his face. “There, I knew you would see reason eventually. All women do when a man is able to explain things to them.”

  And the fire Beth had always hidden and never permitted to show, the anger she had been forced to carry for so long, the fear for her brother, the rage that she had been forbidden to do anything to help him, the exhaustion she felt in her very bones…

  All combined and rose, sparking hot in her chest.

  What she was about to do was probably a bad idea. No. Beth knew it was a terrible idea.

  But as she stood here in the cold French night, knowing that somewhere out there was her brother, injured and alone, Beth knew there was little she wouldn’t do to find him. Not after searching for so long.

  She met Mr. Shardlow’s eyes and stepped closer to him. Just a step, that was all that was needed; he was already so close. Beth was quite tall for a lady, but even she had to lean up on her tiptoes to attempt to look him in the eye.

  “Mr. Shardlow,” Beth said sweetly.

  The man smiled, utterly ignorant of what she was about to say. “I still don’t know your—”

  “If you want to try to stop me, and I think you probably still do, well, that would be a mistake,” Beth said, continuing in her sweetest tone as she smiled into the astonished man’s eyes. “Because I am going back to that inn, and I will be continuing with my inquiries. And your pigheaded attempt to impress me has not worked, and—”

  “Hang on, there!”

  “And I have no wish to give you my name, listen to your advice, or heed you in any way,” Beth continued, adoring the sense of power rushing through her as she gazed deeply into the man’s blue eyes. Handsome eyes. No, she mustn’t get distracted. “If you want to stop me, you’ll have to lay a hand on me as I scream bloody murder, and you know? I don’t think you’ve got the nerve. Have you?”

  She held his gaze. It was not something she had expected to be in her power, but now she was so close, she realized it was easy. Just look a man in the eye boldly. Why had she never done it before?

  Perhaps because it made a strange heat flow through her. Perhaps because her breathing was ragged, her shoulders shaking with the tension roaring through her.

  Perhaps, and Beth was not entirely sure whether she had dreamed it, but perhaps because she might have seen a flicker of desire there in Mr. Shardlow’s eyes. It was there one moment and gone the next, and maybe she had dreamed it—

  Mr. Shardlow sighed, shaking his head as he stepped back and to the side. “You really want to go in there? The French inn equivalent of a deathtrap?”

  For just a moment, Beth hesitated. It could not be as bad as all that, surely. She had spent almost two weeks venturing into such places after all, and she had come through that alive and in one piece. Mostly.

  She held her chin high as she said, “Of course.”

  Mr. Shardlow muttered something which could have been a French curse under his breath, then shook his head irritably. “Well, it’s your funeral.”

  And he stomped away into the night.

  Beth watched him go with a strange sort of sinking feeling in her stomach. He was a most infuriating man, it was true, and she would not have permitted him to stop her.

  But still. There was something about him.

  Chapter Three

  September 31, 1810

  Hugh had not slept well. He had to assume most people wouldn’t if they’d bedded down in a hedgerow.

  As his bleary eyes took in the sight of the inn, he wondered if any other gentleman had managed to fall so far from grace. The Duke of Martock, sleeping in a hedge? A French hedge, no less?

  No wonder his father had been so disappointed in him, if he had foreseen this.

  Rubbing weary eyes with a hand, Hugh headed toward the inn with only one thing on his mind. Well. Two.

  First, he would have to debase himself and offer to complete some task for food. He couldn’t go another day like this with no sustenance. He would find himself not only sleeping in a hedgerow but collapsing under one, unable to keep his feet moving.

  And second, he must do his utmost to ensure no one ever found out about this.

  The Duke of Martock, work? Use his hands, for goodness sake?

  Oh, it was degrading, Hugh thought as he pushed open the door and breathed in the sticky fumes of spilled ale.

  He would have to hope the innkeeper would not ask him to clean the place. There appeared to be a fair few people who had spent the night sleeping in their chairs. Even in dark corners, there were people asleep with their heads tipped back, snoring the day away as they—

  Hugh stopped dead in his tracks. No. It couldn’t be. He was dreaming.

  But even after he had raised a hand to his face to rub his eyes once more, blinking several times as though that would provide the clarity he needed, he still saw the same image which had so shocked him mere moments ago.

  That woman. The woman from last night—the one he had half thought was a dream. So alluring were those lips when she’d been arguing with him.

  “Impossible,” Hugh breathed.

  As though her ears were finely tuned to his voice, the woman glanced up—and they flashed such a look of cold fury he almost took a step back.

  No one had ever looked at him like that before. No woman, certainly. Hugh rarely liked using the title or the name Martock, but when it came to many women, it was highly convenient.

  There were few women in London who would not lift a skirt for a Martock.

  Revulsion rushed through Hugh at the thought. He wasn’t that person any more, he told himself firmly. In a way, he’d never been that person to begin with…

  But whether or not he used the name, Hugh knew his good looks and relative charm always got his own way, woman or man. He had only survived the last few weeks here in France because of them. Yet this woman could look at him with such…such disdain!

  Despite himself, Hugh found his feet meandering toward her. Which was foolish. One only had to take a cursory look at her to see Miss Hoity Toity had no desire to speak to him.

  Which didn’t explain why he sat at her table.

  “You,” he said.

  You? Hugh cringed inwardly at the foolishness. Could he not think of something better than that?

  The woman evidently agreed with his unspoken criticism. At least, she raised an eyebrow and said nothing, which was probably all he deserved.

  Still, Hugh could not help but try again. There was something about this woman, something that enticed him. Probably the simple fact that she was the first English person he had encountered in weeks, he tried to tell himself. Nothing more impressive than that.

  “I thought you’d be gone,” he said conversationally, as though they were friends.

  Friends! Him, with a woman?

  “Your opinion does not interest me,” the woman said icily.

  Hugh could not help but snap, “What is your name? It seems ridiculous to be arguing with a woman who has no name.”

  For a moment, he thought she would retort in kind. That she had no wish to speak with him was evident. That she did not owe him the courtesy of her name was also true.

  But Hugh found himself hoping desperately she would give him that small favor. Why, he could not tell.

  Well, part of him could. Oh, this was ridiculous—it was only because he hadn’t bedded someone in a month that he—

  “My name is Elizabeth Mead,” she said coldly. “You may call me Miss Mead.”

  Hugh nodded, though why, he also could not tell.

  Elizabeth Mead. The name did not ring any bells, and the surname was unfamiliar. Not part of society then, the true ton, or he would have heard of her.

  No, wait. There was something. Was there not a disaster ten years ago or so? A Mead who lost his fortune? Hugh was almost sure—

  “And now that you know my name, you can go away,” said Miss Mead, far more sugary than her words suggested. “Good day, Mr. Shardlow.”

  Hugh blinked. Then he remembered he’d been fool enough to give her his true name…at least, part of it. She still had no idea he was a duke.

  Which was precisely how things were going to stay, he told himself firmly. Yes, she would probably fawn over him if she knew she was talking to the Duke of Martock. Yes, she would probably give into his attentions and allow him to—

  But that wasn’t why he was here, Hugh recollected. He was here to give her some advice, advice he would be a cad not to give.

  “You are in danger here, you know, Miss Mead,” Hugh said quietly, trying to imbue his words with a little gentle reproof.

  It did not work. “And I thank you for your opinion, Mr. Shardlow, however unwarranted and unwelcome it is,” Miss Mead said quietly. “Good day, Mr. Shardlow.”

  This woman! Hugh did not understand it—he had never met anyone so persistent, so determined to see ill of him. Well, that wasn’t quite true. But she didn’t know who he was, yet she still treated him like those who did!

  Which suggested—his stomach twisted painfully—there was something about him that said he was a rotten egg, even if they did not know he was a Martock. A sobering thought.

  “What are you doing here?” Hugh persisted.

  It was quite clear Miss Mead wished him to leave, and perhaps that was why she finally answered a straight question. Perhaps she believed he would then depart.

  “I am here seeking—I am looking for someone,” she said stiffly.

  And Hugh’s stomach sank. Of course she was.

  He had heard of this. He had believed it merely an old wives’ tale when in London; it had seemed so fantastical. Surely no woman would be idiotic enough to come to France looking for a lover gone missing in the war!

  Yet there were plenty of stories. That was all he had thought them, stories.

  Until now. Until he was facing a woman with bold eyes and raven curls searching for her lover in France, to no avail.

  Hugh could not explain the jealousy. Yes, she was pretty, and yes, her fiery company was most welcome after so many weeks alone without any good conversation.

  But that did not explain the almost territorial desire rushing through him as he examined her, Miss Mead’s cheeks flushing at his attention. It didn’t explain why he was so jealous of this man she had not named and he had never met. He would have a prior claim to her affections—it was foolish of him to feel so…so angry.

  Yet Hugh wished to goodness the man could appear, tell this Miss Mead he no longer had any affection for her, and go away. Leaving her to him…

  “You are affronted.”

  “Yes,” Hugh said without thinking, then hastily added, “I mean, not because you are looking for him.”

  Miss Mead examined him coolly, her dark eyes seeming to grow deeper with each passing moment. “You judge me then, for coming alone.”

  In truth, he did. It was a brave—or reckless—thing to do. France was no place for a lady at the best of times, and to come during a war, without protection, without even a servant?

  It was madness!

  Whoever had permitted her to do such a thing was playing with fire, Hugh was certain.

  And it did not halt the lurch of jealousy making it most difficult to concentrate. He wanted to pull Miss Mead into his arms, tell her this man wasn’t coming, that she should accept his attentions…

  Hugh swallowed. Perhaps he was the foolish one. He had never been so overtaken by a woman like this before. Parts of him had leapt to attention in the presence of a fine woman, yes, but not his heart.

  “And what if you do not find him?” he found himself asking.

  Miss Mead’s eyes flashed. “I will find him.”

  Hugh almost smiled. There was such impulsiveness about her. She had not hesitated, even for a moment, to consider she may be unsuccessful. A special type of woman indeed.

  The inn door opened and men came in. Some of them Hugh recognized from last night. Perhaps that was what she was hoping; that her lover, perhaps even her betrothed, had been soaking himself in French ale rather than coming back to her. Was that it?

  “You don’t know—”

  “I know my brother,” Miss Mead said fiercely. “And I know myself. I know what I will do to find him, and I assure you, Mr. Shardlow, I will find him.”

  Hugh stared at the pink dots which had appeared on Miss Mead’s cheeks as some of his envy started to melt away.

  Brother. Ah. Well, that was different.

  It was still astonishing that any woman would venture this far into French territory—that she would come to France at all. But at least his pride had been softened by the revelation it was not a lover but a brother she sought.

  Miss Mead bit her lip. “I will find him.”

  It was the first hint of uncertainty she had revealed, and Hugh felt a rush of sympathy.

  Oh, she was still being ridiculous. She should make for Calais and take the first boat home.

  Still, he could not help but feel for her. Sibling ties were evidently strong. Not that he knew much about it—he had no siblings, and few friends. Being a Martock made that difficult.

  Hugh flinched as the memory of the last thing his father had ever said to him rang in his ears. No matter how much he attempted to forget it, he would never be free. Never.

  “You are a Martock, my boy, and that means you’ll never be accepted—you’ll never be one of them! Society may court you for your title, but you’re a Martock and they are not to be trusted. You are not to be trusted.”

  Hugh swallowed, hoping Miss Mead hadn’t noticed the sudden movement. “Your brother.”

  She gave a stiff nod. “I will find him.”

  “I never said you wouldn’t,” Hugh said fairly, leaning back in his chair.

  Her flush deepened. “I know. I just—”

  “Want to find him, yes, I rather got that.”

  Well, well. What a woman. Reckless, bold, brave to the point of idiocy, and beautiful.

  Damn. If only they had met at Almack’s—or better, at a gaming hell where he would not have had to worry about asking her father’s permission to do as much as look at her. No, he would have been able to pull her into his arms and—

  “It’s my responsibility to find him, and I will,” Miss Mead was saying.

  Hugh could not help but ask, “But would not another brother be a more suitable choice?”

  She glared, and then her gaze softened. “I have no other brother. Just a sister, who is several years older than me, and married.”

  And probably buried in screaming babies, Hugh thought privately. So that would leave the younger Miss Mead. Fascinating.

  “You’re horrified, aren’t you?” Miss Mead said conversationally, holding his gaze boldly.

  Hugh hesitated before responding. He was still growing accustomed to the unhindered way Frenchmen looked at him. No Englishman, knowing his title, would be so unseemly as to look him straight in the eye—but the peasants here had no idea.

  Neither did Miss Mead.

  “I am a little,” he admitted. “But I admire you. You are a brave woman.”

  The flush on her cheeks increased as Miss Mead dropped her gaze to her hands. “I believe I am rather rash, but I thank you.”

  It was perhaps the most pleasant exchange they had shared, and Hugh leaned forward. Here was a woman he could appreciate. And any woman he could stomach for more than five minutes together was worth knowing.

  “Miss Mead, tell me—”

  But Hugh’s words were cut off by the innkeeper.

  “There y’go, mademoiselle!”

  Hugh’s mouth started to water. It was impossible for it not to. The delicious scent wafting up from the stew the man had just placed on the table before him was absolutely exquisite.

  Or, it wasn’t. It was hard to tell when you haven’t eaten in days.

  But the innkeeper did not place the spoon before him. He placed it before Miss Mead. “That’ll be a sou, thank you.”

  “Of course,” said Miss Mead with a brief smile. “Here…”

  Hugh watched as she revealed on a sleeve a coin purse, carefully tied at her wrist. Ah, that would explain why she’d been so upset at him grabbing her wrist yesterday when—

  He almost allowed his mouth to fall open, but he just about managed to hold it together. He was forced to tighten his jaw, though, as Miss Mead opened up the coin purse to reveal not only several gold livres, but what appeared to be a few curled English bank notes.

  She took out a sou. “There you go.”

  The innkeeper received it, bowed, and returned to the bar without a word.

  As well he might, Hugh thought darkly. Dear lord, the woman was walking about the place with a small fortune attached to her wrist! Did she have any idea how dangerous—?

  “I’m starving,” Miss Mead stated, picking up the spoon and taking a mouthful. “What were you saying? Mr. Shardlow?”

  Hugh started. He had been so distracted by the stew, then the money, that he could hardly recall what he had been saying. Something nonsensical, he’d be bound.

  And he had no interest in attempting to resurrect it from his memory either. Not now that a plan was forming—a plan that his father would have approved of, Hugh thought darkly.

  That should be enough to tell him it was a terrible plan indeed, but what other choice did he have? No choice at all.

  No, it was make this offer or start learning how to peel potatoes, Hugh thought with a sigh. He’d probably lose a thumb in the process.

  “Miss Mead, I have a proposition for you,” he began.

  Miss Mead looked up sharply. “Have I not made it clear that—?”

  “Yes, yes, you want to find your brother,” Hugh said hastily, raising a hand to quiet her. “And I am not saying you should not.”

  Her wary expression was well merited. “Well?”

  Hugh swallowed. He had to pitch this precisely right, else she would take fright and demand he leave her. And he probably would. He had a nasty feeling Miss Mead could make him do near anything.