“Miss Mead,” Beth cut across with a frown.

  No one called her Elizabeth. Not even her parents when they had lived.

  “Whatever,” said Mr. Shardlow, waving a hand as though her name was of no import. “My point is, you need me as much as I need you. Now, I said I would help you find your brother. Fine. But you need to give me more information than a presumed location. Where have you looked? Did you write to his officer? Have you tried the hospitals?”

  Beth had to admit—and she never would—she was impressed. That was more like it.

  It took ten minutes to recount the sorry travails she had made over the last two weeks. Alone, with excellent French but no real idea what she was doing, Beth had found it difficult to make any progress, save to confirm what she and Nancy had already known. Matthew was not with his regiment, and no one seemed to know where he was.

  And to his credit, Mr. Shardlow listened patiently and without interrupting. There was nothing that irritated Beth more than a man who wouldn’t let her finish a sentence.

  “—which brings me to now,” she said, shoulders slumping. “Unsure what’s next.”

  It was mortifying to confess, but there was no point in hiding it. Her search for Matthew, which she had been convinced would last only a few days before she triumphantly discovered him, had gone on several times that length, and with no success.

  Mr. Shardlow nodded sagely. “Well, there’s only one thing I don’t really understand.”

  Beth scraped the last of her porridge from the bowl. “And that is…?”

  “Why you are going to all of this trouble in the first place.”

  She dropped her spoon. “Why I am…”

  The man was looking quite calm, as though what he had just asked was a valid question. Why she was looking for Matthew in the first place? Had the man no heart?

  “You…well, you astonish me,” Beth managed, lungs tight at the mere thought of not searching for her brother. “He is my brother, my family.”

  Mr. Shardlow nodded, then prompted, “And?”

  “And?” Beth repeated.

  How did one explain how important a sibling was? It was not something that ever had to be explained, as far as she was concerned. One cared about one’s family because they were your family. Without them, you were less, somehow. They completed you. They told you who you were, and you mattered to them just as much as they mattered to you.

  Beth examined the man carefully. He did not seem to be jesting. There was no teasing air in his eye, and she was certain if he wanted to, he would. Did he really not understand?

  “Family is…everything,” Beth managed to say. “Without them, I am nothing.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Shardlow.

  Her curiosity rose. What on earth had happened to this man, who appeared to be so brash and confident that he could not understand the desire to find a missing sibling?

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, family always lets you down,” Mr. Shardlow said curtly. “You may find yourself disappointed. This brother of yours may not want to be found.”

  Beth’s mouth fell open. “You—you think he has run away!”

  He shrugged. “Plenty of men do it.”

  “Like you, for example?” she retorted.

  It was a cheap shot, but it landed. Beth saw Mr. Shardlow wince, his gaze drop for a moment to his hands, pain etched across his face. The sense of satisfaction she had expected to feel didn’t arrive. Instead, Beth only felt guilty. Something must have happened to this Mr. Hugh Shardlow for him to be so cynical.

  “I didn’t mean,” she said awkwardly. “I mean, it’s just—”

  “I know what you meant,” Mr. Shardlow said shortly with a cold smile. “Well, you’d be right. My family…I don’t have much of one. I’m here, and you know my price for my help.”

  Beth swallowed. “I do.”

  “In that case,” he said quietly, “let’s get moving.”

  Chapter Five

  “Well, I’m exhausted,” said Hugh, dropping into a chair as his back ached. “Time for food.”

  “Is that all you can think about, food?” asked Miss Mead sharply as she sat opposite in the brightly lit inn they had discovered, to their relief, just off the main road.

  “When I am hungry, yes,” Hugh pointed out with a sigh.

  It had been a frustrating day. Hours they had spent heading toward a town he’d suggested, stopping off regularly to ask locals if they had seen anyone who in any way matched the description Miss Mead gave of her brother.

  “Yes, an Englishman…dark hair…taller than—taller than me? Yes, taller than me. He might have been in uniform, he might…no? No, thank you, have a good day…”

  Hugh rubbed at his sore shoulder. He couldn’t recall the last time he had walked so far in one day. Walking! Him! A duke of his bloodline should be on a horse!

  But he had to accept Miss Mead’s purse, though weighty, wouldn’t stretch forever.

  They had been fortunate to find an inn before the light of the day had truly gone. That was the trouble with this shifting time of the season. Light faded so swiftly, you could be forgiven for thinking God had just snuffed it out.

  Hugh glanced up. Miss Mead had caught the eye of a serving maid and held up two fingers. Food would be on its way, which was a small relief. Now that his stomach had started to receive regular meals again, it was putting up an awful fuss if it didn’t.

  “Well, I suppose that’s that,” said Miss Mead dully.

  Hugh didn’t understand. He hadn’t said anything, what could she possibly mean?

  Then hope sprang in his heart. She had seen the error of her ways, realized it was absolutely impossible to find a man in France. Particularly if he didn’t want to be found. Now Hugh was hardly one to cast aspersions, but in his experience, men who didn’t return from war were either killed or did not want to return. Neither answer was pleasant.

  So had Miss Mead realized that also after another long and fruitless day of searching, and decided to do what he wanted: take them back to England?

  “That’s that?” Hugh repeated, sitting up straighter.

  She nodded sadly. “We may have to start considering paying bribes.”

  Bribes? Bribes?

  “What on earth makes you think that?” Hugh asked sharply as two plates covered in roast chicken and a plethora of vegetables were brought over.

  Oh, yes, this was more like it! This inn was cleaner too; it didn’t stick like the one they had breakfasted in. The rooms would probably be better as well. To sleep in a comfortable bed…

  Miss Mead was still talking, but all Hugh knew was that he wanted to curl into bed and go to sleep. When was the last time he had slept in an actual bed?

  He would never complain about his mattress at home ever again. His butler had always said he required luxury, but this time in France had almost certainly cured him of that.

  His argument had been that, as a man who struggled to get to sleep—and so consequentially struggled to get up in the morning—he needed luxury. It was something his father had seen as further evidence of his sloth. Hugh had argued, as a child and grown man, that if he was able to fall asleep at a reasonable time, he wouldn’t have to sleep in until midday.

  He had never won that argument.

  “—if they do know something but are keeping it to themselves for fear of reprisals, it is not too much to assume that a little coin may grease their palms,” Miss Mead finished.

  Hugh grinned, he couldn’t help himself. “Grease their palms?”

  She flushed. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It just sounds like you’ve read a few adventure stories,” he pointed out, picking up a fork in eager anticipation.

  Miss Mead was still pink. “And so what if I have?”

  “Well, the real world isn’t like an adventure story.”

  Why had he spoken like that? Why, all day, had he started to hope it would be his conversation with a French person which led them to this brother of hers?

  It was ridiculous. Foolish. He had never cared what a woman thought of him in his life, and had been quite happy to stay that way. So why did impressing Miss Elizabeth Mead suddenly feel so…important?

  “You speak as though you have had plenty of adventures yourself,” she said quietly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Hugh said expansively, as though he certainly could, but was choosing not to.

  Miss Mead’s gaze flickered over him, just for a moment then returned to her food.

  Hugh’s chest deflated. Oh. Well, he had hoped for more than that. If the Duke of Martock had said such a thing at a dining table in London, he would have been inundated with cries and pleas to tell the whole scandalous story.

  Miss Mead had looked at him as though he was a rather interesting beetle, and then continued on with her meal.

  “I mean,” Hugh started again, trying to fill his tone with grandeur. “I’ve had some sticky situations of my own in France, you know. Moments when I thought things could end very differently, oh my, yes indeed. But, of course, I was able to extricate myself in time.”

  He leaned back. Now there was surely not a person alive who would not ask—

  “How pleasant for you,” Miss Mead said blankly. “And if that had occurred, who from England would have traversed the Channel in search of you?”

  Hugh opened his mouth, thought for a moment then closed it again.

  Blast the woman. She had to take the wind from his sails.

  Because she knew full well there was no one. He had been far too unguarded that morning about his lack of family. Now that he came to think of it, it was rather pathetic that in the six months he had been here, no one had come looking for him.

  No friends. No servants. Not even creditors.

  Goodness, that was depressing.

  Well, there was always a chance this Miss Mead may start to care for him…

  Hugh immediately tried to push aside the image of Miss Elizabeth Mead sitting by his bedside, weeping over his inert body, calling out his name. He was being ridiculous. That was a scene more appropriate for the stage, not real life.

  “Someone would look for me, I am sure,” he said.

  But Miss Mead wasn’t listening. She had returned to her meal.

  Hugh took the chance, the moment afforded, to take a closer look. This Miss Mead had kept up with him all day, something he had not expected, without complaining once. Her feet must ache—his certainly did—yet she made no comment on it.

  She was something different. Special, almost.

  He had never met a woman like her. Miss Mead had coerced, or at the very least, argued him into helping her for what would end up being a few pounds. Pounds he had in abundance in England. If not for the situation, he was far more likely to give her money than the other way around.

  Hugh swallowed. It was all very well to agree to fleece a woman of a few coins to get back to England. He hadn’t really thought, last night when they had made their bargain, about the practicality of actually spending all that time with her.

  He rather enjoyed it. No, hated it. It was difficult to make up his mind. Every moment shifted from her smiles to her eye rolls when he did something she did not like.

  “You think I am foolish for such an errand, don’t you?” Miss Mead said unexpectedly.

  Hugh swallowed. “Well…”

  Well, not entirely.

  But essentially, yes. She wanted to find her brother, and she needed a chaperone. He would provide that, and be fed in the meantime. After a month, they would depart together for England on her coin. But where was this brother? Did he actually wish to be found? Or was it a ruse? Was in fact this Miss Mead the man’s wife, determined to bring him home?

  Oh, Miss Mead had chattered on about this brother of hers yesterday, but he had been far more interested in the three bowls of stew the innkeeper had brought him to pay much attention. Besides, when was the last time he had truly paid attention to a woman? To anyone?

  He was the Duke of Martock. The Duke of Martock didn’t listen to—

  “Are you listening to me?” said Miss Mead with a sharp look.

  Hugh tried to smile. “Always, Miss Mead.”

  She frowned, as though desperately attempting to be offended by his words, but evidently could not. “How long have you been in France, Mr. Shardlow?”

  Hugh winced, though tried desperately to hide the movement. It wouldn’t do, after all, for Miss Mead to see just how discomforting it was to be addressed in that informal manner.

  Chatter rose around them, more evening diners and drinkers pouring into the place. It was popular. Their conversation would be hidden under the noise.

  He tried to smile. “Four months.”

  Now, why had he lied? He had been in France six months, not four. But that was his way, wasn’t it? Always lie, always cheat. His father’s way. The way of the Martocks. No wonder they had almost no standing in society.

  “I thought you said the other night six months,” Miss Mead said shrewdly. “You aren’t lying to me, Mr. Shardlow? For I tell you now, I shall take a very dim view of that.”

  Hugh glared.

  This was insupportable! When was the last time a single person had spoken to him like that? With no manners, no grace, no curtseys or bows, no concern for him…

  And that was when Hugh tried, desperately, to unclench his jaw.

  Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? He was far too accustomed to being bowed and scraped to, having every one of his wishes obeyed. It was a rather rude awakening to discover, as he was doing right now, that his presence alone was insufficient to draw respect.

  Hugh pushed aside the thought. No, that couldn’t be it. It was her. Miss Mead.

  “And you have told me the entire truth, have you?” he challenged. “You haven’t hidden anything from me? Not revealed anything which may be to your detriment?”

  He could see the answer plain on her face. A flush, most becoming, splashed across Miss Mead’s face. Her dark eyes were elevated by the contrast.

  She had lied about something.

  Only then did he permit himself a small smile. Well, that was interesting. Miss Mead may act holier than thou, but she was fallible, just as he was.

  “In that case, I suggest we keep our secrets to ourselves and do not attempt to pry into the lives of others,” Hugh said sweetly.

  “It’s not a lie—I haven’t lied, not directly,” Miss Mead said hastily.

  Hugh’s stomach lurched. Why did it sound so…so forbidden when she spoke like that? Why did he react to her in such a way that made it difficult to concentrate?

  Focus, man!

  “I merely meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” said Miss Mead quietly. Now her eyes were focused on his, as though she had decided to ignore his pointed remarks and attempt to remain calm. How could she remain calm when his heart had just painfully skipped a beat?

  Hugh raised his hands. “Peace.”

  She nodded, glanced down, and returned to her meal.

  Hugh picked up his fork but found it difficult to concentrate on the meal at hand. Oh, it was delicious: well cooked, well-seasoned, and well-earned after such a tiring and monotonous day. But he could not settle.

  Perhaps it was the new attire. The clothes Miss Mead had procured were…French. Hugh picked at the waistcoat with barely concealed disgust. It was bad enough that he was stuck here in the first place—now he had to go about dressed as a Frenchman?

  The trouble was, she was right—his old clothes had been the ones he came over from England in, and that had been six months ago. Spending six months in the same clothes, even if the brothels he had visited had a rather spectacular laundry service, had been a tad wearying.

  When Hugh had changed, he had left his old clothes on the bed, the only connection he had to the life he had led in England. In a strange way, it was freeing. Leaving it all behind.

  The only thing he pulled from his old breeches pocket was the one personal item he still owned. His tinderbox.

  “Well, I am exhausted.”

  Hugh looked up. He had barely noticed his hand had moved into his pocket, playing with the tinderbox secreted in there. “I beg your pardon?”

  Miss Mead was smiling. “You beg my pardon? I have to say it is pleasant to see your manners remain unruffled, no matter where you are.”

  Hugh returned her smile painfully. That was the breeding of a duke, of course. Very hard to kick those habits.

  “I have taken two bedchambers, numbers three and four,” Miss Mead continued, pointing to a staircase in one corner. “I’ll be retiring now. We’ll leave early in the morning.”

  Hugh nodded. “Without a damp wake up call, if you don’t mind.”

  “Then you had better make sure you are up with the sun,” she shot back with a grin as she rose. “Good evening, Mr. Shardlow.”

  For some reason, Hugh’s throat went dry. “Good evening, Miss Mead.”

  Dear God, she was beautiful. And as he watched her meander to the stairs around the tables, Hugh realized that he was not the only one who thought so.

  A pair of men near the bar was watching her closely, muttering. With a lurch in Hugh’s stomach that had nothing to do with his food, he saw them rise slowly as Miss Mead started up the stairs. They made for the staircase and started to follow her.

  Hugh groaned. If he hadn’t noticed, he could have finished his meal in peace and then gone to bed with a clear conscience. As it was…

  He rose so swiftly his chair fell to the floor, but Hugh paid it no heed. He stepped across the room swiftly, spotting the two men just ahead of him when he reached the corridor. Miss Mead had not yet entered her room. She was standing by the door.

  Hugh shook his head ruefully. Loitering. The woman was a walking danger to herself!

  Well, there was only one thing to do, and she wouldn’t like it.

  Stepping forward briskly and aggressively pushing past the two men who did not have Miss Mead’s best interests at heart, Hugh swaggered as though he had drunk two or three bottles of wine. It did not take much imagination.