He did not pause, but flipped his hand in the air impatiently. “Terminology, Miss Caulfield. Terminology.”

Chapter 8

The Dinner

Arabella did not hide. The festival filled the streets of Saint-Nazaire with music, and delicious aromas wafted to her open window where she stared down at the stable in which she had been scandalously immodest the night before and at the beach upon which she had been even more immodest.

Tucking the coins he would not accept back into her pocket, she donned her cloak and left the inn. Vendors were everywhere, calling their wares—melons, cherries, pâtés, cheeses, nuts, olives. The warm air smelled of flowers and roasted meat and garlic as she had only ever smelled in London houses that boasted French chefs, more intriguing and considerably better than anything she had come across in weeks, except one confusing ship captain who smelled of the sea and yet of whom she could not seem to get enough.

The festival was far more than a regular market, rather like the Gypsy fairs she and her sisters used to wander about during the summers when they were girls. A man dressed in purple and yellow did tricks with cards and a hat, a trio of acrobats tumbled about the street, and another man swallowed an entire sword as delighted bystanders watched. People of all sorts looked on: peasants by their dress, prosperous looking shopkeepers, and a handful of gentry. There were fiddle players and pipers and a drum played by a lanky boy in blue trousers and coat with buttons polished for the occasion.

“That one no doubt drummed Napoleon’s troops on to battle.” The Earl of Bedwyr’s smooth voice turned her around.

“Good day, my lord.” She curtsied.

He smiled slightly. At a booth nearby, Captain Masinter flirted with a shop mistress whose cheeks were turning brilliantly red.

Arabella scanned the crowd.

“He isn’t here,” the earl said, twirling his gold watch fob. It glittered in the sunshine like the gold stripes on his waistcoat and the waves of his hair. “He is on his ship doing God knows what to prepare for putting it in the hands of his lieutenant. But he does not care for these sorts of gatherings anyway.” He gestured to the festive crowd around them. “Not anymore, at least.” He lifted a gloved hand and laid his forefinger upon his handsomely formed cheek so that it pointed to his right eye. “A man of action does not like to be surprised.”

She should turn the subject. She should not encourage her curiosity.

“You and he are well acquainted, it seems,” she said instead. “The scar is not old. Did he suffer the injury during the war?”

The earl’s brow lifted. “Why don’t you ask him yourself, my dear?”

Because she was afraid to know more of him. She was afraid that the more she knew of him the more she would want him to kiss her.

She remained silent.

“Ah,” the earl murmured. “She is as unforthcoming with him as he is with her, it seems. Interesting.” He took her hand and placed it upon his forearm. “He lost the eye in a quarrel six months ago, Miss Caulfield.” He began to move along with the crowd, drawing her with him. “Dreadful spat. Sword point. Nasty business, duels, of course.”

“A duel? But dueling is illegal.”

He patted her hand. “Only if one is caught, my dear.”

“Over what was the duel fought?”

“A gentleman cannot say.”

Her stomach soured. “A woman.”

“A girl, rather. Not precisely as you imagine it,” he said quietly, “though naturally I do not presume to suggest you know anything about such sordid matters. Or not sordid, actually, as the case was in the end.”

“Lord Bedwyr, you are speaking in riddles. To confuse me, I guess.”

“It is a sticky business, Miss Caulfield,” he said, “admitting to having cut out one’s friend’s eye, you know. You cannot expect me to be entirely rational about it.”

She withdrew her hand. “You blinded him? Over a girl?”

“He accused me of a rather nasty vice,” he said without evasion now. “While I freely admit to being an aficionado of any number of sins, that is decidedly not one of them.” He drew her arm through his again. “He had some reason to leap to that particular conclusion, though, so I forgave him in the end.”

“After wounding him.”

“That does tend to happen when one fights with swords. But it is well behind us now.” He smiled. “I suggest you put it behind you as well, forgive the poor fellow for his wrong-mindedness and me for my pride that allowed him to goad me. Let us instead enjoy this charming festival.”

“The procession from the church to the dock begins at noon.” Captain Masinter approached behind them, a paper cone of spiced nuts in one hand, a glass of ale in the other. “Apparently they carry Saint Louis through the streets on a palette for a bit before they send him out to sea on a boat. Off to the crusades anew, poor old chap. Splendid stuff, I say.” He offered her a nut.

“Never too highbrow for amusements intended for the masses, are you, Anthony?” The earl grinned at her.

Between a pasty seller’s booth and a cluster of people watching a marionette show peeked the window of a dress shop.

“My lord. Captain. I must visit a shop just here.” She nodded good-bye and moved away.

“I should be glad to accompany you,” the earl said, and gestured for her to precede him. “I count myself something of an expert in fashion.”

Captain Masinter grinned. “I’ll wait out here.” He jerked his chin toward the marionette stage. “Take in a show and all that.” A buxom woman brushed by his sleeve and he turned and followed her without another glance at the marionettes.

The shop was filled with silks, cottons, velvets, and wools, all in beautiful colors. The shopkeeper rustled in, a petite woman in a sublimely fashionable ensemble of pale violet muslin. A flicker of her lashes at the earl’s elegant clothes and another at Arabella’s plain gown and travel-worn cloak, and her swift eyes went perfectly neutral.

“Monsieur, how may I assist you?” she said in English colored with a soft French accent.

“It is rather the lady who is in need of assistance, of course. I am only here on her sufferance.” He wandered past a case of laces to a chair and ensconced himself in it elegantly.

Arabella’s eyes went first to a bolt of luxurious velvet the color of winter, then to a mannequin garbed in a glorious gown of blue silk. It was layered with overskirts of gossamer tulle embroidered with sequins of silver, black, and gold that almost seemed like butterfly wings, light and sparkling, as though the lady who wore it might take flight if she wished.

The modiste’s red lips curved upward. She looked to Lord Bedwyr.

Arabella’s cheeks heated. But of course this woman assumed the worst of her. She was not the first. Only a harlot would bequeath such hair to her daughter and then abandon her children as your mother did. Only a harlot. A woman who took money from a man for giving him pleasure.

The coins burned in Arabella’s pocket.

“I shan’t be purchasing a gown today, after all,” she said to the modiste, and left the shop.

SHE ALLOWED CAPTAIN Masinter and Lord Bedwyr to escort her to the procession. The crowd sang a solemn hymn along the route, and the ritual reminded her of a coronation. She supposed that was intended.

After the gilded and painted life-sized statue of Saint Louis had ceremonially embarked for the Holy Land on a boat nearly too small for its own sail and the single sailor manning it, she excused herself from her companions and returned to the inn.