As dusk fell she brushed out her hair, bound it in a knot, and smoothed out the creases in her old gown while her stomach complained at its emptiness. A modest dinner awaited her at a little tavern she had discovered near the church. Most of the celebrations had moved down toward the water, and she made her way in the direction of the church through the increasingly empty streets of the town. She would have dinner, sleep, then take a short journey to the chateau. Then she would meet her destiny.

She drew her hood up and tugged her cloak more firmly about her and turned the corner into the alley before the tavern.

Four men blocked the narrow passageway in the gathering shadows. Three stood together in a cluster, another against the wall nearby.

She paused.

But already it was too late.

“La voilà,” one of the men exclaimed.

There she is? She had never seen them before.

“Où est votre homme, ma petite dame?” he said as he came toward her, looking behind her. “Where is your man?” he repeated with a thick tongue.

One of the others followed him. “Eh, signorina?”

Italian?

She backed away. They laughed roughly and spoke to each other so she did not understand. The man in front gestured, beckoning her to him.

“Va be. Noi vi abbiamo ora. Allora, ucciderlo.” He put his hand over his crotch and tugged.

She pivoted and ran. The street before her was deserted, the sounds of the festival distant. Footsteps smacked the street behind her. A hand jerked on her cloak. She yanked free. Her skirts twisted about her legs and her foot caught on a boot scraper. She pitched forward. Their laughter came close.

She stumbled toward a spot of light—a doorway—people, she prayed.

They grabbed her cloak, then her arm, and swung her around.

“No! Release me!”

The man laughed. His teeth were black, his cheeks sunken. The eyes of the next man tilted left and right. Drunk.

She fought, twisting to free herself, but the drunken man grabbed her other arm. A third man appeared behind.

They pushed her back against the wall, slamming her shoulders into the stone. One of them reached for her skirt.

She screamed.

LUC STRAIGHTENED HIS neck cloth.

Miles held forth his coat. “Your grace, I have not yet—”

“Your grace?” Luc peered at his valet’s reflection in the mirror.

“As you did not see fit to inform me of your uncle’s demise, Lord Bedwyr did,” Miles said with a sniff.

“I see.” Luc straightened his cuffs. “I am not yet a duke, as you well know.”

“You will be.”

“You’re a grim fellow, Miles.”

“The child could be a girl. As I was saying, I have packed a traveling case with clothing suitable for the chateau, and have arranged for a mount to be delivered here for you this evening so that it will be available for your departure with Miss Caulfield. The carriage is ordered for seven o’clock.”

“Fine.” He would drive her there and see her safely settled with his staff and Reiner. If she allowed it.

He should not have touched her. The little governess had been kissed before, but he wasn’t so certain that had gone well for her. She’d stood like a marble statue in his arms. Yet her kiss was like living fire. He was quite certain she would not welcome his escort to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux, but he did not intend to give her any say in the matter.

After that he would depart for London, find a bride, and become so busy getting heirs upon whatever young lady of the ton he chose that he would forget entirely about the beautiful little governess who—if character had any say in the matter—should have by all rights been born a duchess.

And pigs would fly come Eastertide.

She was not forgettable.

“After you have settled my bill, Miles, you may enjoy a day’s holiday here in town,” he said. “I won’t be more than a day at the chateau.”

Miles’s back stiffened. “I would not dream of abandoning you to a footman, your grace. There will be ladies present.”

“I’m sure Reiner won’t mind me borrowing the services of his personal man for such a short visit.”

“Absolutely not. I shall accompany you to the chateau and return with you to the Victory when you so desire.”

“Of all the people I know, Miles, you are the only one who treats me with such impertinence.”

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean, your grace. Miss Caulfield does too, after all.”

Luc went down to the parlor, then to the inn’s dining room, where he found no trace of Cam, Tony, or Gavin, or of the governess.

Gripon minced toward him. “Bonsoir, Captain. Will you take dinner now?”

“Where have my traveling companions gone, Gripon?”

“The doctor, Captain Masinter, and my lord dined early, then went to take in the show by the docks. Mademoiselle departed not a quarter hour ago.”

“She departed alone? To the festival?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

“And you did not counsel her to await an escort?”

Gripon folded his hands before him. “She was in great haste, Captain. And the festival, it brings all of the families and farmers into the streets. She will be well—”

But Luc was already out the door. A horse was tied before the inn. He snatched the lead, swung into the saddle and pulled it around.

He cantered toward the bottom of town where the festival crowds had moved for the evening’s entertainments, the horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbled streets and then the docks as he searched.

He did not find her in the streets or the brasserie. He followed the procession route backward. She would not have strayed from the populated parts of town. She was far too wary of men to do anything so—

A scream echoed against the stone walls of the alley ahead.

He charged forward.

They had her against the wall, hidden behind a stack of crates, two at her arms, holding her still, covering her mouth, another grabbing her legs, pulling them apart. Another one waited in the shadows of the alley beyond.

Luc drew his sword and sliced the blade through her attacker’s shoulder before any of them even looked up at the horse bearing down upon them. The man screamed and staggered back. One of the men at her sides bolted, running into the dark of the alley where the other had already disappeared. A fourth man came at Luc from behind.

“Captain!” she cried.

The wooden crate hit him broadside against head and shoulder. Everything turned black. He barely had the sense to release his feet from the stirrups and leap free of his horse. He rolled to the ground, dodging hooves, and shoved himself to his knees. The street tilted beneath him and he choked in breaths, his hand searching blindly for the sword he’d thrown in the fall.

“Here!”

He swung his head up. A yard away she was grabbing the sword from the ground, but her cloaked shape wavered, doubled, blurred. Luc shook his head. The ruffian hit him with the crate again. It caught him on the shoulder. He went down and his stomach heaved.

The horse’s tread sounded farther away. Bolted.

The man grunted as he lifted the empty crate again.

“No!” She ran at his attacker with the sword.

Luc rolled onto his side, over his shoulder, his useless right eye to the ground. Someone howled. He shook his head, grappling with sight, looking for the man with the crate.

She’d gotten there already. He was bleeding from beneath his arm and shouting, and he’d dropped the crate. Another of the attackers grabbed her from behind and twisted her arms behind her. The sword clattered to the street. The wounded one stumbled toward her, cursing.

Luc struggled to stand, to make his body function. Nothing would act. They were pulling her back, dragging her heels, bearing her to the ground. The bleeding man was upon her, grabbing at her skirts. She kicked viciously.