“Yes, it’s good as new, Cap’n. We can-” The ostler stopped, his eyes grew wide, then angry. Raising his voice, he shouted, “Benjie Lovitt, yer young fool, get them animals outa my yard!”

Just then, two enormous pigs came running into the stable yard, with more speed than one would expect from such behemoths-and on muddy ground, too-followed by a young boy waving and shouting for them to stop. Wilhelmina barely had time to form the thought that mud was apparently second nature to the pigs when one of them came to a screeching, sliding halt, smack into Sam’s wheel, knocking it to the ground, then crushing it beneath its hooves as the pig stepped over it. His porcine partner in crime simultaneously plowed straight into Sam, knocking him off balance so that he lost his footing and fell backward on his bum.

It had happened so fast, Sam seemed stunned speechless as he sat in the mud, his eyes round with disbelief. Wilhelmina pressed a hand to her mouth to hide the laughter that threatened to overtake her. The ostler continued to yell at the boy, who continued to yell at his pigs as he tried to round them up, though they seemed more interested in exploring the carriages lined up in the yard. The wheelwright began cursing about the state of the wheel he’d taken such care to repair. Every ostler and stable boy came out to see what all the commotion was about, some of them shouting at the boy, some trying to help him control the pigs, and others doubled over in laughter. And Grissom came running out from the inn yard, arms flapping, aghast to find his customer in the mud, and began shouting at all and sundry for causing harm to the good captain.

It was a scene straight out of a farce, Wilhelmina thought. Or a Hogarth painting.

“Get those bloody animals away from my curricle before they do any more damage!” Sam’s booming voice finally brought a halt to all the shouting. Seated in his mud puddle, he bellowed out orders to the boy, the ostler, and the wheelwright, in an authoritative voice that brooked no reproach, making it clear he was not amused, and that they had better look sharp in rectifying the situation.

Wilhelmina thought this must have been what it was like to be dressed down on the quarterdeck by Captain Pellow. What a formidable man her Sam had become. Formidably desirable, even plopped down in the mud.

Grissom helped Sam to his feet and launched into a stream of obsequious apologies. Sam dismissed them with a wave of his hand as he gazed down in disgust at his ruined pantaloons and coattails. Finally, he looked up and caught Wilhelmina’s eye. Her hand still covered her mouth, for she was having trouble suppressing the mirth that gurgled up from her throat. Sam glanced down again at his mud-covered clothes, then back up at Wilhelmina, and broke into laughter. That was all she needed for her own merriment to burst forth, and the two of them stood in the stable yard and laughed and laughed.

Grissom, his glance darting from one to the other, offered a tentative chuckle. When their laughter had eased a bit, the innkeeper jumped into the breach and said, “Come inside, Captain, and let’s get you cleaned up. The wheel can be repaired again, though I’m told it will take longer this time since more spokes are broken and the rim is bent. Blasted pigs! Begging your pardon, Your Grace. It’s getting on to dusk, so you’d better stay the night, sir. I’ll see about a room for you and have Mrs. Grissom see to your clothes. We’ll find you something clean to wear in the meantime.”

Sam directed Grissom to retrieve his portmanteau from the boot of his curricle so he could change into his own clothes. Wilhelmina accompanied him back to the inn, where she found Smeaton in the hallway, eyebrows raised in question. Wilhelmina nodded and shot him a wink, then turned her attention to the innkeeper’s wife, wild-eyed with outrage at what had happened, muttering under her breath about that wretched boy and his pigs. She offered to give up her own bedchamber for the captain, as there was only one small attic room available. But Sam would have none of that and accepted the tiny room with gratitude. “I am accustomed to cramped quarters on ship,” he said, “so any hole in the attic will suit me fine.”

Mrs. Grissom thanked him and took his muddied greatcoat and hat, promising to have them cleaned. “And I’ll send up a chambermaid to take away your dirty clothes. We’ll take care of ’em, don’t you worry. You’ll have ’em back all cleaned and dried by tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll follow me…”

Before heading off for his attic room, Sam turned to Wilhelmina and smiled. “Looks like I’ll be able to share dinner with you after all.”

“I’m glad, Sam.” It was too soon to part. She wanted a few more hours with him. That was all. Just a few more hours. It was selfish of her, but there it was. Miss Fullbrook would have to wait another day for her offer. For tonight, Sam would belong to Wilhelmina. Or so she hoped.

Sam looked across the table, laden with platters of roast mutton, game hens, potatoes with butter sauce, pickled onions, French beans, and crusty bread. Mrs. Grissom had done her best to compensate for the mud and the pigs and the cramped attic room by making sure he did not also go hungry. Sam had dug into the hearty meal with relish, but noticed that the duchess ate very little.

“What’s the matter, my girl?” he asked. “You do not like Mrs. Grissom’s cooking? No doubt you have become accustomed to finer cuisine.”

She looked up and smiled. “I employ a French chef who would swoon at the sight of that leg of mutton and those soupy potatoes. In fact, he often travels with me, but since we were visiting Lord and Lady Thayne, who keep an excellent chef, I sent him on a well-deserved holiday.”

“And so you are forced to endure a plain meal without elegant French sauces or exotic seasoning. Poor Willie.”

She laughed. “I am not so spoiled as all that. I can manage an indifferent meal from time to time. I’m just not very hungry.”

“The food may seem indifferent to you, Your Grace, but after so many years of salt pork out of a beer keg and hardtack biscuits that could chip a tooth-once you’d first banged them on the table to chase out the weevils-I can assure you that a good English roast leg of mutton is nothing short of heaven to me.”

His comment steered the conversation back to tales of Sam’s life at sea, which seemed to fascinate her. Wilhelmina peppered him with questions throughout the meal, and even the grinding monotony of the blockade began to take on a more adventurous turn in the telling. She showed a particular interest in his rise through the ranks, something even she recognized as unusual for an impressed seaman.

“I had been sublieutenant until Aboukir Bay when more officers were needed,” he said, slicing an apple into sections and offering her one. “I had the honor of serving as a full lieutenant in that great battle, under Captain Lewis of the-”

“The Alexander.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “How do you know that?”

Willie clicked her tongue. “Really, Sam, do you think I do not read? The Battle of the Nile was second only to Trafalgar in importance. It was written about in great detail in all the newspapers and magazines. I even decorated my drawing room in the Egyptian style. It was all the rage.”

“But how did you know that I served on the Alexander? Surely a pup of a lieutenant was not mentioned in the Morning Chronicle.”

“I saw your name in the navy lists.”

He gazed at her in astonishment. “You read the lists?”

She smiled sheepishly. “I have followed your career ever since you showed up alive, and full of vinegar, that night at the theater, five years after I thought you’d died. I know you sailed on the Alexander, then the Pegasus, I believe. You were given command of the Libra, and one more I think, but the Dartmoor was your first post ship, as full captain. And your last ship was the Cristobel.”