“There is no arguing with innkeepers in this country, my dear,” a languid voice came from behind her. “Now that they have tasted revolution, the French have little respect for anything but avaricious acquisition. Pity, really. They used to be so delightfully ingratiating.”

Golden like a god, with wavy hair and warm brown eyes, dressed in dark velvet, with draping lace at throat and cuffs, and boots that shone with champagne polish, the man standing in the doorway looked like a prince out of a storybook.

But no prince would peruse a lady from brow to toe. In comparison, Captain Andrew’s lustful stares seemed positively safe. No. That was not true. There had been nothing safe about Captain Andrew’s stares, because despite herself she had wanted them.

“Monseigneur, bienvenue!” The innkeeper bowed deeply. “How may I be of service to you?”

“You may cease distressing this lady.” He came to her. “Clearly she is in great need of assistance.”

“Which she is unlikely to accept from you.” Captain Andrew strode through the door. “I think you will find she is adamantly self-sufficient.” He bowed to her. “Madam.”

Arabella battened down on her tripping pulse. “Captain.”

The gentleman’s languid eyes went wide. “How is it, Lucien, that you have the pleasure of this diamond’s acquaintance yet I do not? It is positively criminal.”

“Miss Caulfield, allow me to—with all reluctance—introduce you to the Earl of Bedwyr,” the captain said with a sideways glance at the earl. “Cam, Miss Caulfield took passage aboard the Retribution from Plymouth.”

The earl’s mouth curved into a slow grin and he scanned her anew. “Ah, now is fully explained the presence of a passenger aboard your ship otherwise rempli des bêtes. Well done, Lucien.”

The captain accepted a key from the innkeeper.

“Festival in town, tomorrow,” came through the door before the man who spoke it. “Great guns, gents, we’re to have uncommon entertainment.” Black-haired, with moustaches that curled dramatically upon either cheek, he wore a naval uniform, the splendid plume of his tricorn draping over blue eyes. He saw her and halted abruptly.

“Well, bonjour, mademoiselle.” He swept off his hat and scraped the plume to the floor. “Sight for sore eyes, ain’t she, gentlemen?”

“It seems that Luc’s eyes are not quite as sore as ours, Anthony,” the earl drawled. “Rather, eye.”

“Miss Caulfield, this is Captain Masinter of the Royal Navy.” Captain Andrew said, coming to her side. “Tony, she is not French.”

“I don’t think Anthony is particular when the beauty is so marked,” Lord Bedwyr said with a smile.

“And she is not married,” the captain said flatly, cutting the earl a sharp glance. Then he looked at her. “Are you?”

She swallowed over the catch in her throat. The earl was frankly gorgeous, and the naval captain dashing. But standing beside the scarred, autocratic merchant shipmaster when she had expected never to see him again made her knees watery. He carried himself with absolute authority, and she had not needed to tell him she feared the sea for him to know it. She could not read him, but it seemed he could read her perfectly well.

“I am not married.”

“My sympathies, Cam,” the captain said without any show of humor, then looked down at her and his gaze glimmered. “Monsieur Gripon, have you assisted Miss Caulfield to her satisfaction?”

He had done this before, speaking to another while looking at her. It was as though he knew everyone’s attention would always be on him, waiting for his words, no matter where his attention was directed.

“Hélas, monsieur!” The innkeeper clasped his hands together as though he were in great distress. “The preparation for le jour de la fête tomorrow, you see, it has commanded toutes les ressources de la ville.”

The captain frowned.

“I wish to hire a carriage to travel to the chateau,” she said, “but he said there are none to be had, although I saw one in the stable, and horses.”

He turned to the innkeeper. “Is this true?”

“Le chariot is to bear the holy image of le roi Louis IX in the procession tomorrow night, Captain. I cannot send it away now.” The innkeeper shook his head sorrowfully. “But the mademoiselle, she does not understand.”

The captain nodded. “I see. Miss Caulfield, I am afraid in this he is probably telling the truth. How many days yet before you must arrive at your destination?”

“Five, but I should like to arrive before then.” She had no choice. She hadn’t the funds to linger even a day in Saint-Nazaire. She could not have come this far only to be thwarted now. “Will the festival last many days?”

“Only one.” Captain Masinter removed his gloves. “It is the Feast of Saint Louis, Miss Caulfield, one of those medieval crusading blokes, and ancestor to the newest Louis, don’t you know. Ought to be great good fun tomorrow.” He gave her a broad smile. “Continental Catholics, you know, throw a splendid party.”

“Why don’t you remain in town a night and enjoy the celebration, Miss Caulfield?” Lord Bedwyr said with an elegant bow. “I should be honored to escort you about the festivities.”

“I’ve no doubt you would.” Captain Andrew looked back down at her. “Miss Caulfield, if your claims of having spent time among London society are true, you will know better than to trust in Lord Bedwyr’s intentions.”

“I am barely acquainted with him, Captain Andrew. I should not presume to make a judgment.”

“Perhaps then you can trust in my word.”

“Yes, Miss Caulfield,” Cam said with a sly look at Luc, “by all means trust our friend Captain Andrew here rather than me. For all that he looks like a villain and addresses a lady like a cad, he is a noble fellow in truth, while I am but a poor man alone in an alien country, innocently seeking a lovely lady’s company for an evening stroll.” Cam’s grin slipped into the smile he had practiced upon hundreds of pretty females with enormous success.

A pale flush stole over the little governess’s cheeks.

Luc ground his molars. The rakehell always had such an effect on women. Luc had never cared. Not once.

Now he cared.

“Camlann, don’t tease the lady,” he said, unsurprised at the gravel in his voice.

“You are to be the only man allowed that privilege, I suppose?” A gleam lit Cam’s eyes.

“Captain. My lord,” she said firmly, her chin inching upward. “I would very much like it if you would not speak about me as though I were not standing here.” She turned to the innkeeper. “I will hire a chamber for tonight and tomorrow night, monsieur, in the hope that you will make the carriage available to me the following day. How much will it be?”

The innkeeper looked questioningly at Luc.

Her cheeks flamed. But her slender shoulders remained square. “I am barely acquainted with these gentlemen, monsieur, and not a member of their party. I will pay for my own room and for the carriage to Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux.”

“Saint-Reveé-des-Beaux?” Cam said with a quick glance at Luc. He stepped toward her. “Why, my dear, that is precisely my destination as well. I have an itch to see my old friend, Prince Reiner, who is in residence there as the guest of . . . Now who is that crusty old fellow that owns the castle, Tony?”

Tony lifted a brow and casually twirled a moustache between forefinger and thumb. “Don’t know if I quite recall.”

“Ah, yes, the Comte de Rallis.” Cam gestured with a lacy wrist. “Monsieur Gripon, the carriage the day after tomorrow will be on my bill. I insist. I will, of course, allow you privacy during the journey, madam. I shall ride ahead and clear the road of ruffians and knaves.” He gave her a winning smile and went to the door. “Now, Tony, why don’t we find that smart little brasserie we passed and command a roasted capon. Lucien, I trust we shall see you anon.”