To save the man she loves she will sacrifice everything family, friends, honor . . . even her life.

April 2, 1814, Brighton outskirts

Mari descended the steps of the hired coach and marched into the Bull and Hare. She’d hoped to rest the night closer to the Brighton quays in order to catch the first ship leaving in the morning. However, the ancient coach she hired had proven inadequate against the incessant April rains that would have slowed even the well sprung personal vehicle her plans forced her to leave behind.

The most effective way to get to René was to arrive in Brighton in the guise of a governess going to a new post with a military family billeted in Marseille. That way, she could travel without the retinue and fol-de-rol that accompanied a duchess and drew too much notice. She’d obtained the appropriate papers with the help of her local magistrate. Flattered by a few smiles, Squire Beesman had been more than happy to provide documents to expedite the travel of her “friend,” Miss Anthea Twitchenholm. After promising to send daily letters, Mari left Stonegreave in the ducal carriage with mounds of baggage and her standard retinue.

In London she left her maid-carriage, retinue, and all-with a stack of letters arranged in careful order, to be sent one per day to Tante Vivienne. Mari herself had hired the ancient posting coach then proceeded alone to Brighton with a carpetbag of clothing bought second-hand. Once in France, she could travel with a bit more freedom. News of Napoleon’s surrender had reached Stonegreave the morning of her departure. Thank heaven. With Napoleon fixed at Fontainebleau awaiting his fate, finding René would be much easier. Extracting him, however, would be more difficult without the distractions of an army encampment.

As the inn door closed behind her, silence fell in the entry hall, and the gaze of three men, the innkeeper, and a woman whose dress identified her as the innkeeper’s wife all turned on Mari.

“My good man.” She swept toward the innkeeper and set down her single piece of luggage. “I will require a private chamber, a hot bath and a meal, served in my room, in that order.”

The men stared. The innkeeper’s jaw dropped, and the goodwife’s face reddened. She pushed her way to the center of the circle of men, and looked Mari up and down. T

he woman’s lip curled. “We ain’t got no private chambers nor baths for the likes of ye. An’ y’ll takes yer meals in the common room, likes all the other common folk. If ye gots the coin to pay fer it, that is.”

Mari drew herself up to give the dame the set down she deserved but closed her mouth on the words. She could hardly act the duchess if she was supposed to be a governess on her way to a new post. The glow of satisfaction that her dowdy garb had succeeded battled with the icy disdain the goodwife’s demeanor deserved. Mari lowered her gaze and twisted her hands in an attempt at embarrassed humility.

“Well?” Mari watched the leather-shod toe of the other woman’s foot tap impatiently.

“Ahem, yes, well, that is, I would very much appreciate a private chamber.” Mari lifted her head and unclasped her hands to reach for her reticule. “If one is available. My employer provided me with funds, so I can pay. I’m willing to forgo the bath and will happily dine in the common room. I certainly would not wish to put such kind hosts to any trouble.”

“Hmpf. I’ll not take cheek from…”

“Wife,” the innkeeper warned. Mari glanced at him. “The miss says she can pay. Send Gertie to prepare the front chamber on the right side. I’ll take care of business with Miss . . . ?”

“Twitchenholm.” Mari supplied the name on her travel papers. “Miss Anthea Twitchenholm.”

“Well, Miss Twitchenholm, how long will you be staying with us?”

His wife harrumphed, turned, and clumped off toward the back of the inn where Mari could hear her haranguing several employees.

Deprived of entertainment, the three men drifted away toward the common room, and behind Mari the inn door opened, letting in a gust of wind and rain along with the newest arrival.

“Only tonight, sir. I must be at the docks tomorrow if I am to meet Major Standish of the 16th Regiment before he leaves for Marseille. I’m to be governess to his three daughters.” She chattered rapidly in hopes of covering over her earlier, too noble demeanor, stopping only when she realized she revealed too much information.

“Then I suppose ye’d like to retire as soon as possible. Just sign the register, pay fer yer room and board, and my wife will escort ye above stairs. Supper will be served in an hour.”

“Thank you.” Mari signed and provided enough coins to cover the cost of the room and her dinner. She lifted her traveling bag just as the goodwife arrived. The woman eyed Mari closely but said nothing, just led the way up two flights of stairs to a small, cozy chamber.

“Charming,” said Mari.

“We run a respectable house, miss.”

“That’s gratifying to know,” Mari said, ducking her head in dismissive humility. The innkeeper’s wife studied her guest before leaving with a rustle of starched skirts. Mari closed and locked the door before heaving a great sigh. She had to be much more careful in the future. The fate of Europe and the Petersham name depended on the success of her venture. She could not afford to fail before she’d truly begun.

***

Leaving his curricle and four in the very capable hands of his tiger, Richard entered the inn. As he drew off his gloves, he saw a woman speaking with the innkeeper. Ordinarily he would have dismissed any woman as dowdy as this one, but she spoke in the clear, dulcet-and surprisingly humble-tones of Marielle Petersham. What demon had conjured her away from Hertfordshire.

He shook his head. She couldn’t be Marielle, yet she must be. The raven’s wing hair, the slim form could belong to many women, but not that voice. The woman was now claiming that she was to be governess to the daughters of Major Standish of the 16th, Richard’s own regiment. She lied. Richard waited until she disappeared up the stairs before questioning the innkeeper about the young miss who had just left.

“Claims she’s a governess, sir.” The man’s waggling eyebrows indicated he believed otherwise. “Be she governess, doxy, or wayward lady, she must not ‘ave traveled much. Di’nt seem t’ know what t’ say an’ what not t’ say.”

“I see your point. But perhaps she’s only inexperienced and does not understand that discretion is a primary subject and usually taught by example.” He stepped up, signed the register as plain Mr. Campion. He examined the signature above his, recognizing the handwriting with little trouble. He took a piece of foolscap from a stack on the desk.

“I wouldn’t know ’bout such. Only know she’s a might full of herself fer a governess.”

She would be, since she’s no governess. What in the world was the Duchess of Stonegreave doing masquerading as a governess traveling alone on the outskirts of Brighton?

“Sounds like she could use a little advice from an experienced traveler about how to go on when she journeys.” He scrawled a message onto the foolscap then handed it to the innkeeper. “Would you be so kind as to deliver this to the young miss? I’ve invited her to dine with me in the common room, so all is above board. She may be more amenable to my wisdom if well fed, and governesses never have enough cash. She’ll probably accept a free meal even if it comes with a bit of a lecture.”

The innkeeper raised his brows, looked at the note, then nodded. “‘Right y’ are, Mr. Campion, sir. Since yer clearly not planning anything havey-cavey. I’ll deliver yer note, but if the miss declines, I’ll not ‘ave ‘er forced in any way. If y’ take my meaning, sir.”

Richard smiled. “I would never compel an unwilling innocent.” Marielle’s innocence was in question, however, and he would find a way to compel her to tell him what she was doing here.

“Right then. ‘enry!” the man bellowed the name.

A lad on the edge of manhood came running. “Yes, sir.”

The innkeeper gestured at Richard. “Help this gentleman with ‘is bags and show ‘im t’ the front room on the left.”

“Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

After approving the chamber, Richard handed the youth a coin. The door closed behind him, and Richard reviewed the facts that would trap Marielle when they spoke at dinner. Major Standish had been a staff officer in the 16th. The man had no wife, let alone any daughters. He wasn’t even in France. Richard knew from dispatches he read at the War Office that, having received orders posting him to a Canadian unit, the major was most likely at sea.

She must have taken the bait in the false letter he’d given her? If so, her fate was sealed. His current mission and Bruskingly’s speculation about Marielle Petersham’s French connections made her activities appear suspicious. We know a French agent will deliver to Napoleon the plans for Louis’s return to France. The agent will leave from Brighton in the next two days. As little as Richard wished to have anything more to do with Marielle, he could not avoid her. The timing of her incognito journey was too convenient to be coincidental.

If she was not herself the French agent, he would wager that she knew something about the agent and his or her activities. Shaking his head, he completed his toilette and descended to the common room. Would the duchess heed his summons? The note had been innocuous, to any but that lady. To her, his signature would be a threat, especially if she was as guilty as she appeared to be. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman to ignore a threat. But she was female, and it could be some time before she made her appearance. He sent for a newspaper and coffee and settled down to wait.