Courting Miss Vallois. Gail Whitiker

looked more like slivers of metal than natural hair, opened a well-worn book and ran his finger down the list. ‘Nothing like that here.’

      Surprised, Sophie said, ‘Perhaps they were reserved under the gentleman’s name. Viscount Longworth?’

      If she had hoped to impress him with the use of a title, her gambit failed. ‘No. Nothing like that either.’

      ‘But I was told the arrangements would be made. His lordship sent me a letter, and said a copy would be sent here. Did you not receive it?’

      The old man grunted. ‘Mr Rastley might have.’

      ‘Mr Rastley?’

      ‘Him what owns the place. But he had to go off to see to his dying sister and there’s no reservation in your name or the toff’s’ The man closed the book. ‘I can give you a blanket and you can sleep in the stable if you like—’

      ‘Sleep in the stable? Good God, man, what kind of establishment are you running here?’

      The remark was uttered by a tall, well-dressed man who came to stand beside her. He was obviously a gentleman. A shiny black beaver sat atop golden curls and a diamond pin was tucked securely into the folds of an elaborately tied cravat. Unlike the first gentleman who’d come to her aid, there wasn’t a speck of dust on his boots, and the heavy gold rings on his fingers indicated a degree of wealth most often associated with the aristocracy. But while it was clear he intended to intervene on her behalf, Sophie knew better than to encourage the acquaintance. For all his fine appearance, his expression was cold, his mouth possessed of a cynical twist, his eyes hooded like those of a cat eyeing the helpless bird it intended having for dinner.

      ‘Thank you, sir, but I have no doubt the situation can be resolved to the satisfaction of all concerned,’ she told him. ‘There has obviously been some confusion over the reservations.’

      ‘Indeed. Confusion that has left you without a comfortable bed in which to spend the night.’ The man flicked a contemptuous glance at the innkeeper. ‘And to cause so beautiful a lady such a degree of inconvenience is an unconscionable crime.’

      The old man blanched. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Oberon, but we don’t have any rooms—’

      ‘So you said,’ the gentleman drawled. ‘However, you cannot expect this young woman to spend the night alone and unprotected.’ He turned to her and, as he leaned his elbow on the bar, Sophie saw the expression in his eyes change. ‘Who knows what manner of harm might befall her? Better you spend the night with me, my dear, than take your chances elsewhere.’

      The ploy was so obvious that Sophie almost laughed. ‘Fortunately, I am neither alone nor unprotected. As soon as my brother returns, we will settle this matter to the satisfaction of all involved.’

      ‘Your brother?’

      ‘Yes. He ran outside after the first shot was fired …’ Sophie faltered, painfully reminded of what had taken place only moments ago. She had no way of knowing if Antoine was all right because she had no way of knowing what manner of contretemps he had stumbled into. Innocent bystanders often came to harm when force was used to settle differences between men. But barely had the thought crossed her mind than it was laid to rest—and by the very man who had prevented her from going to Antoine’s side in the first place.

      ‘You will be glad to know that all is well, madame,’ the gentleman said. ‘The matter is settled and the injured man will recover, thanks to the timely intervention of your husband.’

      ‘Her husband?’ Mr Oberon turned to regard Sophie with an expression of reproach. ‘I thought you said you were travelling with your brother?’

      ‘I am. This gentleman mistakenly assumed he was my husband.’

      ‘Perhaps because you made no attempt to correct me,’ the first man said.

      ‘How could I?’ Sophie fired back. ‘You ran outside before I had a chance to say anything.’

      ‘By the by, Silverton,’ Mr Oberon cut in carelessly, ‘what was going on outside?’

      ‘An argument, over a lady,’ said the man so addressed, his slight hesitation enough to cast doubt as to the lady’s respectability. ‘An insult was tendered, an apology demanded, and when the offending gentleman refused to give it, the lady’s companion took out a whip and struck the man across the face. The first gentleman responded by shooting the second in the leg. A nasty wound, but not life threatening, thanks to the prompt attention of this young lady’s brother, whom I assume to be a doctor?’

      ‘He is studying to become one,’ Sophie was stung into replying. ‘And I would not have been in the way. I often help my brother in such situations.’

      ‘But I wasn’t to know that, was I?’ Mr Silverton said. ‘I only heard him ask you to stay where you were. And detecting the note of concern in his voice, I deigned to intervene. Perhaps I should have left well enough alone and let you rush headlong into the fray.’

      The reprimand was faint but unmistakable—enough to inspire guilt, but not harsh enough to wound. Sophie was still considering her reply when the door opened and Antoine walked in, his face grim, the front of his jacket spattered with blood. ‘Antoine! Are you all right?’

      ‘Yes, which is more than I can say for the fellow outside.’ He glanced at the two men standing beside her and, to Sophie’s surprise, offered his hand to her adversary. ‘I am in your debt, monsieur. Without your help in holding the man down, I doubt I would have been able to staunch the flow of blood. Merci beaucoup.’

      Mr Silverton’s hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible, but Sophie noticed. She watched him take Antoine’s hand, shake it briefly, then release it almost immediately. ‘I’m sure you would have managed.’

      ‘Yes, I’m sure he would.’ Mr Oberon’s mouth pulled into a thin line. ‘The French are nothing if not resourceful when it comes to dealing with matters of life and death.’

      His words fell into a strained silence and Sophie wondered at the look that passed between the two Englishmen. But, more concerned with her own plight, she turned to her brother and said, ‘It seems we must look for alternate accommodations, Antoine. Rooms have not been reserved for us and the inn is full.’

      His surprise was as great as her own. ‘Did you not show the man the letter?’

      ‘There wasn’t any point. He said there were no rooms available.’

      ‘Then you will take mine,’ Mr Silverton said at once. ‘It is not large, but it has two beds and is relatively quiet. I shall make myself comfortable in the bar.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Sophie said quickly. ‘We couldn’t possibly—’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Silverton,’ Antoine cut in. ‘My sister has had a long day and is anxious to look her best on the morrow. We are most grateful for your offer.’

      Sophie’s mouth dropped open. They were grateful for his offer? Since when had they resorted to accepting help from strangers? Especially from a man who hadn’t even wanted to shake her brother’s hand!

      ‘Ce n’est pas une bonne idée, Antoine,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Nous serons mieux lotis dans la grange avec les chevaux!’

      It was an indication of how distraught Sophie was that she allowed herself to fall back into French. Before leaving Paris, she and Antoine had agreed to speak English whenever they found themselves in the company of others. And while sleeping in the barn with the horses was not what she wished to do, it was far preferable to putting herself in a position of debt to this man. She had learned that offers of kindness always came with terms—and that payment was never negotiable.

      Unfortunately, Mr Silverton obviously thought it a fait accompli. ‘The room is at the top of the stairs, second on the left. If you will give me a moment, I shall remove my things and then return