June 1817

The young woman buying peaches in Covent Garden in the early morning had honey brown hair under a small bonnet, clear white skin, deep brown eyes, and a faint French accent. The stall owner was trying to cheat her.

"Ha'penny for two, miss," the stall owner, a stooped man with a fat red nose and strands of greasy hair under a cap, said. "Best to be had."

He was goading her to take two shriveled specimens. When she pointed to the firm, ripe fruit near the man's hand, he shook his head. "Penny apiece for those, love."

I'd just seen him sell two fine peaches to a housewife for half that price, but he probably thought he could fleece a foreigner, especially an inexperienced girl.

I turned to the peachseller's stall, walking stick in hand. A lady in distress, even over peaches, spoke to my knight-errant instincts.

"Prices have changed, have they?" I asked the peach seller.

He shot me an irritated look. "They do, Cap'n."

"In a quarter of an hour?" I leaned to him. "Sell her the same as you sold the others."

The peach seller glowered at me, a glint in his eye, but he backed down. I had the reputation for a foul temper, although I believe my acquaintanceship with magistrates and Bow Street Runners decided the matter.

He handed the good peaches to the girl. "Ha'penny," he muttered. To me, he said, "I know why your nose is so long, Cap'n. You use it to poke into business 'tisn't yours."

"True." I touched the offending appendage. "Several men have broken it for me."

"Shouldn't wonder." He took the girl's coin then, with another bellicose look at me, turned to his next customer. "Two for ha'penny."

The girl placed the peaches in the basket on her arm and glanced at me shyly. "I thank you, sir."