I had not seen the young woman in Covent Garden before. Her dress was well made, high-waisted and plain-skirted, the gown of a young, gently born miss. She seemed more suited to strolling formal gardens with smitten young men than roaming Covent Garden shopping for peaches.

Though she spoke English well, her voice held definite French overtones. Perhaps she was an Englishman's paramour, brought home with him from Paris. Or the daughter of emigres who had fled France long ago and elected to stay in England, even after Louis Bourbon had been restored to his throne.

Whoever she was, she smiled at me, grateful for rescue. Her expression was guileless-too innocent to be a man's paramour, I decided. She possessed an unworldly air that spoke of a simple life. She must be a dutiful daughter, gathering breakfast for her mother or father.

I tipped my hat to her. "Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service. May I escort you somewhere?"

Her smile was crooked, and her brown eyes sparkled with good humor. "My father and mother are staying near, sir. I wanted peaches this morning, and so ventured to find them."

That they'd let her come out alone to the markets in Covent Garden did not speak well for them. But perhaps they were provincial people, used to places where everyone knew everyone, where no one would dream of harming the daughters of respectable gentlefolk.

The girl stirred a protective instinct in me. I held out my arm. "Which house? I will walk you there."

She blushed and shook her head. "You are kind, sir, but I must not trouble you."

She thought me forward. At least she was that wise, but anyone in the market could have told her she had nothing to fear from me.

"You can introduce me to your mama and papa," I began, but a shrill voice cut across the market, a startled cry in French.

My young lady turned, and her smile broadened into one of relief. "That is my mama now, sir. I thank you again for your kind assistance."