Page 62 of A Match Made On Duchess Square

The morning’s excursion was to let the merchants know that the marquess himself was keeping an eye out and they had better not supply him with anything less than the best.

They next stopped at the aptly named Pavilion Hotel, one of the finer Brighton hotels, not far from the Royal Pavilion, to hear a pianist and harpist playing for the luncheon crowd. “Are you hungry, Gwen?” he asked.

Since they had sampled their way through all the shops and several farm stands, she laughed and patted her stomach. “Not really. Do you mind if we walk around a bit before grabbing a bite to eat?”

“Not at all. In fact, there’s a lovely café with grand views of the water along the seafront promenade that I think you’ll enjoy. It is quaint and discreet, and the food is excellent. Unless you would rather be ‘seen’ at one of the elegant hotel dining rooms.”

“Quaint and charming, please.” She glanced down at her gown and shook her head. “Although we’ll probably look out of place there, dressed as we are in our finery.”

He shrugged. “We will add a certain cachet to the place. I’ve dined there before and the proprietor is always welcoming. Claims he was a minor French nobleman living quietly in the countryside when the angry rabble came for him. He narrowly escaped to England in the 1790s and has since made a life for himself here.”

“A humble life far different from the privileges he must have once enjoyed,” Gwendolyn remarked. “Does he ever wish to return to reclaim his family properties now that France is finally at peace?”

“His children might do so. But as for him? I’m not sure he ever desires to return. He’s made a good life here in England, married a local girl and has sons and daughters who are now grown and work in the café with him. He makes a comfortable living and owns a nice home, or so he claims. I suspect he also served as part of a spy network getting other noblemen and their families safely out of France. He probably has a side occupation now in smuggling French goods. Lace. Wines. Perfumes. That sort of thing. Everyone does a bit of smuggling in these seacoast towns. It is viewed as an honorable profession. However, the Crown’s revenue agents might not agree.”

“He sounds like quite the industrious fellow.”

Gwendolyn was hungry by the time they reached the café known as the Crab & Cod. Milbury introduced her to the proprietor, Pierre Marchand, a hardy, barrel-chested fellow who appeared to be in his fifties but still quite lively.

He greeted Milbury warmly and was equally solicitous of her, and yet he did not pander to them. Gwendolyn enjoyed his open and engaging manner.

“Come this way,” he said in a heavy French accent, and led them to the best table with a magnificent view of the sea.

Gwendolyn enjoyed a tasty meal of crab-and-cod stew that was the best thing she had ever tasted. “Oh my. This is delicious.”

Milbury laughed. “First time I came here, I ate until my insides almost exploded.”

“We must bring your sons here next time,” she said without thinking, then sighed because she’d made it sound as though they were a betrothed couple and had a future together. “Well, you ought to bring them here.”

He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing in response.

Since they had now finished their meal, they’d risen to leave when a man hurriedly entered the café. Something familiar about him caught Gwendolyn’s eye.

She gasped.

No.

It cannot be.

“What is it, Gwen?” Milbury asked.

She turned toward him in astonishment. “I… I… It’s him.”

Milbury inhaled sharply. “What? Who?”

When she turned back toward the door, the man was gone.

She tore across the room toward the entrance because the man had been coming in and had to be waiting to be seated. But where was he now? She cast a desperate glance around the café, but he was nowhere in sight. Not at any of the tables.

Had he gone into the kitchen?

She almost knocked into a serving maid coming out through the kitchen door at the same time she was heading in. “I’m so sorry,” Gwendolyn said in dismay, knowing she would have upended her tray had the girl not swerved out of the way in time.

The kitchen was a hive of activity, but the man was not in there either.

Milbury followed her in and pulled her out. “Gwen, what are you doing?”

Tears began to cloud her eyes. “I saw him, James. I know it was him.”