"Ah, Miss Crane!" The trilling voice of the stout English Mrs. Schmidt called, as she regally maneuvered down the gangplank, any number of beleaguered porters behind her, bearing the squawking contents of Jason's ship quarters. "There you are. I thought you had run away from me."

"Understandable," Jason said, his gaze locking with Miss Crane's. She glared at him, but all he could do was shrug his shoulders. Well, those shoulders said, it's true. And she rolled her eyes, a nonverbal disagreement.

"Well, have no fear, I'm here now," Mrs. Schmidt was saying. "Your Grace, the shipping company offices are that way-take your first three rights and a left. Oh no! Be very careful with that red-breasted woodpecker! Imagine, you'd think they were handling a common sparrow. Now, Miss Crane," she continued without taking a breath, "we need to get you to the south of my adopted country. Never fear, Your Grace, I'll take her where she needs to go."

And with that, their good-byes were said. Mrs. Schmidt tucked Miss Crane under her arm and conveyed her around the maddening crowds of goods and men, and disappeared.

Three rights and one left later, Jason found himself staring up at the whitewashed doors of the Schmidt und Schmidt Shipping Company, and found himself feeling a little bit the fool. Not simply because it was fast becoming clear that Captain and Mrs. Schmidt were principal shareholders in the company, and therefore were the mythical overseers who balanced the books and struck fear into the men by the docking of their pay. But also because, as it was just past dawn, the building was closed. Whatever clerks and secretaries and managers worked there were likely still at their breakfast tables, just starting their days, and would not be at this door for a few hours.

As a peer, Jason should be enraged. He should thunder about and demand his due respect as such. The difficulty was, without a penny on him, no servants, no obvious declaration of his status, no one would believe him. Or if they did, they wouldn't care.

But that did not mean he had to take such disrespect from Captain Schmidt.

What he should do once he got home, he thought as he meandered back toward the docks, was purchase this little outfit and have it stripped into nothingness. But no, that would leave Captain Schmidt far wealthier than he deserved to be. Better still, he should purchase their competitor and grind their business to dust. He was acquainted with a man who made his fortune in shipping, Mr. Holt. He would have his stewards arrange a meeting, ask his opinion . . .

But as it was, he was stuck in Hamburg for at the very least a few hours. His options were limited. However, when he was last here, on his grand tour with Charles and Nevill, the hotel they had stayed at was the only place that traveling aristocracy might stay. If he could find someone he knew there, some Englishman abroad, he would be vouchsafed, surely. He would be able to get back to London . . .

A sensible plan of action. The first bit of sense he'd come across in six days. And so, for the first time in six days, a smile crossed Jason Cummings's face. There might be hope for him yet.

As he turned his last left, he expected to see the Elbe River ablaze with the morning sun and the unceasing activity on the docks. But he must have taken a right somewhere when he should have turned left, because instead of seeing the docks where he would be content to kill some time, he was assaulted by the sight of Miss Winnifred Crane.

Alone.

She had managed to find her way to the coaching yard of a large inn and was speaking very animatedly with a man who was loading luggage onto a public carriage. Other such coaches were being loaded and unloaded, passengers moving to and from the small restaurant attached to the inn. Men yelling, horses being hitched, shoed, fed. And in the middle of it, the little sparrow, waving her arms like a maniac, trying to get her point across, and skittishly jumping every time the horse next to her tried to snuffle her uncovered hair.

Damn it all, she had been out of his sight no more than half an hour, and already she was in some sort of jumble. And where the hell was Mrs. Schmidt?

His mind clicked suddenly on the fact that if he felt Captain Schmidt was less than accommodating, it was probable Mrs. Schmidt followed suit.

Likely what the two saw in each other, he thought grimly.

No, his brain leapt into the fray. Don't do it. Don't get involved in her mad schemes. Just go to the hotel. Continue on your path. You have your plans and she has hers.

Then he saw her shoulders sag and her hand go to that locket around her throat. She seemed to collect herself for a moment and then, with a deep breath, begin trying to communicate to the man again.

And in that instant, he knew that no matter what his mind was trying to tell him, what self-preservation it was trying to enact, he just couldn't do it. He couldn't keep telling himself to not get involved. If he walked away now, his guilt would eat at him, and push him and pull him until his feet brought him right back around to this spot.

He couldn't run.

The idea of finding a friend at the hotel fell from his mind as he took that first step toward the coaching yard. By the time he had crossed it, it was likely common sense had fled him completely. Because when he finally reached Miss Crane's side, and she turned her face up to him in surprise and shock, the only thing he could think to say was- "So, where are we headed again? Nuremberg, was it?"

Eight.

Wherein our duo contemplates the economics of travel.

"YOUR Grace, this is completely unnecessary . . ." she began after a few false starts.

"It likely is, but I'm doing it all the same." Jason looked up at the straight-faced coachman, then let his eyes fall on the sign at the entrance of the coaching yard. It read Schmidt und Schmidt. Of course it did. "We are trying to get to Nuremberg, correct?"

"I am, Your Grace," she began, but he cut her off.

"Then I have a feeling you are at the wrong coach."

"I am not. I was simply trying to ascertain-"

"Coachman!" he called up to the man and then switched his language to the proper dialect of German. "Does this coach go to Nuremberg?"

"Da," the coachman said.

"You see?" she claimed. "Mrs. Schmidt told me this is the coach I should take, and I was simply trying to find out-"

"How much is the ticket?" Jason asked the coachman in German, who responded with an outrageous sum. "Why so much? We simply wish to go to Nuremberg."

"Da, but this coach also goes to Berlin, Leipzig, Dresden, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt . . ."

"I see." Jason's eyebrow went up. "And you go to all these cities before Nuremberg?"

"Da," was the only reply. At that point, Jason could no longer ignore the tugging on his sleeve and turned to Miss Crane.

"What on earth did you say to him? And what did he say back? I've spent the last twenty minutes trying to get a straight answer out of him."

"Miss Crane, do you even speak German?" Jason asked, surprised.

"Of course I speak German," she said, affronted.

"Really?" Jason asked coolly. "Which dialect?"

She opened her mouth and closed it, like a fish. "At least, I can read German very well." And then, after a moment, "Renaissance German."

Jason rolled his eyes but withheld from giving in to his great desire to hang his head in his hands.

"In that case," he said, sighing, "did you have any great desire to see all the sights of the Germanic provinces? Because this carriage will have you crisscrossing the land like a row of needlepoint stitches. It's a tourist vehicle."

"But . . . no!" she cried. "I told Mrs. Schmidt specifically I needed to get to Nuremberg as quickly as possible!"

Jason simply pointed to the Schmidt und Schmidt sign above the yard. "And I believe the price of the roundabout ticket was more to Mrs. Schmidt's liking than the more direct path. Whether or not it put you five days behind schedule." He forced her gaze to meet his. "Sometimes people have their own motives for providing assistance, Miss Crane."

She looked up at him sharply then. "If that is the case, Your Grace, what are your motives?"

It was a question he should have expected, but hadn't. And it gave him such pause that in the space before he could answer, she stepped around him. "Thank you so much for your translation services, but I will manage to find the correct coach on my own."

She maneuvered around the people and horses, and had almost made it to the inn's door, where likely she intended to inquire within, when Jason caught up to her.

"For someone so small, you can certainly move fast," he grumbled. "I'm not going to leave, so you can stop running. Do you have friends in Nuremberg, Miss Crane?"

"Do I . . . ?" she replied quizzically. "Of course I do. I have been corresponding with Herr Heider for the last few years-he's a man who has devoted his life to archiving Durer's works and writings, a true acolyte. And my father corresponded with him for years beforehand."

"A single gentleman?" Jason questioned.

Her eyes narrowed. "No, he has a wife, and he happens to be older than Moses. Tell me, does your mind always tend toward the most prurient evil, or do you simply not trust anyone?"

"I don't trust anyone," he answered bluntly. "The fact of the matter is, to people like the Schmidts and others like them whom you will meet when traveling, you are an easy target. I know, because I've been an easy target in my time." A quick flash of memory of being fleeced by every barmaid, hotelier, and shop purveyor while on his grand tour and unschooled in travel drifted through his mind. "People will try to impose themselves on you."

She threw up her hands. "To be quite frank with you, sir, since I do not know what you want from me, I can only consider your continual presence an imposition!"

"The one thing I have never done in our short acquaintance is impose myself on you," he countered. "In fact, it's very much the other way around."

"Then why have you pursued me? Are you trying to get me to change my mind and turn around, like George, or are you trying to get me in bed, like all the men you think to protect me from? Honestly, both scenarios give a very different color to your reasons for running after me onto the ship in the first place."

Jason ground his jaw. But he decided to ignore that jab and instead answer her first question. "You asked about my motives. They are simple, Miss Crane. Guilt. I was assigned to help you by Lord Forrester, and until I see you safely deposited in your friend's hands, I will not have acquitted myself of that duty." It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the hopeful familial connection he would have to Lord Forrester, through Miss Sarah. But instead, some impulse kept that information inside. "I have an English upbringing that forbids it," he said instead, "and a sister who would brain me if she ever learned I abandoned the Winnifred Crane to the Schmidts of the world."

"Oh," she replied. In fact, that seemed the only reply he was to get, because she had no other.

"So," Jason continued, when she remained silent, "are we done with this venting of frustration? Can we move on now to finding the proper coach? Because as much as I truly wish I could, I cannot abandon you yet."

He made to pull open the door to the inn, but just then, it was thrust outward from the inside, nearly smacking him.

"Watch yourself!" the rotund man said in German as he barreled through the door. Jason harshly yanked on the door, Miss Crane's accusatory words apparently affecting him more than he thought they had.

"You watch yourself!" he yelled back, too irked to bother with anything other than English.

Miss Crane's small hand reached out and held his arm, holding him still.

"Your Grace," she began, "I find myself remarkably cross today. I'm bewildered in an unknown city and annoyed by my inability to make my point. And then you come along gruffly playing savior after pointedly ignoring me for six days on a voyage where I had only Mrs. Schmidt for company, who as it turns out was planning to bilk me for my funds." She gulped as he patiently raised a brow. "Which is a roundabout way of saying I am sorry I snapped at you and questioned your motives. It was unkind of me."

"Oh," he replied, blinking. Amazingly, those simple words managed to bank his anger considerably. "Thank you."

"But please bear in mind I have a . . . a mission. And it has consumed my thoughts for quite some time. I am naturally suspicious." She took a breath, shaking slightly in her thick coat. "And please bear in mind I have to move quickly, that time is a factor for me. And another factor is . . . money."

Jason's other brow lifted in understanding. "I take it Lady Worth was unaware of this rerouting of your trip and did not plan accordingly."

"Indeed, sir."

"Surely she provided you some pin money, for unforeseen expenses."

"She did." Miss Crane nodded. "But George insisted on carrying it, and I couldn't stop him without arousing suspicion. The only money I have on me is my earnings from selling the C. W. Marks articles-fifteen pounds. Less now, since purchasing the ticket on the Seestern." She looked up at him then, her eyes a plea. "It should be enough for one person to get to Nuremberg, but not two. Indeed, I think you would be far more comfortable going home."

Jason took her hand and removed it from his sleeve. She wore gloves, and he did not, but even through the kid, he could feel that smallest of zings. The kind he used to get as a child when he would rub his stockinged feet on carpet and then touch a door handle, giddily laughing the whole time.

"Given your language skills," he said letting her hand go, "I think you will find that I will prove expedient for you, not a hindrance. And as for money . . ."

Jason reached into his pockets, felt around for a few moments, and came out with his gold and silver filigreed cardholder (absent, sadly, any calling cards).

"This should fetch us a few bob. This, too," he said, pointing to the stickpin in his wilted and utterly deplorable cravat. His eyes fell on the ducal signet ring on his right hand. "Not this one, unfortunately. I would be disowned by future Dukes of Rayne if I hawked that."

Miss Crane seemed to contemplate for a moment, her expression inscrutable.

"Let me do this," he asked, seriously. Then with a slight smile, "I've come this far accidentally. Might as well complete the task on purpose."

Perhaps the idea of embarking on an adventure alone was a frightening one. Perhaps she had come to the conclusion that his facility with the language would prove useful. But whatever the workings of that convoluted brain, the end result was a simple shrug.

"I suppose"-she sighed resignedly-"I cannot stop you from taking the same carriage to Nuremberg as I am."

"I don't suppose you can," Jason agreed.

"Then perhaps it is best if we . . . find our coach?"

"My dear Miss Crane"-Jason smiled, teasingly-"that sounds suspiciously like permission to come along. How terribly nice to be needed."

Her eyes flew immediately to his face, their hazel hue ablaze with feeling. "I don't need you, Your Grace." She straightened her shoulders. "I don't need anyone."

Jason flinched. Her vehemence was unexpected. She seemed to think so, too, because just as quickly as it had surfaced, it disappeared under a too-bright smile.

"Shall we go . . . and, er, find a pawnbroker?" She glanced at the card case in his hand.

"Yes," he agreed, blinking back any surprise he might still have on his face. Then he took her hand. Impulsive of him, yes. But somehow his skin was curious in a way that his mind had not yet registered. It wondered if that electricity still existed from the merest, slightest touch. He took her hand and pulled her out of the noise and muck of the coaching yard. "And then we find our carriage, and then . . . the proof that you are C. W. Marks."

Needless to say, at this point in the journey, some conversation was required.

The difficulty was, Winn had absolutely no idea what to say.

They had managed to find a merchant willing to trade the Duke's insanely extravagant personal items for a ridiculously low sum. Winn had a feeling that had the cardholder and stickpin been sold for their actual value, they could have financed the entire trip to Nuremberg and perhaps a few weeks in Paris besides. But as it was, they received sufficient funds to purchase tickets on this public coach, which was headed directly to Nuremberg before it continued on to Munich, plus some little left over to cover His Grace's accommodations on the journey-it would be a good two days before they reached their destination. Their coach was only half full, the only other occupant being the rotund German man who had nearly overset Jason earlier. Luckily, he seemed content to slumber through the journey.

Unluckily, he snored with a fierceness that rivaled any orchestra.

Winn snuck a peek at the small watch pinned to the breast of her brown woolen coat. Two days. Two days of a snoring German. Two days with Lord Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, staring back at her from the facing seat.

Winn did not know what to make of the man. She found herself believing his motive. After all, he had no personal care for her or her cause, he had no stake in seeing her succeed or fail. Unless, of course, he'd laid some wager on her in one of those gentlemen's clubs, but somehow she could not think that he had. Not that he seemed a man above such gentlemanly pursuits as wagering on every little thing, but more . . . that he did not seem to care if she succeeded over much. So long as he did.

He had spent six days on a ship, ignoring her mightily, after all. His company now was insisted upon, duty bound.

Was she meant to say thank you to someone who was so dutiful? Was she meant to say thank you to someone whose presence was superfluous? Or, due to such superfluousness, was she meant to ignore him?

Even if his presence, dutiful and superfluous, was a curious comfort?

After all, no matter what he believed, she did not need him. True, her German was less than fluent, but she would have managed. Her funds were low, but her ingenuity never would be. She did not need him, and better still, for the first blissful time in her life, no one needed her.

But it was so ridiculously awkward! Up until now, they had either been in the company of Totty and George or he had been ignoring her on board the ship. This felt like the first time they were truly . . . together. Thus, Winn was completely at a loss to find some subject to talk about. Which was a shame, because . . . she thought, selfishly . . . she was on the adventure of her life. She wanted to enjoy it!

She snuck another peek at her watch. Only thirty seconds had passed. This was to be a long two days. Two days with Jason Cummings, Duke of Rayne, staring back at her from the facing seat. And two days of that smell.

Winn was not one of those delicate flowers who carried around a scented pouch to hold to her nose when she met people whose personal hygiene did not match her own. But for this one moment, God how she wished she was!