She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. What was the fellow doing in this part of the town? Had not Lady Bicknacre said he was living at Paddington? The Frenchman, booted and neat in buckskin breeches and a plain frockcoat, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, paused a moment at an intersection with one of the roads leading north, apparently seeking a street sign. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. I've a question to ask him. . There was another little thing he had to say. "Who's there?" cried Rachel.
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