She had no business being in a place like that. Claire could feel the eyes of sailors on her as she entered the Seaman's Respite, quite sure that there were those who would be content calling her a doxie. She was not so, but rather a socialite who happened to be very bored with the lack of adventure around these parts. Or so she thought as she nervously glanced around her. She ignored a few leering glances and raised her voice, "And who might be able to tell me where I can find the good Marquis, Quentin North?" She had a husky voice, a sensual drawl in her words that marked her as Louisiannan, words carefully spoken.

Her dark eyes glanced about until she saw the big man, tilting her head and wondering if he was the man in question. This day, she thought, was as fine as wine.