22. Livery

Chapter twenty-two

Livery

G yles held tightly to his satchel and watched Louisa negotiate with the pawnbroker. Zounds, but she was magnificent to behold! He could not imagine any other woman of his acquaintance sweeping into such a grimy establishment before dawn had broken, quelling the proprietor's questions with a word, and demanding that he give her a fair price for the gems she was offering.

"Hermes' wig and wing feathers," muttered the fellow, clearly ready for bed after a night of unsavoury business with pickpockets and cutpurses. His thin grey hair lay combed across his balding head like the strings of a greasy harp. He pinched the jet beads between finger and thumb and held them up to the light of a lantern. "These're worth a pair of guineas, they are. But I'm feelin' generous, so let's say three."

"Let us say thirty," said Louisa confidently. The jet beads were doubtless worth triple that amount, but Gyles could see she knew quite well how much silver could be wrung from a skinflint. In the end, the fellow offered her twenty guineas for the string of jet and then surprised everyone—including himself—by giving her another forty guineas for the sapphire brooch she placed on his counter.

"An' will you be comin' back to redeem them?" demanded the pawnbroker.

"No," said Louisa. "I'll not be returning to London anytime soon."

Gyles looked at her curiously. Where did she plan to run to this time? There was no newspaper advertisement to answer. There was no governess position to take.

He listened closely as the hackney driver asked for their next destination. Louisa gave the address for a nearby coaching inn in Cheapside. Apparently, she had thought through this venture thoroughly and was as familiar with this part of London as Gyles was with the market towns in Derbyshire.

Within minutes, they had arrived at a bustling innyard bearing a sign with a two-headed swan. Louisa paid the driver and then handed Gyles a guinea. "Mr. Audeley, might I trouble you to secure us some breakfast?"

"Of course, my lady," said Gyles, realising as she said the word that he was hungry indeed. Staying up all night tended to do that to a man. So did running away from home on the heels of an unpredictable heiress.

Gyles saw the porter from the inn unload Louisa's portmanteau and drop it in a shaded corner of the courtyard. Louisa, still wearing her voluminous cloak, crossed over and sat on the trunk. The place looked well-lit and safe enough to leave a resourceful woman. Gyles ducked his head under the swinging sign of the double-necked swan and went up to the counter .

"Might I have two cups of ale and two plates of whatever is hot—"

"Wait your turn there!" bellowed a big fellow covered with a layer of dust and grime over what must have once been a proper suit of clothes.

The innkeeper's wife bobbed Gyles an apologetic curtsy. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I'll serve the drivers first if I may. They canna be late and must keep to their schedule. Won't be more'n a minute afore I can put together some victuals for you."

"Of course," said Gyles, never one to insist on his own consequence. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, an incongruous figure in his fancy eveningwear amongst an unwashed room of drivers, drovers, and harbour men.

Ten minutes later, the grimy giant took his plate of hot food from the counter and smirked at Gyles as he brushed by him. "That's the last of it," he said with a snide laugh.

"Never fear. I'll warm some more porridge," said the round innkeeper's wife, tucking a few frazzled curls back into her cap. "Won't take more'n a minute or two."

Gyles had a fairly good idea of how long a "minute" might take at the Swan with Two Necks. He decided to make use of the time. "Might there be a private room I can step inside while I'm waiting?"

"Oh, indeed there is, sir," said the woman. She gestured to the open door that led off the main dining area. Gyles, shouldering his satchel, stepped between the men drinking at the tables and went into the adjoining room. It was a private parlour with a fireplace, a table, and two chairs—modest, clean, and perfect for what Gyles needed to do next.

Gyles shut the door and drew the curtains on the narrow windows. Then, finally opening his satchel, he removed a suit of green and grey livery along with a set of silver-buckled shoes and a curled horsehair wig. He had seized it from the kitchen table before bringing Lady Louisa's trunk out the back door of Kendall House, leftover livery from the hired footmen who had helped at Penelope's ball. The footmen Mrs. Audeley had hired were tall and well-formed, and the uniform fit Gyles well. The shoes were a little tight, but he supposed he could manage the discomfort for a while.

Gyles had never worn a wig, but choking down his distaste for something so foreign, he placed it over his untamed chestnut hair. A quick glance at the distorted reflection of himself in a polished pewter sconce showed that it was not askew. He packed the evening wear back into the satchel, just in case he might need it again sometime in the future.

There. Now he was ready to pursue Lady Louisa with propriety. An unmarried gentleman travelling with a lady would compromise her reputation. But a footman was de rigeur for a woman of her station. Still, it would look a little odd that she did not have her own carriage—he would have to remedy that at some point.

The porridge the innkeeper's wife had promised was still not ready, so Gyles strode outside to check on his charge. Ducking under the sign with the double-necked swan, he looked around in the early morning light and frowned. The heavy portmanteau he had expected to see in the corner of the courtyard was missing. The cloaked figure had disappeared as well.

Where could she have gone?

The large, dirty fellow whom Gyles had had the misfortune to cross at the counter was leaning against the post of the porch, quaffing his breakfast ale. "Ho there," said Gyles crisply. "Where's the lady that was sitting here on a leather trunk? "

"That fancy-piece?" The big man nodded toward a black and red carriage that was wheeling out of the courtyard and toward the road. "She took the coach to Plymouth."

Without a word, Gyles began to run. The unfamiliar, silver-buckled shoes pinched with each step, but nevertheless, he increased his pace with each stride. With one hand he held onto his satchel. With the other he held onto his wig.

"Cor!" said the fellow, calling after him. "Ain't you the gentleman that tried to snatch my place in line?"

Gyles had no time to answer. His silver-buckled shoes pounded the ground as he passed the guard at the back of the coach. He came level with the front of the coach, just as the driver was slowing down to make the turn onto the main road.

"Oi, what's this all about?" the driver demanded as Gyles yanked his precarious wig down over his forehead and pulled himself up into the seat beside him.

"Nearly lost my position waiting on the porridge," said Gyles, affecting a rougher accent than was his wont. He jerked a thumb to the body of the carriage behind them. "My mistress is inside."

"Oh, that one?" said the driver. Clearly, he was aware which of his passengers was quality enough to employ a footman.

"Care if I sit up here with you?" asked Gyles.

"Hmph," said the driver complainingly. "Should've been here five minutes ago so's I didn't have to stow her luggage. Trunk's as heavy as Prince George's coffin'll be."

Gyles rubbed an aching shoulder sympathetically. "Don't I know it."

The driver clucked. "Well, at least you'll be the one unloading it when we stop. "

Gyles gave a grim smile and set his wig firmly in place. He might regret his actions later, but he was not about to let Lady Louisa depart in an unknown mail coach without some sort of protection. She would not thank him for it—of that, he was certain—but he would not be able to live with himself if he did not intervene. Even if it meant an abandoned rosebush, an itchy head, a ridiculously old-fashioned coat and pantaloons, and silver-buckled shoes that hurt like the blazes.