24. Plymouth

Chapter twenty-four

Plymouth

I t was not long before Gyles came to discover why Louisa's leather-bound trunk was so heavy. They spent the night in Southampton, and he obtained a room for her from the innkeeper and a bunk in the stables for himself. When he knocked on her door to ask if she needed anything, Louisa was standing by a chair that held a dozen gowns she had unearthed from the trunk. They were much finer dresses than she had worn as a governess. He had never suspected so many gowns could fit in one trunk. Dropping a navy-coloured gown in Gyles' arms, Louisa ordered him to find a maid to put it in a clothes press and rid it of its wrinkles.

"Yes, milady," said Gyles patiently. He could tell that Louisa was punishing him with her hauteur. Punishing him for pursuing her against her will. But how could he abandon her now? Despite her poise and high-handed manner, she was still a young lady alone in a world filled with rum coves and ruffians .

The following morning, Louisa emerged from her room in the elegant navy carriage dress and a smart capote bonnet. She looked every inch the daughter of a duke, and Gyles could see the innkeeper and the denizens of Southampton touch their forelocks a little more readily and make a leg a little deeper. The governess was gone completely. She looked far too fine a lady to ride the mail coach to Plymouth.

Gyles was not surprised when she bade him find a livery stable and hire a private post chaise to take her the rest of the way to Plymouth. He had never done such a thing before, but taking the guineas Lady Louisa entrusted to him, he inquired of the innkeeper where a carriage and driver might be procured. Before half an hour had passed, he arrived back at the inn, sitting inside a smart equipage that would not embarrass the daughter of a duke.

Given her behaviour last night, he expected no thanks from Louisa. His expectations were met to perfection. "You'll not be riding inside with me," she announced brusquely and ordered him to secure the trunk to the back of the carriage.

As a governess, her words had been cool and uninviting, but ever since he had donned a footman's garb, she had put up an even sharper palisade of defence. It was the sort of bristling resistance a wild animal might put up when backed into a corner.

"Yes, milady," said Gyles, touching his forelock as he had often seen servants do. He took a deep breath and climbed up beside the driver he had just hired for the trip. He had waited years for a rosebush to bloom. He could afford to endure thorns a little while longer.

The third day of travel brought them to Plymouth. Gyles had wondered at this destination, but it was not long before he discovered that Plymouth was just a stopping spot along the journey.

As he untied the trunk from the carriage, she gave him a curt nod. "You'd best go back to Southampton with the driver and make your way to London from there."

"Why?" asked Gyles. "Are you answering a governess advertisement in Plymouth?"

Her pretty, full lips quirked up in a mischievous smile at that. "No, Mr. Audeley. I'm taking ship to France."

"France!" He thought that nothing she did could surprise him anymore, but this daring cast of the die upset all his notions of what she was capable. "But…Bonaparte. The war! How can you even achieve it?"

"Merchant and diplomatic vessels are still allowed through the blockade in small numbers. I'll cross from Plymouth to Morlaix with no trouble."

"Have you ever been to France?"

"No," she admitted. "But it is my mother's country, and I speak French like a native."

To Gyles, her ability to speak fluent French seemed little guarantee of safety. "Do you have papers? Do you have relatives who will take you in?"

She did not answer those questions. Gyles could only suppose that the answer was no.

"I'm not afraid, Mr. Audeley. It's the one place my uncle will never find me. I have enough jewels to live off, and English women are a rarity there—I daresay I shall make quite the impression."

Gyles did not doubt it. With her honey-gold hair, creamy white skin, and voluptuous figure, she was the epitome of an English shepherdess. And English shepherdesses should not go alone into a pack of French wolves. "Let me help you find a ship," he said, seeking to buy more time as he considered what to do. At least he could make sure she was not taken advantage of by some unscrupulous sailing captain.

"Very well," said Louisa with a shrug, as if she did not care whether he went or stayed.

And so began their quest along the docks of Plymouth, the brine of the salt air a strange taste on their lips after the smell of loamy dirt along the road. Plymouth wharf bustled with sailors and marines. Several ships were under repair in the town's drydocks, and the calls of carpenters mingled with the sound of hammers driving bolts into beams and keels. Dozens of the ships in port were seaworthy, but after a long afternoon of queries, the tired travellers discovered that only a handful of them were willing to cross over to Morlaix. None of them were taking additional passengers.

At the last ship, Louisa demonstrated just how much steel lay behind those velvety eyes and heart-shaped face. "What do you mean there are no cabins available?" she demanded of the officer on the wharf. Somehow, the scorn stamped on her face did nothing to diminish her beauty.

The officer shrugged. "You have no booking. We are full."

"You can make room."

The harried officer rubbed his dark sideburns with irritation. "I am not God, my lady. I cannot make the ship larger at will."

Gyles, standing back four or five paces with the trunk on his shoulder and satchel dangling from his other arm, shifted from one foot to the other to alleviate the discomfort of his tight-fitting shoes. His head itched, and he balanced the trunk with one hand to rub his right temple—but then remembered just in time that his wig was liable to shift positions if he scratched it too vigorously.

"No, but perhaps you can make the ship smaller, too small for someone who already has a booking." Louisa reached into her reticule and pulled out a handful of guineas.

The officer blinked and hesitated, but after a moment, he reached out his hand to pocket the coin. "Very well, mistress, there is one passenger cabin that is not filled yet—for a wine merchant and his wife. I will tell them when they come that there is no more room." He looked around nervously to make sure his conduct was not being observed by any of his fellow shipmates. "What name shall I add to the manifest?"

"The Comtesse Dammartin," said Louisa, pronouncing the name in flawless French.

Gyles stared at her with curiosity. Was this yet another new identity? She said it so easily as if the name were long familiar to her tongue.

"Do you have a maid with you?" asked the officer, still suspicious. It was highly irregular for a "lady" to embark on a voyage without another female in her entourage.

"No," she said, her eyes raking him over as if he were stupid.

"A lady cannot travel alone." The man was adamant. It was clear that not even another handful of guineas would sway him.

Gyles took a few steps forward and looked her in the eye. He was willing. He would go.

Louisa pursed her lips as if trying to make up her mind between two evils. "My English maid wishes to remain here with her family, and my French maid will meet us at Morlaix. But my footman will come aboard and tend to my belongings. That will satisfy your requirement, yes, that I do not travel alone? I assume you have room for him below decks? "

The officer began to grumble again about his lack of space and lack of divine powers to create more, but another guinea from the lady caused him to admit that he could locate a spare hammock.

"And what is the name I should put on the manifest?"

Louisa looked back at Gyles, standing stoically in his green knee breeches and grey stockings. She gave a mischievous smile.

"You may write down Pebble. Gyles Pebble."