31. Quarrel

Chapter thirty-one

Quarrel

" W here is Monsieur Pebble?" demanded Louisa. She had dressed for the day—in a striking patterned gown of plum and gold—and descended the staircase of her Paris townhouse to decide her next course of action.

Last night had been…decadent. Cousin Alphonse had displayed her like a prized English flower to a room full of colonels and generals and comtes and courtesans. The champagne had flowed freely, and every time she turned around, she heard men saying, "Dammartin, you must introduce me to ta cousine." And, in response, she had smiled, and sparkled, and scintillated like a cut diamond.

Yet, despite the splendour of it all, the whole evening had felt vapid, as if it were missing some vital spark to make the moment come alive, to make the moment mean something. For Louisa was certain that, despite all the lilting laughter and lively banter, no one truly meant anything they said at this exclusive salon. It was as vacuous a set as her father had befriended, just like Prince George's cronies at Carlton House.

She reminded herself that the importance of the evening had been less in the conversation than in the connections. If she could successfully make her entrée into Parisian society, she would have an acceptable position to wait out the rest of the year until she reached her majority. Rather than hiding in the shadows as a governess, she could enjoy this season as an Incomparable without fear of Uncle Nigel or Mr. Digby. In five months' time, she would be a free woman, with no guardian to dictate commands and no husband to fritter away her wealth. Then she could decide whether to stay in Paris or return to London on her own terms.

The success she met at the salon came with its own disadvantages. She had a headache from the champagne, and she barely remembered the carriage ride home in Alphonse's company. She had one niggling memory of pushing him away when he tried to sit too close. She did not think he had taken any further liberties, but she was determined she would not drink again in his company. Her head ached as a reminder of her imprudence, but it was not so bad that she had to keep to her bed. That was a blessing, for if she stayed in her chambers, she would not catch sight of the one person she was most curious to see….

Sweeping through the entrance hall in her morning dress of plum and gold, Louisa noticed that her liveried footman was absent from his place. "Where is Monsieur Pebble?"

"He went to the post, milady," said Cosette, bobbing a curtsey.

The post! Who do you think he is writing to? Is he sending letters home to England? To Penelope Trafford? To your uncle, the duke?

Louisa's face turned into a rigid mask. "Do you know the name of his correspondent?"

Cosette smiled, a perfect smile with dimples. " La! He did not say." She gave her employer an arch look. "I do not think it was a lady, though."

"I do not pay you to make insinuations," said Louisa, her patience exhausted with Cosette's unwelcome suggestions. The maid was proficient at laundering her clothes and coiffing her hair, but her impudence was unmatched.

"Of course not, milady," said Cosette, bobbing another curtsey with a contrite expression.

It was at that moment that Gyles entered the hallway, having come upstairs from the kitchen.

"Monsieur Pebble," said Louisa sharply.

"Milady." He bowed, his trim navy livery both eminently attractive and a constant reminder of his current position. Louisa remembered when their positions were reversed, when she had owed him the deference due to a gentleman while she was dressed in the drab dove-grey of a governess. Would they ever meet each other on an equal plane when neither of them was playing a masquerade?

"I need to speak with you. Privately." Louisa nodded for Gyles to follow her into the drawing room, and then—ignoring Cosette's gaping mouth—shut the door firmly behind them.

"Well?" she demanded as Gyles relaxed his posture. Apparently, he felt more at ease in her presence when it was just the two of them alone. "Where were you?"

"I had an errand."

"My footmen do not go on errands unless I send them. "

"So, you consider me your footman now?" He crossed his arms and leaned against the white-panelled drawing room wall. "I recall you dismissing me from your service."

"Then you also recall me paying for your livery when you refused to leave. Of course, you are my footman. What was your errand?"

"I had a letter to send."

"You had no right." Louisa felt her words begin to come faster. Her heart beat like the footsteps of a link boy running downhill, and her violet-brown eyes opened like moonflowers in the dark. "What did you tell him? Did you say I was in Paris?"

He knows where you are now. He will come to find you, with that big-bellied Mr. Digby on his coattails, and they'll spirit you away to—

Before she knew it, Gyles' hands had reached out to place themselves on her shaking shoulders. "Nothing. I told him nothing." His voice was soothing, understanding, consoling. "The letter was not to your uncle."

"Then, to whom?" demanded Louisa, regaining control of herself. "To Miss Trafford?"

Gyles' hands dropped slowly to his sides. "Certainly not. I have no understanding with Penelope Trafford."

Louisa took a deep breath and attempted to deflect attention from her own shocking display of feeling. "She likes you—it is obvious. You've awakened expectations by spending time with her."

Gyles' brown eyes considered her face. "I've spent far more time with another young lady. Yet somehow, I doubt that expectations have been awakened in that quarter."

Louisa blanched .

What is this? A warning to keep your own expectations in check? A piece of advice not to see anything in his pursuit of you beyond an impartial display of chivalry?

"If not to my uncle or Miss Trafford, then to whom, sir? To your mother?"

"It probably ought to have been. But no, it was to Sir Abraham Hume."

Louisa frowned. "Who is that? I've heard the name before—"

"He is a botanist. I asked him to look in on my rosebush at Kendall House."

Louisa stared at him blankly. He had gone to the post for a rosebush?

He gave her a crooked smile, as if he were embarrassed to have brought up the matter. His chagrin made him look even more boyish and more charming than usual.

"Your rosebush! Upon my word, Mr. Audeley, you are a very singular fellow."

"I am sorry if my peculiarities give you a distaste of me."

"Not a…distaste," said Louisa, feeling as self-conscious as she had been when Gyles had delivered her bathwater. "Simply a bewilderment."

Truth be told, her bewilderment was more about his memory than his peculiarities. Did he even remember their previous encounter at Carlton House? She decided to explore the matter and give him an opening. "Why do you care so much about roses?"

"I have a large rose garden in Derbyshire," Gyles explained patiently. "I am a rose collector, and the rose I brought with me to London is one of my rarest. I left it, rather suddenly if you remember, and I'm afraid it might not be getting along satisfactorily on its own. "

"You are a rosarian," said Louisa, remembering when he had taught her the word four and a half years ago.

Clearly, he has no memory of your first conversation, or he would not have spent so long explaining himself. No doubt Gyles Audeley helps every woman who comes across his path, and he's helped so many of them that he does not even remember the deed. He has no particular fondness for you—he only followed you to France to ensure your safety as any chivalrous gentleman would have done.

"Yes, I am a rosarian," repeated Gyles, oblivious to the conversation going on inside her head. "I hope to write a book one day, collating the things I have learned throughout my endeavours in gardening."

"A book?" Louisa could think of nothing more tedious, and yet somehow, he made the topic interesting because he was so…interested. She felt herself leaning in closer to him, the smell of freshly laundered linen coming from the neckcloth about his throat.

"On the cultivation and care of the rosa rubiginosa ." He looked down modestly. "I beg your pardon. I suppose I must seem insufferably pedantic."

Louisa made no answer. Pedantic, certainly. But somehow, not insufferable. And yet, how much he must be suffering to leave his garden and his writings behind to follow her across the continent! How had she ever allowed him to do it? That was the insufferable thing.

"Mr. Audeley," she said, taking a deep breath. "The more I know about you, the more I am certain that it was a mistake for you to leave England. You should tend to your roses yourself. Go home, sir."

At that, her tall, broad-shouldered footman looked her in the eye. "With all due respect, milady, no. I won't leave your side until I'm certain you're safe and secure."

"My preux chevalier ," said Louisa, her lip curling scornfully.

Your white knight. If it takes scorn to send him home where he belongs, then scorn is what you must give him.

"Your preux chevalier," replied Gyles, and there was nothing mild-mannered about the glittering fire in his brown eyes. "Will that be all, milady?"

"Yes. That will be all," said Louisa, dismissing him with a flick of the hand.