TWO CARRIAGES WERE REQUIRED to transport the Traherne party to Barmouth. The ladies and young Master Davy occupied the first, a large and lumbering traveling coach with the Earl of Tallyn’s crest emblazoned upon the door, while two abigails, Mr. Glendower, Marwyn, and piles of luggage occupied the second. The journey began early in the morning, and Davy, being the youngest, found himself occupying the forward, rear-facing seat between the younger two of his three sisters. In the short space of time it took the two carriages to reach the outskirts of Dolgellau, a scattering of neat stone houses and narrow streets at the confluence of the Wnion and Mawddach rivers, his squirming and stretching to see the passing countryside had begun to annoy them both.
“Do, for heaven’s sake, stop wriggling!” exclaimed Eliza.
“I want to see,” was his simple response. “Why are there so many people about at such an early hour?”
“Because Dolgellau is a market town, of course,” responded Gwenyth loftily. “Don’t you know anything? Sit still.”
“There’s a man with a pig on his shoulder!”
“Davy, sit back where you belong,” commanded Eliza. “You are crushing my dress. Really, Meri, cannot you make him be still?”
Meriel smiled. “We have a half-day’s journey before us, so the three of you will have to settle yourselves as best you can. Perhaps if one of you were to exchange seats with him, you would all be more comfortable.”
“Well, I shall not,” said Gwenyth firmly, “for I wish to look out also. Besides, if I sit in the middle I shall more than likely be sick.”
“That’s true enough,” said Eliza with a sigh. “Very well, Davy, you may sit here. But don’t scramble over me like a puppy, for heaven’s sake,” she added hastily. “If you will stand up a little, perhaps I can slide under you.”
This feat was accomplished, and Davy was soon happily engaged in peering out at the passing populace, his button nose pressed against the glass. “Dolgellau is a very important town, is it not?” he said a moment later as the coach passed the Golden Lion, a bustling inn that had been nearly as famous in the days of the Tudors as it was now, and lumbered over the cobbles toward Saint Mary’s church with its distinctive oak pillars and tall spiked steeple.
Gwenyth snorted. “Only wait until you see London, Mr. Know-all. Then you will think Dolgellau quite paltry.”
Meriel chuckled at Davy’s wide-eyed expression. “London is a much larger city, you see, but Dolgellau is certainly important to Wales, for besides being a marketing town, it is also a manufacturing center.”
“Indeed,” put in Lady Cadogan. “Do you recall from your lessons with Mr. Glendower just what is manufactured here, Davy?”
The boy nodded without taking his eyes from the view. “Flannel. He told me that the wool from our sheep is used for that purpose. Oh, look, we are coming to a bridge.”
Once over the ancient stone bridge crossing the Wnion, it was but a short distance to the Barmouth Road, which wound through a dark and gloomy vale to the village of Llanelltyd, then beyond through the mountains, following the course of the River Mawddach. Both road and river were hemmed in by rocky cliffs and steep banks hung with plantations of larch trees. To their left, kingfishers dove into the river, which flowed swiftly as it carved its way through the rock, its tumbling, rushing progress audible even over the noise of the carriage wheels. It seemed to Meriel, who had traveled the route several times before, that each curve brought a new and more magnificent burst of scenery to view, so she could not be surprised that her small brother continued to peer from his window without any sign of incipient boredom. She exchanged an amused glance with Lady Cadogan.
“I daresay we are all looking forward to a change,” that lady said, smiling.
“Indeed, ma’am.”
“’Tis early days yet, of course, but I daresay we shall not find Barmouth thin of company.”
“Who will be there, do you think?” demanded Gwenyth.
Meriel leaned back, settling herself more comfortably against the squabs, as the conversation drifted on between her sisters and Lady Cadogan. It did not much matter to her who might be in Barmouth, so long as the Earl of Uxbridge was there with the papers he had promised to obtain for her. The three days they would pass waiting for the packet boat that would carry them south along the rugged coast would go quickly enough. For herself, she would have been content to remain two more days at Plas Tallyn, but she had let the weight of the others’ arguments persuade her to depart early enough to enjoy several days at the seaside resort. Her senses stirred only when she thought ahead to her journey into France. Despite the peace, she could not help thinking that adventure, perhaps even danger, lay ahead. Tiny thrills raced up her spine at the thought.
The river alongside which they traveled began to widen considerably, and within the hour they reached the head of the Mawddach estuary, a broad, somewhat boggy arm of Cardigan Bay. Two more hours of winding road lay ahead, however, before they topped a rise and were able at last to look down upon the sea and the thriving little resort town that was their destination.
Despite the fact that Barmouth was the main port of Merionethshire, it was not a large town and was situated, Meriel thought, in one of the most undesirable places that could have been chosen for it. The golden beach that stretched for two miles on either side of it was pleasant enough, but while some of the picturesque houses had been built right upon the sand at the bottom of the huge rock cliff that entirely sheltered the town on the east, others occupied seemingly impossible positions at different elevations right upon the cliffside and were connected by a series of narrow, winding, entirely precipitous flights of stairs cut out of the rock.
“Goodness,” Davy breathed, gripping the doorframe with white knuckles and struggling to lean forward enough to see out the window as the carriage began the steep descent toward the sea.
Eliza had closed her eyes as the carriage lurched over the rise, but Gwenyth peered from her window, craning her neck to see what lay ahead, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Only look,” she said, grinning. “I daresay that the people in some of those houses might almost cure their bacon by simply hanging it out the window over their neighbors’ chimneys.”
Meriel, bracing herself against the increasing incline and hoping the coachmen knew their business, smiled at her sister’s comment. Certainly the houses were curious ones, looking as though they ought to slide into one another or topple into the sea at any moment. She had spent the summer here more than once as a child, however, and knew they were quite solidly built.
Since their stay this time would be a short one, she had arranged for them to put up at the most comfortable of several inns located at the bottom of the cliff where the road—the only road in Barmouth—ran between the cliffside and the quay. Instead of watching the steep, winding road ahead, she turned her attention to the wide, curving bay, where afternoon sunlight sparkled on green water and where at least fifty boats of assorted sizes rested at anchor.
Within the hour they were settled in their rooms at the lovely old inn and Mrs. Lewis, the proprietress, had begun to serve a light luncheon in their private sitting room. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring the town and the quayside, and by suppertime Lady Cadogan had discovered that not only were the Earl and Countess of Uxbridge in residence at their home just north of the village, but that a number of her other acquaintances were in Barmouth as well. Thus, it was not surprising that the following morning found the Traherne ladies happily engaged in poring over a number of invitations that had been delivered to their sitting room with their breakfast trays.
“A boating party!” exclaimed Gwenyth, reading over Meriel’s shoulder. “Oh, may I go too, Meri? Please?”
“You will only be sick,” said Eliza calmly.
“I shan’t!”
Meriel glanced up at her youngest sister. “I daresay you would be, you know, but the question will not arise—or not so far as that party is concerned, at any event—for it is not to be until Saturday and by then, you know, we will be aboard the packet. Half these invitations are for events that take place after our departure, I’m afraid.”
“Not this one,” said Lady Cadogan with a broad smile. “Only look, Meriel, my love. The Countess of Uxbridge desires our presence at a dinner party Thursday evening. How very kind of her, to be sure.”
“Indeed,” Meriel agreed, “though perhaps we ought to call at Uxbridge Hall earlier to obtain my passport and the letters his lordship promised.”
“Am I included in her ladyship’s invitation?” Eliza asked, her casual tone belied by the spark of excitement in her eyes.
Lady Cadogan twinkled back at her. “Certainly you are, my dear. It will be the perfect way to begin your come-out, for I daresay it will not be an extremely large party, since her ladyship is but lately delivered of her second son. Uxbridge, you know, is a distinguished military officer with the highest connections. Moreover, he is a most delightful and obliging gentleman, for you know he must have had to go to Aberystwyth in order to procure your sister’s passport, there being no customs office in Barmouth, or anywhere else in Merioneth that I know about. Her ladyship, Meriel, mentions that he will have your documents for you Thursday evening, by the by, so we need not exert ourselves before that.” She turned back to Eliza. “Lady Uxbridge, you will find, is as delightful as her husband, though, to be sure, she is a daughter of the Earl and Countess of Jersey, of whom you have often heard me speak. Caroline is a little like her mother, I’m afraid, but of course, such behavior is not at all odd in a young woman. You will wear your white muslin with the lavender silk sash, my dear.”
After that everything else seemed a trifle flat to the younger ladies, for Gwenyth was nearly as excited about Eliza’s first dinner party as Eliza was, and neither of them could think that Lady Cadogan or Meriel would enjoy the soiree to which they had been invited that evening nearly as much as they would the countess’s dinner party. Indeed, the hours seemed to drag until at last it was time for Eliza to be handed into the carriage behind her aunt and elder sister. Less than twenty minutes later, the three ladies found themselves upon the threshold of a charmingly appointed rose-and-cream drawing room, hearing their names announced by a stately butler to the Earl and Countess of Uxbridge and their guests.
Meriel noted that there were some twenty persons present in the room, and as she made her curtsy to the gallant earl and his pretty, bright-eyed countess, she spared thought for little other than whether her slim sea-green skirt would trip her up or not, but as she raised her head to smile at her hosts, her glance encountered that of a tall gentleman to the earl’s right. Something, perhaps the fact that he was staring directly, even appraisingly, at her, or, more likely, the casual boredom in his eyes, arrested her gaze. She could not seem to look away.
The gentleman was an inch or two over six feet tall, with thick, curling golden-brown hair and dark hazel eyes. His broad shoulders threatened to split the seams of his dark, form-hugging coat, and his thighs, beneath cream-colored satin breeches, bulged with solid, well-developed muscles.
It was not until she heard her host’s low chuckle that she realized where her gaze had wandered, and Meriel’s cheeks were flushed when she jerked her attention back to the earl.
“May I present Sir Antony Davies to your notice, Lady Meriel?” that gentleman inquired suavely.
“’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” said Sir Antony in soft, clipped tones.
Meriel murmured that the pleasure was hers, whereupon Lord Uxbridge said cheerfully, “Sir Antony is in Merioneth on business, ma’am, though he generally, I regret to say, resides in London. Lady Meriel, too, is a transient visitor, Tony. She departs on Saturday’s morning tide for the French coast.” He smiled at Meriel. “I have your passport, money, and several letters of introduction, including one to Lord Whitworth, the British ambassador in Paris, and will see that you receive them before you leave tonight. As per Lady Cadogan’s instructions, your passport lists one Gladys Peat as your servant. I don’t mind telling you,” he added, “that I wish I might have added a footman or two, as well, for I cannot approve of your traveling without male escort, but I daresay your aunt has already told you what I wrote to her on that head, so I shall say no more.”
Meriel, still flustered, listened while Uxbridge presented Lady Cadogan and Eliza, and then was presented in turn to another gentleman, who had also been standing, albeit unnoticed by herself, with Sir Antony and Uxbridge.
Mr. George Murray had little to recommend him in such company, for he was quite unlike any of the other gentlemen in the room. Indeed, Meriel thought, after exchanging but the merest of pleasantries with him, that he must be one of the officers lately serving under Uxbridge, for despite an intelligence of eye, he had more the manner of a common foot soldier than of a gentleman. He was of no more than medium height and was dressed neatly but with little elegance. His speech was undistinguished, and although she noted that the earl and several other gentlemen with whom she was slightly acquainted treated Mr. Murray with marked respect, she was grateful to find that not he but Sir Antony Davies had been partnered with her for dinner. Mr. Murray was, in fact, seated across the table from Lady Cadogan, who was at Sir Antony’s right hand, so politeness would preclude their even having to converse with him. Not, she decided after some moments of silence, that Sir Antony’s conversation was particularly stimulating.
“I believe his lordship said you reside in London, sir,” she said at last as an opening gambit.
“A splendid place, London. Very civilized.”
“Indeed, I have been there only once, but I found it a pleasant city.”
“Do try some of this tripe, my lady. ’Tis remarkably well cooked.”
“Is it indeed?”
“I shall have to inquire as to its making. My chef does not prepare it nearly so well as this.”
“You provide your chef with recipes, sir?”
He glanced at her in surprise. “But of course. How should he otherwise know my preferences?”
Meriel hid a smile. “I daresay you are the sort of man who orders his boots polished with champagne, are you not?”
Hazel eyes glinted into hers, and Sir Antony’s fork was suspended in space for a full three seconds before he lowered it to his plate. “You had that nonsense from Brummell, I daresay.”
“The infamous Beau Brummell, sir? I know that he has made a name for himself by determining what shall and shall not be acceptable dress for gentlemen of taste. He has been described to me by friends who are so kind as to correspond occasionally with me from London, but I have never actually met him. At the risk of offending your sensibilities,” she added confidingly, “I must confess that although their habits seem to have changed considerably since my sojourn in London, I am not generally drawn to dandies. Such preoccupation with appearance puts me off.”
“One’s appearance must necessarily be of some importance,” he said, regarding her more closely than he had before, “but I do not, so far as I know, have my boots polished with champagne. I have recently acquired a new manservant, so I cannot presume to know all his secrets, but ’tis my firm belief that not even Brummell’s man uses champagne.”
“No, sir? But I was told—”
“My dear girl, you cannot have considered the matter,” he said calmly. “Can you imagine what alcohol—for that is what champagne is, after all—would do to good leather? A week of such polishing, and the leather would be utterly ruined.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, that is true. Alcohol would dry it out, would it not?”
He nodded and returned his attention to his dinner.
Meriel turned back to her own plate, but although she scarcely heeded the gentleman seated upon her left, she found that she was uncommonly aware of Sir Antony’s presence at her right hand. When a slight movement of his set her nerves atingle, she mentally scolded herself. He appeared, after all, to be nothing more than a lazy bon vivant, more interested in his dinner and the habits of his new manservant than in anything of importance. Still, when he turned his attention to Lady Cadogan, she found herself straining to overhear what they said to one another. It was no use, for his soft voice did not carry, and although she overheard her aunt’s trilling laughter more than once, she could make out nothing of sense. A moment later, the gentleman on her left spoke to her and she had, perforce, to turn her attention to him. A half-hour passed before she was able to converse with Sir Antony again.
“Your aunt tells me,” he said then, “that you travel alone into France. Is that not a somewhat unwise venture for a gently nurtured female?”
“Indeed not, sir. For one thing, I do not go alone. My maid, Gladys Peat—a most stalwart woman—accompanies me. For another, I am not so delicately nurtured as all that. I have grown up in what has been called the most rugged of all the Welsh districts, and I am accustomed to looking after myself and the rest of my family as well. Indeed, it is on my sister’s behalf that I go to France. My youngest sister is to go to school in Rouen at Michaelmas if all goes according to plan. But I must first see the place for myself and interview the headmistress. ’Tis l’École de Bonté, which my aunt attended when she was a young girl—before the Revolution, you know.”
“I see.” He smiled at her then, and she found to her surprise that she was smiling back. Then, instead of arguing, as she had quite expected him to do, that it was not seemly for a young woman to travel abroad with only her maid, however stalwart, for company, he said, “Is it truly safe, do you think, to send your sister to France to school?”
Lady Cadogan’s ears were clearly sharper than Meriel’s, for she spoke up from his other hand. “Perfectly safe, Sir Antony, for we are at peace now, are we not? Moreover, where in England might a young lady acquire such a fine education for a mere eighteen pounds, fifteen shillings per annum?”
Davies settled back in his chair, and Meriel noted that his eyes were twinkling. “Where, indeed, ma’am? Is that figure inclusive? I must tell you I am something of an expert on school expenses, for I have a sister who must be much the same age as your niece, and the cost of her education has fallen to me.”
Lady Cadogan frowned. “I believe the charge is a comprehensive one, sir, but I do not recall precisely.”
“Neither French nor arithmetic is included,” Meriel said. “I believe one pays a guinea extra for each. Oh, and another guinea if Gwenyth wishes to take wine instead of beer with her meals.”
“That last,” said Sir Antony, “would be a guinea well spent, would it not? Beer? Good Lord.” But the hazel eyes were dancing now. “Is the drawing master thrown in for the comprehensive fee?”
“No, nor the music master either,” she retorted. “They are three guineas more.”
“But, Meriel dear, the comprehensive fee does include board, lodging, washing, and dancing,” Lady Cadogan protested. “That is quite a lot, and nothing, you know, can compare with a good French education.”
“I cannot agree, ma’am,” said Sir Antony. “I believe a sound English education is better than what one can get anywhere else. I daresay that when you look more closely into this French school, you will discover that there are further charges for tea and sugar, pens and recreations, and no doubt for anything else the good mistresses can think up.”
“Well, that is why I am going to see for myself,” Meriel said matter-of-factly. “We don’t know a soul in Rouen. Our nearest relative is my sister in Paris, so before I can even consider sending Gwenyth, I must know that the school is in fact an excellent one and its mistresses completely trustworthy.”
“If you desire to meet a trustworthy person in Rouen,” said George Murray suddenly from across the table, “I believe I can help you, Lady Meriel.”
She stared at him in amazement, realizing he had been attending quite openly to their conversation, but he was dearly unaware of having committed a social solecism. His very attitude confirmed her earlier belief that his background must be lacking in the social graces, but she couldn’t bring herself to snub him. That, in fact, would be as much a breach of manners as his speaking across the table. Consequently she smiled. “Can you, indeed, sir?”
“There is a priest,” he said, somewhat diffidently now that he had her attention. “I will understand if you do not wish to make his acquaintance, for I know that much prejudice still exists, particularly in Wales, against those of the Catholic faith, but I met him some years ago through mutual friends, and we have corresponded whenever possible. Naturally, while the war was on, we were unable to write, but he remembers me well enough, and he must know nearly everyone in Rouen. If you like, I will give you a letter of introduction to him. He has mentioned the school, so I am certain he will be able to tell you a great deal about it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Meriel said. “I shall be most grateful for such a letter.” She was amused a moment later to note that Sir Antony’s attention was once again firmly riveted upon his dinner and that conversation around the table had become general, with a number of persons speaking across the board. Evidently Lady Uxbridge herself had encouraged others to follow Mr. Murray’s example. Meriel watched that gentleman closely for some moments, but she could still discover nothing about him that warranted such a thought for his feelings from one so high in the instep as the countess was known to be.
After supper, when the ladies had retired to the elegant rose-and-cream drawing room, leaving the gentleman to their port, conversation turned rather quickly, Meriel thought, from the usual topics of family and children to the year-old peace treaty with France. Since she had heard little during the heavy Welsh winter about what was going forward, she listened carefully and soon discovered that feelings were mixed. Several persons in the Uxbridge drawing room had actually been in Paris the previous August to help celebrate Napoleon Bonaparte’s assumption of the title of Life Consul.
“Such a charming man,” said one plump baroness with a sigh.
Another, much thinner lady gasped at her. “Adelaide, have your wits gone begging? That dreadful man is responsible for the deaths of thousands of young Englishmen.”
“Well, no doubt he is,” the baroness admitted, frowning, “but I daresay he means well, you know.”
“He cannot be trusted,” said the thin lady.
“We had a letter from my mama only last month,” put in Lady Uxbridge quickly as the baroness bristled, “informing us that yet another Frenchman has been found guilty of spying in London. Since that dreadful Joseph Fouché is no longer the French minister of police, and is indeed quite out of favor, why do you suppose there are still such persons abounding in this country? While he was at the helm, of course, one might expect anything of the French. But Bonaparte dismissed him. Moreover, we are at peace, are we not? It all seems prodigious odd to me.”
“That’s the French, when all is said and done,” said the thin lady, as Meriel glanced quickly toward her sister, being grateful that it was Eliza and not Gwenyth who had accompanied them that night. Gwenyth, like their brother Jocelyn, would have taken immediate exception to the countess’s casual notion that England and Wales were but one country.
“I daresay you know the French well,” Lady Cadogan said, smiling gently at the thin woman. “I went to school in France myself, and I found any number of quite well-bred Frenchmen, who would no doubt be as appalled as any Englishman at the thought of spying on one’s fellow-man.”
“Do we not send spies into France, then?” asked Eliza, who had been sitting quietly in a corner until now. “I should have thought we would if they send spies to our country.”
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Lady Uxbridge, shaking her head. “Wherever can you have come by such a notion, I wonder.”
Eliza flushed to the roots of her hair, and Meriel said quickly, “You cannot have thought carefully before you spoke, dear. Only think of how strongly the English believe in fair play. Surely you must realize that to spy, even upon one’s enemy in wartime, simply is not done.”
“Not by decent persons, surely,” agreed a masculine voice from the doorway, and the ladies all turned quickly to discover that Uxbridge was leading the gentlemen in from the dining room. He chuckled, glancing over his shoulder to ascertain just how many of the others had overheard Meriel’s comment. “Our womenfolk seem to be discussing a distressingly unfeminine subject, gentlemen.”
His wife laughed. “Peace is certainly a feminine notion rather than a masculine one, sir, and that, I will have you know, is what we were discussing.”
He moved to stand behind her chair. “And what, pray tell, does spying have to do with peace, Caroline, my dear?”
“Just what we were wondering ourselves,” she informed him. “I was merely speaking of Mama’s letter, the one where she mentioned the latest French spy, and young Lady Eliza wished to know if his English counterpart existed in France. I was happy to tell her he does not.”
“Certainly not his counterpart,” said Sir Antony, letting his gaze drift from one lady to another. “We have not had anyone since Sir Francis Walsingham during Elizabeth’s reign, who has managed to create an information-gathering network equal to that of Joseph Fouché’s. As you have noted, we are still discovering the remnants of Fouché’s vast organization. However, ma’am, I hope no one is so foolish as to think that the English do not engage in any form of intelligence gathering, which is, after all, what spying is all about.”
“Here now, man,” protested the baroness’s husband, “surely you won’t have it that we stoop to such depths as those damned Frenchies—begging your pardon, ladies, but ’tis more than a man may stomach to hear such an accusation.”
Sir Antony regarded him calmly. “’Tis scarcely foolish to wish one’s army to be prepared for what lies ahead, sir, when all it takes to accomplish the deed is a scout or two sent on ahead to look over the landscape and draw a map or two.”
“Oh, that. Well, of course, we do that. Damned foolish not to, as you say. But those scouts are scarcely spies, sir. Brave soldiers, every one of them, wearing their uniforms as they ought to do. And when they’re caught, by gad, as they too often are, they’re civilly treated as prisoners of war, just as we treat theirs—when they turn up in uniform. When they don’t, we hang ’em. Fair enough, I say. And not at all the same as a man’s pretending to be what he ain’t.”
There was a small silence, after which a gentleman whose name Meriel did not know suggested that perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea as all that to send a spy or two to Paris to try what they could to discover what Bonaparte was about at the moment. “For, peace or no peace, if he ain’t got designs for some new enterprise in the Levant, you may call me a Dutchman.”
“Well, even if he has,” said the baron, “surely you wouldn’t ask an Englishman to poke and pry through the man’s secret papers to find out? Dammit, man, it just ain’t done.”
“Even if it meant saving a regiment?” inquired Sir Antony gently.
Meriel turned with several others to stare at him, but his expression was enigmatic, and she could not tell for certain whether he was serious or merely trying to stir up a hornet’s nest. Several gentlemen began then to speak at once, their voices increasing in volume until Uxbridge interrupted them with a laugh.
“My friends, we cannot determine Bonaparte’s intentions by shouting about them in my wife’s drawing room, I assure you. We must simply trust that our hard-won peace will continue and leave the details to such persons as Prime Minister Addington and his aides. Perhaps Miss Claversham,” he added, nodding toward a blushing young lady in a white muslin dress, “will indulge us now by playing for a time upon the pianoforte.”
Although Meriel saw one or two backs stiffen at the mention of the prime minister, giving her to believe that Mr. Addington was thought of no more highly here in Barmouth than Lady Cadogan had said he was in London, no one debated Uxbridge’s right to put an end to such an improper discussion. Miss Claversham proved to be an accomplished pianist and had the good sense to begin with a soothing minuet, followed by several cheerful folk songs, so the mood of the company rapidly settled into one more appropriate to the occasion. Not another word was said about Napoleon Bonaparte or the Peace of Amiens, and Meriel’s own thoughts soon turned to her sister Eliza, who, having quickly recovered from her embarrassment, was now responding in a quite unacceptable manner to the flirtations of a young sprig of fashion.
“Oh, pooh,” that young lady said later in the coach when Meriel took her to task, “he was a perfectly harmless young man.”
Tucking into her reticule the passport, several letters, and the comforting bundle of French money that Uxbridge had presented to her before their departure, Meriel said quietly, “I daresay you do not even know that young man’s name.”
“No, but it does not signify, for he said he would call upon us at the inn. Is he not the handsomest young man you ever laid your eyes upon, Meriel?”
“I quite thought Gwilym Dewsall was the handsomest young man of your acquaintance.”
Eliza shrugged, glancing out at the street as the carriage drew up at the inn. “I daresay he was,” she said casually.