Try as she might, Gabby couldn’t read his face. In fact, Erskine Dewland had the most unexpressive face she’d ever seen in her life. It was only when he smiled that his eyes came alive. Green eyes. A dark, green-gray that reminded her of the ocean when it was smooth as glass.

Without another word, Mr. Dewland walked over to the purser and began to query him about Miss Jerningham’s and Phoebe’s luggage.

Gabby crouched down next to the child. “Will you come with me to Peter’s home, Phoebe? I’m afraid your new mother didn’t get the message that our ship has docked. But I would very much like you to accompany me.”

The little girl nodded. Gabby could see that Phoebe was close to tears, and so she gave her a warm hug. “You will stay with me until we find your mama, sugarplum. I won’t leave you alone.”

Buttercup-yellow ringlets rubbed against Gabby’s shoulder. Then Phoebe straightened up. “My ayah said that English gentlewomen never show emotion,” she said, gulping.

“I don’t know about that,” Gabby said. “I’m a bit afraid to meet Peter. And I already miss Kasi Rao terribly. So I would feel much better if I had an old friend, like yourself, with me.”

Phoebe squared her shoulders and took Gabby’s hand again. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t leave you alone. But perhaps you should fix your hair. It’s all falling down again.”

Gabby put a tentative hand up to her hair. “Drat!” She had deliberately tried not to touch it ever since putting it up that morning, in hopes of meeting Peter while looking her best. Gabby snatched off her bonnet and handed it to Phoebe.

Long experience had taught her that the only way to make an acceptable arrangement out of her long, messy curls was to start from the beginning.

Quill turned around from his conversation with the purser and paused, riveted to the spot. Gabrielle Jerningham was pulling pins from her hair. It was falling down her back, long bronze locks rushing in a tangled glory down to her bottom. Quill swallowed. He’d never seen a lady’s hair down in a public place, and here was Miss Jerningham—Gabby—blithely shaking her curls, as if the crowd of stevedores, sailors, and boatmen around her were naught.

Those men were staring, mouths agape, at the delectable young woman who appeared to be undressing in their midst.

Quill was at her side in a moment, his face like thunder. “Where the devil is your lady’s maid?”

Gabby blinked. “I don’t have one,” she replied. “My father never believed in them; he said that any lady worth her salt could climb into her own garments.”

“A lady does not groom herself in public!”

For the first time Gabby looked around them, catching a glimpse of the men just as they hastily turned away.