Finally she pulled on her half boots, which looked even more shabby and stained as they peeped out from her white nightdress. Then she tiptoed out of the room, down the wide stairs—and hesitated. How was she to find the garden? If she went out the front door, she would be on the street, and there was undoubtedly no access to the garden from the street.

At the bottom of the hallway was a braise door—the door where Codswallop had disappeared with their outer garments the night before. So that was likely to lead to the servants’ quarters. And she knew that the drawing room filled with tiger tables didn’t lead to the garden. Gabby silently turned the knob to the last door. A moment later, she pushed one of the tall garden doors ajar and slipped through, shivering a bit at the rush of cool air that greeted her.

The sky was a pale, pale blue, as unlike the hotly oiled blue of an Indian sky as possible. And the air smelled different. It was rich and watery, as if it breathed rain. Gabby drifted into the garden like a ghost, glancing down at her small boots, watching the toes become spotted and then drenched dark with dew.

Before her the garden curled off in three directions. She wandered down a path that was lined in flowers gamely hanging on to their last petals—brilliant cherry-red roses and seashell-pink, delicate ones that grew in clusters. The air smelled different here too, spicy, like the applesauce she had tried for the first time the night before. Gabby reached out to pluck a blossom, but they were so beautiful and, admittedly, so wet that she drew back her hand.

In the distance Gabby could just hear the sounds of London waking up. The rumbling of carts drifted over the high stone walls, mingled with the sleepy waking calls of birds. She walked farther, remembering the full-throated brilliance of the orchids that grew around her father’s house and the shrieking birds that hid among those blossoms. Here the hedges hid twitters and small songs, introductory trills that sounded like songbooks for baby birds.

Her boots made whispering noises against the stone walk. She turned another slow curve—and stopped.

Her future brother-in-law was seated on a stone bench. His legs were stretched out full length before him, and his head was leaning back, eyes closed. Perhaps Quill was asleep? Gabby hesitated to wake him. He must spend a good deal of time in the garden, she thought. The sun had gilded his face a deep honey brown. One thing that she had noticed immediately was how white everyone in England was. Their faces shone like chalk or like pearl—well, like her face. Her father had never allowed her to be outdoors without a bonnet. He said he’d never be able to sell her on the marriage mart if the sun colored her skin.