“Thank goodness I am not fully English,” Gabby replied amiably. “Perhaps it is my French side that makes me so certain that I shall safely spend an afternoon on my own. I would not wish to keep you from your work.”

Quill, who had just been remembering the papers awaiting his signature, instantly changed his mind. “I have no work scheduled for this afternoon. I will accompany you.”

Gabby had the sudden thought that perhaps Quill didn’t want to be alone, given the saddening news about his father. It was unfortunate that his mother showed such a clear preference for one son over the other! Likely Quill was feeling neglected.

She turned and walked back into the house, absentmindedly handing her cashmere shawl to Codswallop.

Quill swallowed. What kind of gown had Gabby obtained from Madame Carême? He had never seen such an enticing garment in his life. It looked like something a courtesan might wear. From the back it perfectly outlined the rounded curve of her bottom. A curve that was longing, begging, to be cupped in Quill’s hand.

And the bodice of the gown was even worse. The flimsy muslin seemed to have been molded to her chest.

“I have located Mrs. Emily Ewing,” he said abruptly.

“How splendid! Does she live in London?”

“Yes.”

“She must not have received the letter sent from India. I shall write her a note directly,” Gabby exclaimed. “We can’t simply appear at her doorstep with a child and such unwelcome news about her sister.”

Quill just nodded. “I should like to know where you plan to go this afternoon.”

Gabby was stubbornly silent.

Quill moved over and tipped up her chin. Standing this close to her, he could smell an enticing, drifting smell of jasmine flowers.

“Gabby.”

In his quiet voice was a command. Gabby realized that. And it was no use asking something as foolish as Can I trust you? Obviously she could trust Quill. Her large, silent, future brother-in-law was the very essence of trustworthiness.

“It’s a trifling errand only,” she said desperately.

“Gabby.”

“All right. I would like to visit Hoare’s Bank. My father gave me a letter—”

“Ladies do not enter Hoare’s Bank,” Quill explained. “The letter will be delivered, and a representative of the bank will visit our house.”

“My father told me to never trust minor associates,” Gabby insisted. “I should like to speak to Sir Richard Hoare myself. And I can hardly request that the director of the bank journey to our house.”

“Then I shall accompany you,” Quill said. “You must understand, Gabby, that a woman’s reputation is her most important asset—” He broke off. Gabby had clearly stopped listening.

“Gabby, are you attending me?”