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topped her by nearly half a foot. His blond head loomed over the waving purple flowers on her bonnet, gleaming with its own light in the dim cabin. Unlike the men Amy had known back in Shropshire, who still wore their hair clubbed back with a ribbon, Lord Richard’s was cut short in the new French style. Lord Richard carried himself with an air of easy assurance infinitely more convincing than Derek’s swaggering. From his highly polished boots to his waistcoat embroidered in a subtle pattern in silver, he was dressed with a casual elegance that made Derek and his ilk look foppish and overdone. He had evidently anticipated being alone on the boat, because his black frock coat was tossed over a chair, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his cravat loosened. Where his collar gaped open, Amy could see the strong lines of his throat. He looked, Amy thought, like an illustration she had once seen of Horatius at the bridge, defending Rome against all comers.
    Her cheeks flushed a deep, uncomfortable red as she realised that the cords of his throat had gone still, the room was silent, and Lord Richard was staring at her staring at him.
    Amy covered her confusion by saying hastily, ‘This is absolutely ridiculous! There’s no reason at all why anybody should be forced to wait for the next boat. After all, there’s plenty of room for all of us.’ With a sweeping gesture, she indicated the four walls of the room.
    ‘Out of the question,’ snapped Miss Gwen.
    Amy shook her dark curls in an unconscious gesture of defiance. ‘Why?’
    ‘Because,’ Miss Gwen pronounced witheringly, ‘you cannot stay the night in the same room as a gentleman.’
    ‘Oh.’ Amy took a quick look at the watch pinned to Miss Gwen’s bony chest. From what she could make out, it looked to be just a little past four. Edouard’s carriage wasn’t due to pick them up until the following morning, anyway, so they would put up for the night at an inn in Calais. Surely it couldn’t take all that long to cross such anarrow body of water as the Channel. As long as they reached France before midnight, remaining in the cabin with Lord Richard couldn’t really be counted as spending the night in the same room as a man. After all, Amy resolved with splendid illogic, if nobody went to bed, it wasn’t spending the night.
    ‘How long does it take to reach Calais, my lord?’
    ‘That depends on the weather. Anywhere from two hours to three days.’
    ‘Three days?’
    ‘Only in very bad weather,’ Richard drawled.
    ‘Oh. But look! It’s absolutely lovely outside. Really, what’s the harm of sharing the space for an insignificant two hours?’
    Amy looked around the small group expectantly. Jane suddenly turned towards the window, and held up her hand for silence. ‘Listen,’ she said.
    Amy listened. She heard the steady slap of waves at the keel of the boat, the keening cry of a seagull, and the scrape of their bags on the wood floor as the motion of the boat made them shift back and forth. Nothing more.
    ‘What am I supposed to hear?’ she asked curiously. ‘I don’t hear anything. Just – oh.’
    From the disgruntled expression on Lord Richard’s face, she knew he had reached a similar conclusion.
    Miss Gwen rapped her parasol impatiently on the ground. ‘Just what? Speak up, girl.’
    Amy glanced from Jane to Lord Richard for confirmation. ‘I don’t hear the sounds of the people on the dock anymore.’
    ‘That’s right,’ Lord Richard nodded grimly. ‘We’ve set sail.’
    Amy’s face fell for a moment. ‘So much for plan A,’ she muttered. Stopping at the inn had ceased to be an option. At least she had the consolation of knowing that the odds of running into the Purple Gentian there had been slim in the extreme. For all she knew, he was in France at this very moment, giving instructions to his band of devoted men or filching documents from under the noses of Frenchofficials or… Upon reflection, it really was best that they get to France