by Eloisa James
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Lady Sylvia observed with a wicked little smirk. Then she caught Gabby’s eye. “Very true as pertains to parents, however. She’s right, Phoebe my gel. Yer mother won’t blink an eye at your garment.”
Ten minutes later, Codswallop announced that Mrs. Ewing had arrived. Phoebe turned even paler and clung to Gabby’s hand.
“Where’d you put her, Codswallop?” Quill inquired.
“The Indian Drawing Room, sir.”
Lady Sylvia was starting on her fifth piece of toast and had accepted a plate of coddled eggs from the footman. “You go right on ahead,” she remarked. “Erskine, I’ll allow you to escort Gabrielle. Just don’t lose control of yourself.”
Gabby looked at her curiously.
“The whole idea of chaperoning is that a gentleman may go wild with lust at any given moment,” Lady Sylvia explained to Gabby around a mouthful of eggs. “Steal a kiss or something equally godforsaken, right in front of Codswallop. But we might as well begin as we mean to go on. And I’m not planning to dog your steps every time you wish to use the water closet.” She smirked at Quill’s furious look.
The moment Quill, Gabby, and Phoebe walked into the parlor, it was eminently clear that Lady Sylvia was correct when she said that Phoebe’s new mother wouldn’t blink an eye at the child’s overly short hem. Not that Mrs. Ewing’s own skirt was a fraction of an inch too short or too long. In fact, Mrs. Ewing looked as close to an illustration from La Belle Assemblée as it was possible for a living woman to be. She was wearing the most elegant morning dress Gabby had ever seen, ornamented with lace knots all the way down the sleeves. And she wore a rakish little cap, tied down with colored silk that matched her shoes.
Yet for all her elegance, she didn’t appear to notice Phoebe’s shabby clothing. She whirled around from the windows as they entered, and hesitated. Then she ran forward and fell on her knees before the little girl. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, cupping Phoebe’s face in her hands. “You are the very image of Carolyn, aren’t you?”
Phoebe looked back at her steadily, ignoring the awkward question. “Are you my new mama?”
Gabby saw with an odd twinge to her heart that Mrs. Ewing’s eyes had filled with tears.
“I gather I am,” she said. “I…I would be proud to be your new mama, Phoebe.” And she reached out her slender hands and gathered the child up, holding her tightly in her arms. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t know,” she said into Phoebe’s hair. “I would never have left you alone. I would have come to India and fetched you myself. But we had no idea that Carolyn and her husband had suffered an accident.”
She stood, still holding Phoebe.
“Please, Mrs. Ewing!” Gabby said quickly. “Won’t you and Phoebe sit down?” She gestured toward a settee.
“Well, yes,” the young woman replied, staggering a bit as she walked toward the seat. “My goodness, Phoebe, you must be all of four years old!”
At that Phoebe raised her head. “I’m not four years old! I’m five!”
“Five.” Mrs. Ewing’s eyes flickered. Then she added lightly, “How very remiss of Carolyn not to inform me of your birthday.”
Phoebe had folded her hands primly, even though she was now perched on Mrs. Ewing’s knees. “My birthday is in May. I will be six.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Ewing said.
Gabby sat down and surveyed her guest. She was a very beautiful woman, if far too thin and tired-looking. “Mrs. Ewing, do I understand that you are related to Phoebe’s mother?”
“I am.” Mrs. Ewing’s eyes were a lovely blue-gray, although they were positively ringed with fatigue. “I am one of Phoebe’s aunts. Phoebe’s mother, Carolyn, apparently chose me to be Phoebe’s guardian, but she neglected to inform me.”
Phoebe shook her head. “Mama and Papa didn’t inform anyone,” she reported. “Mr. Stokes, the English consul, had to go through their papers. And then he said that you are my guardian and likely my only living relative.” She looked alertly into Mrs. Ewing’s face.
“Well, I’m not your only relative,” Mrs. Ewing replied. She gave Phoebe a little squeeze. “Your aunt Louise is at home, longing to meet you. And…you have other family as well.”
Definitely there was something odd about Mrs. Ewing’s lame mention of “other family,” to Gabby’s mind.
“Mrs. Ewing,” Gabby said. “I am so sorry that I haven’t introduced myself.” She cast a dark look at Quill, who was leaning against the wall in a relaxed fashion, utterly neglecting his host duties. “You probably guessed from my letter that I am Miss Gabrielle Jerningham, and this is Mr. Erskine Dewland.”
Quill straightened and bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Gabby was a bit annoyed to notice how appreciatively Quill was looking at Mrs. Ewing. He had no right to look at a married woman with such enthusiasm.
“I’m afraid my family had not kept in touch with Carolyn as much as we ought, and so this has been rather a shock.” Mrs. Ewing’s smile faded. “I can’t imagine what would have happened to Phoebe if you hadn’t rescued her, Miss Jerningham. What luck you were on that particular vessel!”
“It was lucky for both of us,” Gabby remarked. “Phoebe was very pleasant company on the journey.” The way Quill was leaning forward and hanging on Mrs. Ewing’s every word was really quite annoying.
“We rarely heard from my sister,” Mrs. Ewing was saying. “Carolyn had an explorer’s soul, and her husband was as intrepid as she was. I’m afraid I received only one letter from her in the last seven years.”
“Sometimes she and Papa were gone for months,” Phoebe put in. “They had very important work to do.”
Mrs. Ewing brushed a kiss over Phoebe’s curls. “Did they never take you with them, poppet?”
“No, indeed,” Phoebe exclaimed. “Mama and Papa had important work. Mama always wished I could come with them, but they visited unsafe places. I stayed with my ayah, and Mama and Papa came to see me when they were able.”
“Was your father Roderick Pensington?”
Quill’s sudden question startled Phoebe, but she nodded. “My papa was a famous explorer,” she said proudly.
“He certainly was,” Quill affirmed. “He was the first westerner to trace the length of the Ganges River.”
Mrs. Ewing rose. “It is time that we were on our way. Your aunt Louise will be on tenterhooks until we arrive. And I imagine that Miss Jerningham and Mr. Dewland have plans of their own.”
“Oh, no,” Gabby exclaimed. “Please don’t go so quickly, Mrs. Ewing! I have grown very fond of Phoebe, and I hate to see her leave. I was hoping you might stay for luncheon.”
“Perhaps Phoebe can make a visit in the future,” Mrs. Ewing replied. “I am grateful to you for your invitation. But unfortunately, I have an appointment that cannot be altered.”
Gabby hesitated. There was nothing she could do about it, after all. She knelt down in front of Phoebe, who was clutching Mrs. Ewing’s hand. “Will you be quite all right, sweetheart?”
Phoebe nodded, her eyes solemn.
Gabby’s heart contracted, and she gave her a swift kiss. “Will you visit me?”
“Yes, but won’t you visit us?” Phoebe replied, with a hint of desperation in her tone. “Codswallop said your calling cards have been ordered. You could call on me. You haven’t met my aunt Louise.”
“I would love to call on you,” Gabby replied. She straightened and met Mrs. Ewing’s eyes. “I know it is an imposition, Mrs. Ewing, but may I visit Phoebe tomorrow? We were together every day during the voyage, and it is quite wrenching to part with her.”
Mrs. Ewing bit her lip. “Perhaps Phoebe may call on you tomorrow morning,” she said, after a brief hesitation.
Gabby rushed in before she could change her mind. “I will send the carriage for Phoebe if I may, Mrs. Ewing.”
“We would be grateful,” she replied with a dignified nod. “My sister and I do not maintain our own cattle.”
Gabby wai
ted until they left the room and then she burst out, “Quill, I am quite sure that there is something unusual about Mrs. Ewing’s household. Perhaps I should not have allowed Phoebe to leave with her. Did you notice that she does not wish me to visit?”
“I suspect she considers her house below your notice,” Quill remarked. “I do not believe that Phoebe’s aunts are very plump in the pocket.”
“But Mrs. Ewing’s dress displayed the greatest éclat. And I wouldn’t care what sort of house she owned!” Gabby paused and her eyes grew horrified. “She is a…a proper sort of person, isn’t she?”
Quill grinned. “I can certainly tell you’ve had a lot of experience with Cyprians, Gabby. Mrs. Ewing is perfectly respectable. The Thorpes, Phoebe’s maternal family, are held in the highest estimation by the ton, for what that’s worth. I believe their family seat is in Herefordshire. But, perhaps due to her marriage, Mrs. Ewing seems to have come down in the world.”
“That is absurd,” Gabby replied sharply. “If she were poor, she wouldn’t be so elegant.”
“Her gown may have been elegantly fashioned, but it was made of plain cambric,” Quill observed. “Her shoes had been overdyed, and she was exhausted. I think it’s quite likely that Mrs. Ewing is engaging in some sort of work. It reflects badly on the Thorpe family that she is so pressed. Perhaps they are estranged.”
“Oh, dear.” Gabby swallowed hard.
Then she felt a soft touch on her cheek. “Nothing you can do about it, Gabby,” Quill said. His large hand tipped up her chin and he brushed his fingers over her lips.
Gabby looked up at him without moving.
It was irresistible: her drifting jasmine perfume, her speaking eyes. Quill bent his head and their lips met. She tasted faintly like blackberry jelly. But that pedestrian flavor had nothing to do with the fire that raced up his loins when Gabby’s tongue met his—shyly, sweetly, something less than innocently.
Quill’s frail self-control crumbled, and a large hand stroked the middle of Gabby’s back, a delicious persuasion that made her press closer.
“Well, well,” a strident voice sounded in the room. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Gabrielle. Leave a man alone for a moment and he is overcome by lust.”
Gabby sprang back so fast that she almost overbalanced. “Forgive me, Lady Sylvia,” she gasped.
“For what?” Lady Sylvia strolled into the room to the sounds of yips and yaps. “I’m not the one being kissed. The Dewlands always were a lusty lot,” she added meditatively. “Now, if I think back to the details of Kitty’s first season …”
Quill shuddered. The last thing he wanted to hear about was his parents’ youthful indiscretions. “I can assure you, Lady Sylvia, that my reprehensible behavior will not recur.”
Lady Sylvia waved her hand imperiously. “Go on, why don’t you? Go do something intelligent, Erskine. I’m sure that I ought to deliver a lecture on propriety now, and I don’t need you around to hear it.”
Quill frowned.
“Leave,” Lady Sylvia growled.
“Lady Sylvia, Miss Jerningham.” He bowed and left the room.
“Prickly, isn’t he?” Lady Sylvia wandered over to the tiger table. “Good gracious, this table is a monstrosity. I can see that Kitty’s taste has gone from being somewhat indiscriminate to appalling.
“It’s none of my business, of course,” she went on, blithely ignoring her role as chaperone, “but you’re kissing the wrong one, aren’t you, gel?”
Gabby nodded, hot crimson in her cheeks.
“Do you want to marry Erskine, then? Mind you, it’s a better match, on the surface at least.”
“Oh, no,” Gabby exclaimed. “I’m very pleased to be marrying Peter, Lady Sylvia.”
“Then mind yourself, gel. No point in kissing a man you don’t want to marry. At least, not until you are married! And there’s my lecture for you.” Lady Sylvia gave her characteristic bark of laughter and strolled toward the door. “You have a caller, gel. Codswallop tells me that he’s put Lady Sophie, Duchess of Gisle, into the Yellow Drawing Room.” Her voice was a question.
“I met the duchess yesterday, in Madame Carême’s establishment,” Gabby said. She had her palms pressed against her hot cheeks.
“Well, stop looking so much like a guilty housemaid and let’s go meet the woman,” Lady Sylvia said. “I don’t know her myself, but I’ve admired her style. Now, there’s one that never minded a few kisses!”
QUILL STALKED INTO HIS CHAMBER, conscious of a shaming sense of embarrassment. What was it about Gabrielle Jerningham that led him to behave like such an utter ass? Kissing his brother’s fiancée! You’d think he was jealous. Whereas in truth, he told himself, he felt relief rather than jealousy.
He pulled off his clothes and moved toward his dressing room, clad only in smalls. He’d had the room stripped to the walls a few years ago, and now it housed only Dr. Trankelstein’s equipment. With an irritated jerk, Quill grabbed one of the German doctor’s oddly shaped dumbbells and began raising it in the air. After a while he slowed into a comforting and familiar rhythm.
By an hour later, his skin glowed and his right leg was aching from exertion. Quill cast a look of dislike at the machine in the corner. It was a horselike contraption, also designed by Dr. Trankelstein. But whereas Quill quite enjoyed working with Trankelstein’s dumbbells, he loathed the time he spent on the chamber horse. The doctor’s idea that its rocking motion would inure Quill to the motion of a true horse had borne little fruit. But Quill’s punctilious nature would not allow him to ignore the machine completely.
With a sigh, he rubbed his hands with a towel and climbed onto the horse. No two ways about it: He felt like a child riding a toy. Large leg muscles bunched on his thighs as Quill forced the horse into a rocking clip that sent searing pain through his hip and then gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach. He’d found by painful trial and error that he could go no longer than five minutes on the horse without inducing a migraine.
Today he endured his five minutes with gritted teeth, stopping the moment he saw faint purple flashes at the corner of one eye. It wasn’t a day for experimentation, not while he was acting as Gabby’s host.
THE NEXT MORNING Phoebe arrived on the doorstep at precisely the same moment as Lucien Boch. Gabby hurried into the drawing room to find them seated together as Lady Sylvia lazily watched from a nearby armchair.
“My new mama,” Phoebe was saying, “is a very important person. She decides what everyone in London wears.”
Lucien rose as Gabby entered the room. “I trust you are well, Miss Jerningham? You see that I have had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with Miss Phoebe.”
Gabby quickly bobbed a curtsy at the handsome Frenchman. “It’s splendid to meet you again, sir.” Then she turned to Phoebe. “How are you, dearest?”
“I am very well, thank you,” Phoebe replied, in her most grown-up fashion. Then she threw formality to the wind. “My new mama is very, very important! And Aunt Louise owns a teapot that might have a genie in it, and she swears—a lot! She said, ‘Zooks,’ and my mama told her that she had to hold her tongue in front of me. And then Aunt Louise said, ‘Zooks to that!’ And Mama got really mad.”
Gabby laughed. “Aren’t you a lucky girl?”
Phoebe nodded. She seemed to be shedding the unnatural formality her ayah had fostered. “Mama lowered my hem, you see?” She stuck out her little boot.
“Your mama lowered the hem by herself?”
“Oh, yes,” Phoebe said. “Our house isn’t full of servants, as yours is, Miss Gabby. There’s only Cook, and Sally, who does the cleaning, and Sherman. Sherman helps with the door, but he’s very, very old and often sleeps during the day. Mama says it’s more cozy with no strangers about, but we must all do our part, and this morning I carried my own dish into the kitchen after breakfast.” She paused to take a breath.
Lucien was listening with a great deal of amusement. “Mrs. Ewing sounds like a most intrepid woman,” he said.
He twinkled at Gabby. “I only wonder how she became so very, very important—and how she determines what everyone in London wears!”
“She writes it down,” Phoebe said. “Mama writes and writes, and then people read what she wrote, and they daren’t wear anything that Mama didn’t say they might. She knows all about clothing,” she added. “I told her about the pin tucks, and she thought my new dress sounded lovely.”
Gabby looked a puzzled question over Phoebe’s head.
“Perhaps Mrs. Ewing writes for a fashion magazine,” Lady Sylvia put in. “There are several, you know. The most influential one is La Belle Assemblée.”
“Mama’s writing is read by everyone in London,” Phoebe reported. “She tells them how they should behave, as well as what they should wear.”
“Quite likely La Belle Assemblée,” Lady Sylvia commented. “Does yer mother attend many social events?”
“I don’t think she does,” Phoebe replied.
Just then Codswallop pushed open the parlor doors. “Miss Jerningham, you have a caller. Colonel Warren Hastings, English Secretary to the Governor-General of India.” Codswallop’s voice almost shook with excitement. “I have ushered him into the library.”
“Oh, fudge,” Gabby said, somewhat to Lucien’s surprise. “Codswallop, is Mr. Dewland in?”
“I regret to say that Mr. Dewland is not at home.”
“You could put this Hastings off,” Lady Sylvia drawled. “No reason why you should see an army fellow without the head of the household present.”
Quill hadn’t come to breakfast, even though Gabby had lingered. She sighed. “Mr. Boch, I do apologize, but I suspect that I should not keep Colonel Hastings waiting.”
But Lucien was already standing. “Please do not give it a second thought. I have several calls to make this morning. But I wonder if I might have the pleasure of accompanying Miss Phoebe to her house?”
“Would you? That would be absolutely splendid,” Gabby exclaimed.