Enchanting Pleasures (11 page)

Lady Sylvia smirked at the slight edge in Gabby’s tone. “Well, at least you’ve got some backbone, gel.”

Gabby gave up on the idea of Lady Sylvia using her proper name. Clearly she considered her “gel,” and nothing else.

“These are my Three Graces,” Lady Sylvia said, gesturing at the dogs with her burning cheroot so that little wisps of blue smoke flew around her head.

“Charming,” Gabby murmured.

“Hope, Truth, and—” Lady Sylvia peered around. “Oh, yes, that one is Beauty.”

Everyone looked where she pointed. Beauty had just squatted under one of the chairs lining the entryway. A small trickle was creeping across the marble floor.

“She’s too intelligent to pay mind to me,” Lady Sylvia said blandly. “All three dogs are French, and they behave just like Frenchmen. Decorative but peevish.”

Codswallop coughed politely. “Will the Three Graces be housed in your chamber, my lady?”

“Naturally, Codswallop. And you don’t have to take up the carpet. Beauty is only letting us know that she is disgruntled about the carriage ride. She’ll settle down soon enough.”

Codswallop gestured to a footman, who bent down and tried to pick up Beauty. She promptly bit him on the hand.

“Burn my breeches!” Lady Sylvia exclaimed. “Never had ought to do with dogs, Codswallop? They won’t let a stranger pick them up. Too intelligent for that.”

Given the expression on the footman’s face, it was clear that he would have liked to boot the intelligent dog out the door. But Lady Sylvia had swiveled about and was hallooing through the open door.

“Dessie? Dessie, get in here, gel! That’s my companion,” she explained to Gabby. “Desdemona, she’s called. She’ll take charge of the little dears.”

A cheerful-looking woman entered the door. “I’ve sent your trunks around to the back, my lady. I don’t believe they’ll fit in the front door.”

“Look what’s happened, Dessie. Naughty little Beauty has made a statement on the floor.”

Dessie bent down and picked up the dog in question and briskly swatted it on the bottom. “You know better than that.”

Gabby watched, fascinated, as Beauty’s topknot wilted and her small face drooped.

“Those dogs won’t give me the time of day,” Lady Sylvia said with approval, “but they positively adore Dessie. Good thing too. I don’t mind if Beauty makes a water closet out of Dewland’s front hall, but she’d be mincemeat if she tried that in my house.”

Gabby choked back a giggle. Dessie had gathered all three dogs in her arms and was heading up the stairs behind Codswallop, whose rigid back indicated strong disapproval.

Quill cleared his throat. “May I escort you to your chamber, Lady Sylvia?” He held out his arm.

“Course you may,” she answered. “Reckon I’ll never be old enough to turn down a gentleman’s escort to my chambers.” Lady Sylvia looked around for somewhere to put her cheroot. When she didn’t glimpse an appropriate receptacle, she tossed it straight out the open door.

Gabby watched as the smoking cheroot arced out the door and landed on the white marble steps. This time she couldn’t stop herself, and a little chortle of laughter escaped her.

Lady Sylvia looked at her sharply. “Not as missish as you look, are you, gel? I can’t stand a milk-and-water miss. I haven’t done any of this chaperoning business, since Lionel and I never had progeny. Only said I’d do it as a promise to Kitty. Poor thing’s liable to cry up an ocean over Thurlow’s latest attack.

“You, gel!” Lady Sylvia said suddenly, turning her head just as she began climbing the stairs.

“Yes, Lady Sylvia?” Gabby replied.

“I shall retire to my chamber for a rest. But I will join you for supper, and I do not wish to see that appalling gown at the table. You’re too big for it; any fool could see that. If you want to dress like a light woman, I’m not going to stop you. I fancy a lady should exhibit her assets.” She gave her own magnificent chest a proud glance. “But you might as well get yerself some clothes that fit. Don’t see that my job as a chaperone extends to dressing you.”

Gabby colored and looked down at her front. She’d completely forgotten that she meant to keep a shawl clutched around her shoulders.

Lady Sylvia cackled. “Quill has probably been enjoying it, gel. No harm in that. But I’d hate to see that bodice give out over the first course. Might put me off my feed.” She elbowed Quill. “Expect you don’t share my feelings, eh?”

Quill gave Gabby a long-suffering look. Lady Sylvia had always been a liability to the family, and if she hadn’t had one of the longest lineages in England, likely no one would have anything to do with her.

Gabby curtsied again and Quill accompanied Lady Sylvia up the stairs.

“Nice to see you on your feet, Erskine,” Lady Sylvia said jovially, as they walked down the corridor toward her chamber. “It’s a pity, a real pity, what happened to you on that horse. Mind you, it could have been worse. You’ll have to tell me why your father has the heiress marrying young Peter, though. Yer the eldest. I don’t mind telling you, it’s causing a bit of a stir amongst the gabsters. Wondering if you survived that accident unscathed.”

Quill shuddered inwardly. He had no wish to air his incapacities with the forthright Lady Sylvia.

“I take it your silence means they’re right,” Lady Sylvia said after a moment.

“No,” Quill corrected her. “I could consummate a marriage, but it is unclear whether there would be children.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry about that, Erskine. Always thought you were the best of the litter. Mind you, Lionel and I never regretted marrying, even when children didn’t appear. But I don’t suppose we would have done it if we’d known.

“I won’t tell a soul,” Lady Sylvia went on, patting Quill’s arm not unkindly.

He pushed open the door to her chamber to find the Three Graces sitting in a docile line, watching as Desdemona directed a maid to unpack a trunk. Quill bowed and murmured something about seeing Lady Sylvia at supper. She smiled farewell, obviously unaware that he was stiff with anger.

Quill walked down one flight of stairs and closed his study door behind him, belatedly realizing that he was deep in furious plans to marry simply to spite the gossips. What good would that do? He’d have to be remarkably lucky to father a child. And meanwhile, those same scandalmongers would rattle on about his marital failings, likely making his wife more miserable than she already would be, given that she had married a cripple who couldn’t dance, or ride to the horses—or bed her on a regular basis.

Quill bit back a curse and headed toward the garden. Sometimes there was nothing to do but exhaust himself, pacing the brick paths until the pain in his leg was enough to stifle his bitterness.

F
ROM
HER BEDCHAMBER WINDOW
, Gabby watched her future brother-in-law as he walked down a garden path. She almost turned to join him—but something about his savage stride cautioned her. She waited for him at supper, but at length Codswallop appeared with a message that Mr. Dewland asked to be excused, as his leg was troubling him.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
Quill strode into the breakfast room to find Gabby and Phoebe eating alone.

“Lady Sylvia has not yet risen,” Gabby said in answer to Quill’s questioning look. Then she added, “Goodness! It’s happening to me!”

Quill frowned. “What is happening to you?”

“I’m starting to let you get away without speaking. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how everyone caters to your silence, Quill,” she said. “I am determined not to be a party to your family’s indulgence.”

Quill snorted and pointedly bowed to Phoebe. “I have some excellent news.”

“There you are again! Whatever happened to ‘How are you, Gabby?’ or ‘How did you sleep, Phoebe?’” Gabby broke in.

Quill took a deep breath. “How are you, Gabby? And what’s put you in such a churlish mood?”

“There’s nothing churlish about a little courtesy!”

Quill smiled at her, even though he didn’t mean to. She was such a delicious little spitfire. Gabby’s cheeks had turned pink, and her hair was rapidly toppling down from the neat arrangement Margaret had fashioned a mere half hour ago.

“Mrs. Ewing has sent a note. She should be here within the hour.”

To his surprise, Phoebe looked stricken rather than joyful. “Oh, no,” she cried. “My clothing isn’t ready.”

“Your clothing,” Quill repeated.

Big tears spilled down Phoebe’s cheeks. “My new mama will think that I’m dowdy!”

“I doubt it,” Quill said dryly. “She’s more likely to think that you’re a nursling.”

Phoebe turned her face into Gabby’s shoulder. “I’m not a nursling,” she said around her sobs. “I don’t want my mama to see me like this! I want to wear my new gown with—with the pin—pin—pin tucks!”

Just then Lady Sylvia bustled into the room, followed by three scurrying dogs. “Well, well, what have we here?” She paused.

The fierce training Phoebe’s ayah had ladled out held her in good stead. As Gabby put her on her feet, Phoebe dropped a beautiful curtsy, despite the little sob that escaped her on the way down.

“Lady Sylvia, may I present Miss Phoebe Pensington?” Quill said. “Miss Phoebe has been staying with us. At the moment she is feeling some concern about her apparel.”

“Don’t know about that,” Lady Sylvia barked. “As I told you yesterday, I can’t take on the business of dressing others. I’ve enough trouble dressing myself.”

Gabby barely suppressed a grin. Lady Sylvia was magnificently attired in a pale-green morning dress with sprigs of lace let in the bosom. Her gloves, shoes, and dogs’ bows all matched.

Lady Sylvia sank into a chair and idly waved a green handkerchief at Codswallop. “I shall have naught but a cup of hot chocolate and perhaps one or two pieces of toast. I’m considering a reducing diet.”

Phoebe was leaning against Gabby’s shoulder, still mourning the pin-tucked dress.

“Yer a pretty little gel,” Lady Sylvia told her. “What are you blubbering about?”

Phoebe flushed. “I was being unladylike,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

“Nonsense! Nothing more ladylike than crying. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Erskine’s mother!” Lady Sylvia gave a bark of laughter.

“Phoebe,” Gabby said firmly, “your new mother will not care a pin about the length of your dress. A new dress could never make anyone love you more than they would naturally.”

“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 waited 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.”