Enchanting Pleasures (3 page)

Phoebe came around to the other side of the chair and leaned against Gabby’s leg. “May I see the picture of your husband again?”

“Of course you may.” Just before they set sail for England, a miniature of her future bridegroom had arrived. Gabby gently took the locket from Kasi’s fumbling hands and opened it.

“Is he waiting for you in London, Miss Gabby?”

“Yes,” Gabby said firmly. “We shall all be met at the dock, Phoebe love. Your new mother will meet you, and Mrs. Malabright will meet Kasi, won’t she, sweetheart?” She looked down into Kasi’s pointed little face.

To her satisfaction, he nodded. She had been reminding Kasi every day that Mrs. Malabright was coming to see him when the vessel landed.

“And then what will happen, Kasi?” she prompted.

“Live with Mrs. Malabright,” he replied with approval. “I
like
Mrs. Malabright.” A shadow crossed his eyes and he added, “I don’t like Mrs. Sibbald.”

“Mrs. Malabright will take you to her house, and you needn’t ever see Mrs. Sibbald again,” Phoebe said, rather bossily. “I will come visit you though. I will visit you secretly, and I won’t tell anyone where you are.”

“Yes,” Kasi said with a contented lilt in his voice. And he returned to playing with Gabby’s locket.

“Do you like your new husband, Miss Gabby?” Phoebe asked.

Even looking at the miniature portrait of Peter, of his soft brown eyes and wavy hair, made Gabby’s heart beat faster.

“Yes, I do,” she said softly.

Phoebe, who was a true romantic, even at age five, sighed. “I’m sure he already loves you, Miss Gabby. Did you send him a picture of yourself?”

“There wasn’t time,” Gabby replied. And if there had been, she would not have sent one. The only portrait her father had ever commissioned made her look horribly round in the face.

She tucked the locket away again.

But even as she, Phoebe, and Kasi munched on dry toast, which was the only treat offered now that they had been at sea for weeks and weeks, Gabby couldn’t help daydreaming about her betrothed and his gentle eyes. Somehow, by the grace of God, she had been given a fiancé who was everything she had dreamed of: a man who looked perfectly capable of carrying on a quiet conversation. He seemed as unlike her cold, ranting father as possible.

Gabby’s heart glowed. Peter would obviously be a devoted and loving father. Already she could picture four or five small babes, all with her husband’s eyes.

Every day the ship drew farther and farther from India and thus farther and farther from her father’s frenzied reproaches:
Gabrielle, why can’t you put a bridle on your tongue! Once again, Gabrielle, you have embarrassed me with your graceless behavior!
And the worst of all:
Oh, God above, why have you cursed me with this disgraceful chit, this prattling excuse for a daughter!

Her happiness grew with each ocean league that passed.

Her sense of confidence grew as well. Peter would love
her
, as her father never did. She felt as if Peter’s sweet eyes were already looking into her soul and seeing the Gabby inside: the Gabby who was worth loving, the Gabby who was not merely impetuous and clumsy. The real Gabby.

Y
ES
,
A
GLIMPSE
OF
Gabrielle Jerningham, along with insight into her dreams, would have shaken Quill to the backbone.

But since Quill was not overly given to the imagination, nor had he ever demonstrated the gift of precognition, he convinced himself that Miss Gabrielle Jerningham would make his younger brother a very good wife indeed. And when he encountered Peter at his club later that evening, he told him so.

Peter was in a tetchy mood, and well on the way to being drunk as a lord. “I don’t follow your reasoning.”

“Money,” his brother replied shortly.

“Money? What money?”

“Her money.” Quill had a flash of guilt, talking about Gabrielle as if she were a commodity, although in a sense she was. “With Jerningham’s money, you can afford those clothes you love so much.”

“I wear the very best clothes now,” Peter said loftily, with the smug understanding that he stood at the very pinnacle of London fashion.

“You wear clothes that I pay for,” Quill replied.

Peter chewed on his lip. It went against the grain—and against his fundamentally kindly nature—to point out that his elder brother’s money would all be his someday, unless a miracle cured Quill’s migraines.

Yet it would be pleasant to have his own money, no doubt about that.

Quill saw the telltale interest in Peter’s eyes and laughed, his heart lighter. He slapped his brother on the back and left the club.

V
ISCOUNT
D
EWLAND
, not unversed in the vagaries of seabound vessels and their schedules, had sent young George, an undergroomsman, to the East India docks on the morning the
Plassey
was due. But after two weeks of sending George to the docks, the master and mistress left for Bath in the hopes that a course of waters would aid the viscount’s health. Kitty left anxious instructions with Codswallop that they should be summoned the very moment there was news of the
Plassey
. And every evening for another three weeks, young George returned to the house somewhat the worse for wear, having spent his day in the pubs that lined the dock.

It wasn’t until the second of November that the
Plassey
finally glided into her berth and the coxswain dropped anchor with a ceremonious splash. Young George headed back to St. James’s Square on the spot.

But he entered a quiet house. The future bridegroom, Peter, was rarely seen these days. His valet said he was sulking, a source of great amusement downstairs. Sulking because he didn’t want to marry an heiress!

In fact, the only family member in residence was Quill, who was seated in the back garden, reading through reports compiled by his secretary. Since his accident some six years before, Quill had been denied the normal pursuits of an English gentleman. So he had turned his considerable intelligence to investment. Not one of his teachers at Eton—where he was widely considered the most brilliant lad to pass through the school in years—would have been surprised to learn that those investments had paid off in spades. Although he had made his first fortune by speculating on the East India Company, Quill now owned a wool factory in Yorkshire and a buttery in Lancashire.

But he preferred speculation to ownership. He employed some fifteen men who scurried hither and yon all over the British Isles, investigating copper mines and coal companies. He had recently begun to send out his investigators secretly, given that a rumor of Erskine Dewland’s interest in a certain firm was sure to drive up its value on the London Exchange.

At any rate, Quill’s mind was wandering from the assessment of Maugnall and Bulton, dimity manufacturers, that he held in his hands. The garden path was drifted with fallen leaves. During the first year of Quill’s convalescence, he had spent hours planning the gardens visible from his bedroom. Now the young plum trees had gamely put forth fruit, and late apples occasionally fell with a gentle plop at his feet.

But for some reason, in the last weeks he was restless even here. He failed to concentrate on the many reports that awaited his opinion. He walked up and down the paths, but could think of no significant improvement to the garden. The delights of the last five years seemed stifling, the garden a walled prison, his study a dusty cage.

Young George stood politely until Quill raised his eyes. He didn’t wait for a question; the young master never spoke unless he had to. “The
Plassey
has docked, sir, and Mr. Codswallop does not know Mr. Peter Dewland’s whereabouts—”

Quill stood up. “Inform Codswallop that I shall fetch Miss Jerningham myself.”

That was just what he needed: a trip down to the bustling docks. Even if it was to fetch his brother’s bride.

Thirty minutes later, his elegantly hung cabriolet rounded Commercial Road. He threw the reins to his tiger and strode down the dock road himself rather than trying to weave the carriage down the crowded street.

Suddenly a voice bellowed, “Hi! Dewland! Hello, sir! Are you here to see a shipment come in?” Mr. Timothy Waddell couldn’t suppress his curiosity. Everyone knew that whatever Dewland touched turned to gold. He would love to know the man’s opinion of the Domiago cotton he’d just bought on speculation.

“Not today,” Quill responded.

He turned away, his face so unwelcoming of further communication that Waddell quailed and didn’t ask for an opinion of the cotton.

“Damned cold bastard,” he muttered, watching Quill disappear into the crowd.

Quill didn’t notice the man’s affront. It hadn’t occurred to him that Waddell expected more than a simple answer.

When he reached number fourteen, Quill’s eyes fell on a woman, obviously a passenger recently disembarked from the
Plassey
. As he approached, Quill realized that she was holding a child by the hand. In all likelihood, Peter’s bride, being a delicate Frenchwoman, had waited for an escort before she left the vessel.

He strode to the end of the dock, unerringly picking out the
Plassey
‘s purser. “Where shall I find Miss Jerningham?”

The purser smirked. “Right behind ye, int she?”

Slowly Quill turned around. The woman was looking at him inquiringly.
Damn!
Quill thought. And
damn, damn, damn!
Miss Jerningham was beautiful. No doubt about that. She had the most luscious, ripe mouth he’d ever seen, and her eyes…her eyes were brandy-colored, a warm, sweet hue. But it was her hair that caught Quill’s attention. It was golden-brown, the color of burnished brass—and it was falling, loops and curls of it, falling into rumpled curls that made Gabrielle Jerningham look as if she had just risen from bed. A happy bed. In fact, she was quite the opposite of a poised, elegant Frenchwoman.
Damn
.

Then he realized that he was standing stock-still, staring at the woman without even introducing himself.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, walking over and sweeping a deep bow. “I am Erskine Dewland, and I shall soon have the pleasure of becoming your brother-in-law.”

“Oh,” Gabby said faintly. There had been an awful moment when she thought that he was Peter, her future bridegroom. Now she realized that although Erskine had a faint resemblance to his brother, he was nothing like the Peter of her picture. No, Erskine was rather terrifyingly masculine. Too large, for one thing. And his eyes were so…so commanding.

She dropped a curtsy. But before she could speak, there was a tug on her cloak.

“Miss Gabby, is that your husband?” Phoebe’s eyes were shining with deep excitement.

Gabby blushed slightly as she met Erskine’s eyes. “May I introduce Miss Phoebe Pensington? Phoebe and I spent a good deal of time together on the voyage,” she explained. “Phoebe, this is Mr. Erskine Dewland, Peter’s brother.”

Mr. Dewland looked at her so measuringly that Gabby felt short of breath. He seemed to be an exceedingly formal man. Perhaps he disliked her referring to his brother by his first name.

But then, rather surprisingly, he turned and made Phoebe an elegant bow. “Miss Phoebe.”

When he smiled, Gabby realized, his whole face warmed. Perhaps he wasn’t so terrifying—and at any rate, he would now be part of her family, so she had to like him.

“Do you know where my new mama is?” Phoebe asked.

Mr. Dewland shook his head, seemingly taking this question in stride. “I am afraid that I do not.” He looked inquiringly at Gabby.

“I thought it would be raining,” Phoebe said chattily. “My ayah told me that English skies are always as black as the devil’s soup pot! Why isn’t it raining? Do you think it will rain later in the afternoon?”

He met Gabby’s eyes over her head and repeated, “New mama?”

“Phoebe is referring to a Mrs. Emily Ewing,” Gabby explained. “Mrs. Ewing is the sister of Phoebe’s late mother. You see, Phoebe’s parents were killed in a most unfortunate accident in Madras, and Phoebe had to be sent to England. But the captain told me that the letter informing Mrs. Ewing of Phoebe’s situation may have gone astray. There was no acknowledgment from Mrs. Ewing before the
Plassey
set sail.”

“Why the devil did they put her on board?”

Gabby was very aware of Phoebe listening alertly to their conversation. “I am sure that Mrs. Ewing’s letter crossed our path,” she said cheerfully.

“Not likely, given her absence today,” Mr. Dewland remarked.

Gabby gave him a quelling look. “It is also quite possible that she is not aware that we have arrived, Mr. Dewland. Unfortunately, the
Plassey
was blown off course a month ago. We were around the Canaries, and we had tempestuous weather through the Bay of Biscay, with a prodigious sea.”

“Has Miss Phoebe no governess?”

“Not at the moment. The local governor hired a woman called Mrs. Sibbald to look after Phoebe during the voyage,” Gabby continued. “But Mrs. Sibbald felt that her obligation was over once we docked. She consigned Phoebe to the care of the purser and departed.”

“Where is the captain? Miss Phoebe is his responsibility. We shall hand the child over to him and then I will escort you to Dewland House, Miss Jerningham.”

“I don’t like Captain Rumbold,” came a small voice. “I don’t wish to be handed over to him. I do not wish to ever see him again.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible,” Gabby said. “You see, Captain Rumbold is really quite happy to have reached the shore—I do believe he thought to lose the ship at one point in our voyage. And he has speculated on a number of hats that he had made up in India. They are preposterously ugly. He calls them
Chapeau Nivernois
, and he is going to try to pass them off as French—”

Gabby caught sight of Erskine Dewland’s tightening mouth and hurried to a conclusion. “At any rate, Captain Rumbold has already taken his leave of us and gone to supervise the unloading of his hats.

“And he doesn’t like children,” she added.

Quill took a deep breath. He prided himself on his absolute calm. In the face of extreme pain, he remained collected. But this woman was likely to drive him around the bend in a way that a concussion and injured limbs had not. He stared down at Peter’s future wife in silence. She was looking up at him with a sweet, earnest expression, but he hadn’t even marked her words. For some reason, Quill’s only coherent thought was to kiss her into silence. Miss Jerningham had the deepest cherry-red lips he’d seen in his life. She had asked him a question, he realized, belatedly.

“Forgive me,” Quill said. “I am afraid that I didn’t understand your request.”

“I asked you to call me Gabby,” she faltered in reply. Mr. Dewland’s face had grown so forbidding that she knew he had to be thinking she was a rattle-pate. She must remember to hold her tongue when she was around her brother-in-law. Thank goodness she was marrying Peter rather than his brother! The very thought cheered her up.

“Gabby,” Quill said meditatively. “That suits you.” He gave a sudden, unexpected grin.

Gabby shyly smiled back. “I try not to be too much of a chatterbox.”

“I like the way Miss Gabby talks,” Phoebe said.

Both adults looked down, startled.

My goodness, Gabby thought, I clean forgot about the child. She looked back at her future brother-in-law. “May I bring Phoebe home with me? We could leave a message for Mrs. Ewing with the purser.”

Quill looked about the wharf. “We don’t seem to have a choice, do we?”

Try as she might, Gabby couldn’t read his face. In fact, Erskine Dewland had the most unexpressive face she’d ever seen in her life. It was only when he smiled that his eyes came alive. Green eyes. A dark, green-gray that reminded her of the ocean when it was smooth as glass.

Without another word, Mr. Dewland walked over to the purser and began to query him about Miss Jerningham’s and Phoebe’s luggage.

Gabby crouched down next to the child. “Will you come with me to Peter’s home, Phoebe? I’m afraid your new mother didn’t get the message that our ship has docked. But I would very much like you to accompany me.”

The little girl nodded. Gabby could see that Phoebe was close to tears, and so she gave her a warm hug. “You will stay with me until we find your mama, sugarplum. I won’t leave you alone.”

Buttercup-yellow ringlets rubbed against Gabby’s shoulder. Then Phoebe straightened up. “My ayah said that English gentlewomen never show emotion,” she said, gulping.

“I don’t know about that,” Gabby said. “I’m a bit afraid to meet Peter. And I already miss Kasi Rao terribly. So I would feel much better if I had an old friend, like yourself, with me.”