Chapter 1
St. James's Square, London
1806
Fate had just dealt Viscount Dewland a blow that would
have felled a weaker — or more sympathetic — man. He gaped
silently at his eldest son for a moment, ignoring his
wife's twittering commentary. But a happy thought revived
him. That same wife had, after all, provided him with two
male offspring.
Without further ado he spun on his heel and barked at his
younger son, "If your brother can't do his duty in bed,
then you'll do it. You can act like a man for once in your
life."
Peter Dewland was caught unawares by his father's sudden
attack. He had risen to adjust his neckcloth in the
drawing-room mirror, thereby avoiding his brother's eyes.
Really, what does a man say to that sort of confession?
But like his father, Peter recovered quickly from
unpredictable assaults.
He walked around the end of the divan and sat down. "I
gather you are suggesting that I marry Jerningham's
daughter?"
"Of course I am!" the viscount snapped. "Someone has to
marry her, and your brother has just declared himself
ineligible."
"I beg to differ," Peter remarked with a look of cool
distaste. "I have no plans to marry at your whim."
"What in the bloody hell do you mean? Of course you'll
marry the girl if I instruct you to do so!"
"I do not plan to marry, Father. Not at your instigation
nor at anyone else's."
"Rubbish! Every man marries."
Peter sighed. "Not true."
"You've squired about every beautiful gal that came on the
market in the last six years. If youhad formed a true
attachment, I would not stand in your way. But since you
haven't made a move to attach yourself, you will marry
Jerningham's girl.
"You shall do as I say, boy," the viscount bellowed. "Your
brother can't take on the job, and so you have to do it.
I've been lenient with you. You might be in the Seventh
Foot at this very moment. Have you thought of that?"
"I'd rather take a pair of colors than a wife," Peter
retorted.
"Absolutely not," his father said, reversing
himself. "Your brother's been at the point of death for
years."
Inside the drawing room, the silence swelled ominously.
Peter grimaced at his elder brother, whose muscled body
proclaimed his general fitness to the world at large.
Erskine Dewland, who had been staring meditatively at the
polished surface of his Hessians, raised his heavy-lidded
eyes from his boots to his father's face. "If Peter is
determined not to marry, I could take her on." His deep
voice fell into the silent room.
"And what's the point of that? You can't do the job
properly, and I'm not wedding Jerningham's daughter to ...
to ... in that case. I've got principles. The girl's got a
right to expect a sound husband, for God's sake."
Quill, as Erskine was known to his intimates, opened his
mouth again. And then thought better of it. He could
certainly consummate the marriage, but it wouldn't be a
very pleasant experience. Any woman deserved more from
marriage than he could offer. While he had come to terms
with his injuries, especially now that they had ceased to
bother his movement, the three-day migraines that followed
repetitive motion made his likelihood for marital bliss
very slight.
"Can't argue with that, can you?" The viscount looked
triumphantly at his eldest son. "I'm not some sort of a
caper merchant, passing you off as whole goods when you're
not. Mind you, we could. The girl wouldn't know a thing,
of course, until it was too late. And her father's turned
into such a loose screw that he's not even accompanying
her out here.
"Point is," Dewland went on, turning back to his youngest
son, "the girl's expecting to marry someone. And if it
can't be Quill, it's got to be you. I'll send your picture
over on the next boat."
Peter replied through his teeth, each word spaced. "I do
not wish to marry, Father."
The viscount's cheeks reddened again. "It's time you
stopped gadding about. By God, you will do as I say!"
Peter avoided his father's gaze, seemingly absorbed in
flicking the smallest piece of lint from the black velvet
collar of his morning coat. Satisfied, he returned to the
subject at hand. "You seem to have misunderstood me. I
refuse to marry Jerningham's daughter." Only the smallest
tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation.
The viscountess broke in before her husband could bellow
whatever response he had in mind. "Thurlow, I don't like
your color. Perhaps we might continue this conversation at
a later time? You know what the doctor said about getting
overtaxed!"
"Balderdash!" the viscount protested, although he allowed
his wife to pull him back onto a couch. "By George, you
had better obey me, Mister Peter Dewland, or you will find
yourself out the door." The veins of his forehead were
alarmingly swollen.
His wife sent a beseeching glance to her youngest son. His
jaw was set in a manner that his father would have
recognized, had there been a mirror in the near vicinity.
But before Peter could say a word, his father erupted out
of his seat once again. "And just what am I supposed to
say to this young girl who's coming all the way over from
India? Tell her that you 'prefer not to marry her'? You
planning on telling my old friend Jerningham that you
decline to marry his gal?"
"That is precisely what I suggest," Peter replied.
"And what about the money Jerningham's lent me over the
years, eh? Given it to me without a word of advice — just
sent me over the blunt to do with as I like! If your
brother Quill hadn't pulled down a fortune speculating on
the East India Company, Jerningham might still be lending
me money. As it is, we agreed to consider it a dowry. You
will marry the gal, or I'll ... I'll..."
The viscount's face was purple all over now, and he was
unconsciously rubbing his chest.
"Quill could pay back the money," Peter suggested.
"Bloody hell! I've already allowed your brother to turn
himself into a merchant, playing around on the Exchange —
I'll be damned if I'll allow him to pay off my debts!"
"I don't see why not," Peter retorted. "He's paid for
everything else."
"That's enough! The only reason your brother — the only
reason I allowed Erskine to take on the smell of the
market was because — well, because he's a cripple. But at
least he acts his age. You're naught but a fribble, a
sprig of fashion!"
As the viscount drew a breath, Quill raised his head and
met his younger brother's eyes. In the depths of Quill's
silent apology, Peter saw the manacles of marriage looming.
His father was glaring at him with all the frustration of
a ruddy, boisterous Englishman whose younger son has
proved to be nothing like himself. Peter cast a desperate
look at his mother, but there was no help to be found.
He quailed. His stomach churned. He opened his mouth to
protest, but could think of nothing to say. And finally,
the habits of a lifetime's submission took hold.
"Very well." His voice was hollow.
Kitty Dewland rose and came to give him a grateful kiss on
the cheek. "Dear Peter," she said. "You were always my
comforting one, my good child. And in truth, darling, you
have escorted so many women without making an offer. I'm
certain that Jerningham's daughter will be a perfect match
for you. His wife was French, you know."
In her son's eyes there was a bleak desolation that Kitty
hated to see. "Is there someone else? Is there a woman
whom you were hoping to marry, darling?"
Peter shook his head.
"Well, then," Kitty said gaily. "We will be right and
tight when this girl — what's her name, Thurlow? Thurlow!"
When Kitty turned around she had found her husband leaning
back and looking rather white. "M'chest doesn't feel so
good, Kitty," he mumbled.
And when Kitty flew out of the drawing room, she was far
too discomposed to note how odd it was that her beloved
butler, Codswallop, was hovering just on the other side of
the door.
"Send for Doctor Priscian," she shrieked, and trotted back
into the room.
The plump and precise Codswallop couldn't resist taking a
curious look at the elder Dewland son before he rang for a
footman. It was that hard to believe. Erskine had a
physique Codswallop had secretly admired: a body
remarkably suited to tight pantaloons and fitted coats,
the kind of body housemaids giggled about behind stairs.
Must be some sort of injury to his private parts.
Codswallop shuddered sympathetically.
Just then Quill turned about and looked Codswallop in the
face. His eyes were a curious green-gray, set in a face
stamped with lines of pain and deeply tanned. Without
moving a muscle, he cast Codswallop a look that scathed
him to his bones.
Codswallop scuttled back into the hall and rang for a
footman. The viscount was supported off to his bedchamber,
followed by his clucking wife. Young Peter bounded out the
door looking like murder, followed rather more slowly by
Quill, and Codswallop pulled the drawing-room doors closed
with a snap.
Some three months later, the whole affair was tied up.
Miss Jerningham was due to arrive on the Plassey, a
frigate sailing from Calcutta, within the week. There was
one last explosion of rage on the part of the viscount
when Peter announced, on the day before Miss Jerningham
was due to arrive, that he was taking a long sojourn in
the country. But by supper on the fifth of September, the
sullen bridegroom had taken himself off to his club rather
than to Herefordshire, and Viscount Dewland repeated over
stewed pigeon that the marriage would be an excellent
solution to all their problems. There was an unspoken
acknowledgment between Thurlow and his wife that Peter, if
left to his own devices, might indeed never marry.
"He'll settle down once the girl arrives," Thurlow
declared.
"They will have beautiful children," added Kitty.
Only Quill seemed to have a growing sense of unease about
the forthcoming marriage. After his parents left the
salon, he walked restlessly to the windows overlooking the
gardens. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against
the hard curve of his forearm, shifting his weight
slightly from his protesting right leg. He was accustomed
to the blustery explosion of his father's rage. He had
tolerated it for years by listening in silence and then
following his own inclination. Peter had ever bent with
the wind, and so it was no surprise that ultimately he
gave in to the viscount's plans. Surely Peter could not
have really thought to escape marriage, once it became
clear that he or his son would inherit the title someday.
But an uneasy chill sat on Quill's heart. He remembered
the girl's name, even if no one else did: Gabrielle
Jerningham. And what would Gabrielle's life be like with
Peter as her husband? It would be an urbane life, a
sophisticated life. Likely the young couple would share
the kind of marriage Quill saw frequently in the ton: cool
and friendly.
He straightened, moving into a great arching stretch. His
body was outlined by light thrown against the dark glass,
every muscle caressed by his clothing. It was a body honed
by denial, exercise, and pain: a body whose master knew
its every strength and its every weakness. It was not the
body of an average gentleman of the London ton in 1806.
Quill shrugged back his hair. Damned if it wasn't getting
unfashionably long again. For a moment he froze, struck by
a memory of the wind screaming past his face, wrenching
his hair back from his scalp as he rode a galloping
stallion.
But horses, like sex, had become a delight whose payment
was greater than the offered pleasure. The rhythmic motion
of horseback riding invariably instigated three days of
agony in a darkened room, his body covered in sweat and
gripped by nausea, his head clenched in a steel band of
pain. And the only advice doctors had offered was that his
head injury of six years ago had led to an inability to
endure rhythm. Any kind of rhythm.
Quill's jaw hardened and he mentally shrugged off the
image of a galloping horse. To his mind there was nothing
worse than lamenting what could not be. Women and horses
were simply part of his past, and no part of his future.
Then he grinned. The very sports he was mourning — a hard
riding session and a woman's nightly companionship — were
delights that held absolutely no interest for Peter. Lord,
but he and his brother were as alike as chalk and cheese.
At any rate, he was probably worrying about Gabrielle and
Peter for naught. Peter might not like the idea of
marriage, but he did love female companionship. A decorous
French miss, with whom Peter could gossip, discuss
fashion, and attend balls, might well become his closest
friend. And Gabrielle was an elegant name, one that
brought to mind a woman versed in the ways of the world.
Peter had a great admiration — nay, a passion — for
beauty. Surely an exquisite young Frenchwoman would be
able to coax him into compliance with an unwanted marriage.
Unfortunately, Quill would have abandoned that hope could
he have seen the aforementioned exquisite Frenchwoman.
Peter's fiancee was kneeling on the floor of her cabin,
looking into the eager face of a young girl who sat before
her on a small tuffet. Gabrielle's hair was tumbling about
her ears, and her old-fashioned dress was crumpled. The
last thing she resembled was a sophisticated French miss
from La Belle Assemblee.
"The tiger crept through the tangled jungle." Gabby's
voice was a thrilling whisper. "He put one paw softly
before the next, barely disturbing the song of the magpies
far above. His long tongue licked his chops at the thought
of the delicious meal that trotted before him."
Phoebe Pensington, a five-year-old orphan being sent to
live with English relatives, shivered as Gabby, whose soft
brown eyes had taken on a tigerish glare, continued.
"But when the tiger reached the edge of the forest, he
stopped short. The goat was walking along the shore, his
white hooves prancing at the very edge of the tumbling
azure waves of the Indian Ocean. And the tiger was afraid
of water. His stomach urged him to follow, but his heart
pounded with fear. He stopped in the speckled shade of a
bongo-bongo tree—"
"But Miss Gabby," Phoebe broke in anxiously, "what did the
tiger have for supper that night if he didn't eat the
goat? Wouldn't he be hungry?"
Gabby's brown eyes lit with amusement. "Perhaps the tiger
was so mortified by his own lack of courage that he went
to a far-off mountaintop and lived on nothing but fruits
and vegetables."
"I don't think so." Phoebe was a very practical little
girl. "I think it's more likely that the tiger would have
gone after that goat and eaten him up."
"The tiger had a cat's natural abhorrence for water,"
Gabby said. "He didn't see the beauty of the waves as they
danced into shore. To him the curling waves looked like
the claws of tiny crabs, reaching out to nibble his bones!"
Phoebe gave a thrilled little shriek just as the door to
the cabin swung open, breaking the spell of Gabby's voice.
The black-gowned figure of Eudora Sibbald stared at the
scene before her. Miss Gabrielle Jerningham was
unaccountably positioned on the floor. As always, her hair
was tumbling out of its knot and her dress was rumpled. It
wasn't for Mrs. Sibbald to recognize the beauty of Gabby's
shining golden-brown hair as it worked loose from pins and
combs and assumed its normal position: halfway up and
halfway down. No — what Phoebe's governess saw was a
proper hoyden, a young lady whose hair echoed her general
demeanor.
"Phoebe." Her voice rasped like a rusty gate.
Phoebe scrambled to her feet and bobbed a curtsy.
"Miss Jerningham," Mrs. Sibbald continued, rather as if
she were addressing a recalcitrant scullery maid.
Gabby was already on her feet and greeting Mrs. Sibbald
with a charming smile. "Do forgive us—" she began.
But Mrs. Sibbald interrupted. "Miss Jerningham, I might
have misunderstood you." Her bearing indicated that she
never misunderstood anything. "I trust that I did not hear
you mention nibbled bones?"
Really, Gabby thought to herself, Sibbald couldn't have
entered at a worse moment.
"Oh, no," Gabby said, her voice soothing. "I was merely
telling Phoebe an improving tale from the Bible."
Mrs. Sibbald's jaw lengthened. She'd heard what she'd
heard, and it didn't sound like any Bible tale to her.
"The story of Jonah and the whale," Gabby added
hastily. "You know, Mrs. Sibbald, since my father is a
missionary, I find it quite natural to relate stories from
the Bible wherever I go."
Mrs. Sibbald's mouth relaxed slightly. "Well, in that
case, Miss Jerningham," she allowed. "However, I must beg
you not to overexcite the child. Excitement is injurious
to the digestion. And where is Master Kasi Rao Holkar?"
"I believe Kasi is taking a nap at the present, Mrs.
Sibbald. He mentioned a wish to retire."
"If you'll forgive me for saying so, Miss Jerningham, you
coddle that boy. Prince or not, a deserving tale from the
Bible would do him some good. After all, he's a native.
Lord only knows what sort of influences he had as a child."
"Kasi grew up in my house," Gabby said. "I assure you that
he is as Christian as little Phoebe."
"An unfeasible comparison," Mrs. Sibbald announced. "No
Indian could be as Christian as an English child.
"It is teatime," she announced. "Miss Jerningham, your
hair has fallen again. I advise that your coiffure receive
immediate attention." And on that lowering note, Mrs.
Sibbald left the cabin.
Gabby sighed and sank into a chair, realizing that there
did seem to be a large number of wispy curls hanging about
her face. Then she felt a tug on her gown.
"Miss Gabby, she forgot me. Do you think I ought to remind
her?" Round blue eyes stared worshipfully at Gabby.
Gabby pulled Phoebe's leggy little body up onto her
lap. "I swear you have grown half a head in this trip,"
she said.
"I know," Phoebe replied, looking with disapproval at the
hem of her gown. She stuck out a booted leg. "My dress has
become so short that my pantaloons are beginning to show!"
Her eyes were round with horror at that idea.
"When you reach England, I'm sure that you will have a new
dress."
"Do you think she'll like me?" Phoebe whispered into
Gabby's shoulder.
"Will who like you?"
"My new mother."
"How could she not like you? You are the sweetest five-
year-old girl aboard this whole ship," Gabby said, rubbing
her cheek against Phoebe's soft hair. "In fact, you may
well be the sweetest five-year-old who ever sailed from
India."
Phoebe pressed closer. "Because when I had to say good-bye
to my ayah" — a farewell that seemed to have traumatized
her far more than the untimely deaths of two parents she
scarcely recognized — "my ayah said that I must be very,
very good or my new mama will not like me, since I don't
have any money to bring her."
Gabby silently cursed Phoebe's ayah — and not for the
first time. "Phoebe," she said as firmly as she
could, "money has nothing to do with whether a mother
loves her babies or not. Your new mother would love you
even if you arrived in your nightdress!"
And she devoutly hoped it was true. From what the captain
had told her, there had been no answer to the letter sent
to Phoebe's only living relative, her maternal aunt.
"Miss Gabby," Phoebe said, her tone hesitant. "Why did you
tell Mrs. Sibbald that your story was of Jonah and the
whale? My ayah told me never to tell an untruth — and
especially never to a hired person. And Mrs. Sibbald is a
hired person, isn't she? She was hired to accompany me to
England."
Gabby gave Phoebe another little hug. "Your ayah was right
in the main. But sometimes a fib is permissible if you can
make someone feel happy. Mrs. Sibbald would very much like
to think that you are learning stories from the Bible. And
when I told her you were, she felt happy."
"I don't think Mrs. Sibbald ever feels happy," Phoebe
observed, after thinking about it for a time.
"You could be right," Gabby replied. "But in that case,
Phoebe, it is even more important not to overset her."
"Do you think that if I told my new mama that I had some
money it would make her happy? Would it make her like me?"
Gabby swallowed. "Oh, sweet pea, I am only talking about
little fibs. You couldn't say such a thing to your new
mother! That's a big untruth, as opposed to a small one.
And it is very important not to tell even small untruths
to important people like your new mother."
There was an unconvinced silence.
Gabby thought desperately. Really, for all her eagerness
to have children, she was beginning to see that it was far
more difficult than she had imagined.
"Are you bringing any money to your new husband?" Phoebe's
voice was muffled because she had her face pressed to
Gabby's shoulder.
"Yes," Gabby said reluctantly. "But that money will not
make Peter love me."
Phoebe's face popped up like an inquisitive robin from its
nest. "Why not?"
"Peter will love me for myself," Gabby said with quiet
conviction. "Just as your mother will love you for
yourself."
The little girl hopped onto her feet. "Well, then, why did
you tell Mrs. Sibbald that Kasi was in his chamber having
a nap? That wasn't true, and it didn't make her happy."
"A different kind of rule," Gabby explained. "My sweet
Kasi is frightened to death of Mrs. Sibbald."
"What kind of rule?" Phoebe inquired.
"You have to protect the weak from the strong," Gabby
said, and then amended herself. "That's not exactly right,
Phoebe. You know what Kasi is like. Handing him to Mrs.
Sibbald would be like feeding the goat to the tiger."
There was a slight noise behind the screen protecting the
tub from plain sight. The little girl peered around the
screen. "Kasi Rao, it's time to get out of there." She put
her small hands on her hips. "What would Mrs. Sibbald say
if she could see you in the tub with all your clothes on?"
"Let him stay there if he prefers," Gabby called across
the room.
But Phoebe shook her head firmly and stated, with a force
that Mrs. Sibbald would have admired, "It is time to have
tea, Kasi. You needn't worry. I won't let Gabby talk about
the tiger again."
A very slender boy with innocent eyes that took up half
his face peeked around the corner of the screen and then
checked, unwilling to emerge from the safety of the corner.
Phoebe took his hand and tugged. "There is no one here but
us, Kasi."
Soft brown eyes darted back and forth between Gabby's
smiling face and the hand she held out to him. Kasi wanted
to come out, obviously, but it was so far across the room,
and the room was so very open.
Phoebe pulled at him impatiently. "Mrs. Sibbald thinks
you're napping, so you're quite safe."
"We'll have tea together," Gabby said reassuringly, as
Kasi gathered his courage and hurtled himself to her
chair, sheltering under her arm like a chick that had
strayed from its nest. "Are you hungry, little brother?"
"Kasi isn't your little brother," Phoebe said. "He's a
prince!"
"Well, that's true. But his mother was related to my
father's first wife. And he grew up with me, so I feel as
if he is my brother." Kasi had stopped trembling and was
playing with the locket Gabby wore around her neck,
humming a tuneless, happy song as he tried to open the
catch.
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 fiance 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.
Yes, 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.