“I did not travel with a lady’s maid either.”

Gabby smiled down at Phoebe. “I feel quite certain that between them Mrs. Farsalter and Codswallop will find us two lady’s maids in the twitch of an eyelash!”

Codswallop surprised himself by nearly chuckling. “I believe that Mrs. Farsalter will wish to hire a governess for Miss Phoebe, if she is making a prolonged visit,” he observed.

“After you, Miss Jerningham,” Quill said in a tone ripe with suppressed irritation. He cast a lowering glance at Codswallop, who hastily backed away and disappeared into the servants’ quarters with their outer garments.

“Oh, goodness,” Gabby said faintly, as she walked into the room. “What—what a lovely chamber.”

Quill looked around. “My mother’s idea.”

Gabby walked rather tentatively over to a particularly monstrous table featuring a seated tiger as its pedestal.

Phoebe trotted after her and patted the animal’s head.

“Where did this piece of furniture come from?” Gabby asked, with some curiosity.

“My mother calls this the Indian Drawing Room, Miss Jerningham. Her fond hope was to establish herself as a leader of London fashion. Her designer assured her that Indian furnishings were going to be the next rage.”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, it didn’t happen. But having spent so much money to become Indian, my father is unwilling to return to being merely English.”

Gabby looked at him sharply. Erskine Dewland’s face might not express much, but she could hear just the faintest hint of laughter in his tone.

She took it as an invitation and smiled back hugely. “How odd it is,” she remarked, her eyes dancing, “that we had no tiger tables in our household, given that I have lived in India my whole life. In fact, I do not remember ever seeing such…such lavishly tigerish furniture before.”

Quill did not smile, but his eyes laughed.

“I must beg you not to reveal such an unpleasant truth to my mama,” he said, leaning against the mantelpiece. “You see, having spent some twenty thousand pounds to achieve this Indian extravaganza, she would be devastated to find that most of her Indian treasures were produced in Southampton by a cabinetmaker named Fred Pinkle.”

“Fred Pinkle? You had the furniture investigated!” Gabby accused.

“I should hardly call it an investigation,” Quill remarked, moving over to lean against the back of a high-backed chair. “I used to own shares in the East India Company, so I have a reasonable familiarity with products one might actually buy in that country.”

Gabby’s mouth tightened. “You own part of the East India Company?”

Quill looked up, startled. It was the first time since he met her that Gabby had spoken sharply.

“Does that dismay you for some reason, Miss Jerningham?”

Gabby raised her chin and met his eyes calmly. “No, of course not. It is not my concern. But will you please call me Gabby, Mr. Dewland? We are to be family, after all.”