Quill pushed himself upright. He must have imagined the rebuke in Gabby’s tone. His leg was sending him brutal messages about the long carriage rides to and from Depford.

“Gabby,” he said. “Then you must address me as Quill.”

“Quill? Quill—what a lovely name!”

“Is that a truly lovely name, or something akin to the loveliness of this room?”

Gabby giggled, an enchanting low chuckle. “You have caught me out, Mr. Dewl—Quill.” She paused. “May I ask you a question?”

“Naturally.”

“Is your leg causing you pain?” She asked it rather hesitatingly, uncertain whether this question would be considered an outrageous impertinence.

Quill could have answered that. No well-bred young lady would ever ask such a personal question of a man, let alone of a relative stranger. His mouth quirked into an unwilling grin. Gabby was certainly going to wake up the staid Dewland household.

“I was in a riding accident some six years ago,” he explained. “And while I have been lucky enough to recover my ability to walk, I have difficulty standing for long periods of time.”

Gabby’s brown eyes were glowing with sympathy. “Well, then, why haven’t you sat down, you poor man?”

“Miss Gabby!” Phoebe, who had been wandering about inspecting the many groveling tigers and lions that adorned the viscountess’s furniture, was back at her side. “Mr. Dewland cannot sit until you do. My ayah told me that English gentlemen never, ever sit down in the presence of a lady. I mean, if the lady is standing up.”

Gabby’s face turned rosy. “I am so sorry, Quill!” She whisked around the side of a couch and plumped herself down. “I’m afraid I shall make many mistakes of this nature. My father did not believe in what he called aristocratic flummeries, and so I know almost nothing of English customs.”

“Please think nothing of it,” Quill replied, sinking into a chair, with a silent breath of relief.

Phoebe sat primly on a small footstool at Gabby’s feet. To Quill’s amusement, Phoebe and Gabby presented an image of precise opposites. Phoebe’s hair fell into meticulous curls that looked as if she had just brushed them. As she sat down, the little girl instinctively twitched the folds of her dress so that they spread evenly on either side. Her hands were clasped on her lap, and her ankles were neatly crossed.

But Gabby! It wasn’t that there was anything precisely unladylike in her posture—but she simply didn’t look groomed. For one thing, most of her hair had fallen down again. When she handed her bonnet to Codswallop, her hair tumbled with it. Her gown had a very odd look to it as well. Clearly it had been designed to hang from just below her breasts, the way women’s clothing did these days. But instead it was rather stiff, and it puffed out around her hips almost as if she were wearing starched undergarments.