“Happily not.” Lucien laughed. “East India bravos are the men who run the East India trade company. They control the importation of tea from China, you know.”

Gabby looked up and straight at Quill. “And you are a bravo?”

For some reason, Quill felt a chill of disapproval in the air. “Nonsense,” he said with a shrug. “Lucien has a French manner of exaggeration.”

“Gabby! Gabby!” Phoebe was squealing.

Gabby looked down with a start. To her horror, she found that she had forgotten to raise the spout of the teapot when she looked at Quill. Tea had spilled all over the polished surface of the table and was quietly pouring down onto the Axminster carpet below.

Hot red color rose into her cheeks. She jerked up the teapot far too quickly, and the stream of tea arched backward through the air and splashed all over the front of her white gown. Gabby instantly forgot the few rules she did know about a lady’s behavior.

“Blast!” she shrieked, slamming down the teapot. Instinctively, she tried to stem the flow of tea off the table with her gloved hand—but that merely diverted the stream so that it swung left and splashed down onto Phoebe’s gown.

Phoebe took one look at the stain on her gown and burst into sobs.

“Oh, Phoebe,” Gabby said, taken by surprise again. “I’m so sorry.” She leapt up to give the child a hug, but as she did so her tiger-adorned chair toppled backward on its spindly legs.

Gabby tried to catch her chair. But she missed when her foot caught in the hem of her gown. There was a loud ripping noise as she fell facedown across Quill’s lap.

At that moment, Codswallop dove for the chair. He managed to grab the back, but when the chair fell, he fell. Butler and chair both crashed to the ground amidst much impressive splintering and grunting.

Lucien smothered a laugh, stood up, and plucked Phoebe into his arms as if he had known the little girl for years.

“Now, my little chicken,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “Tell me why you are crying over a mere tea stain.” He strolled over toward the other side of the room, instinctively rubbing his cheek against Phoebe’s ringlets, as she choked out a list of tragedies in which her new mama’s disappearance interwove confusingly with the length of her dress, and now its tea stain, and her ayah, and what her ayah thought of messy little girls.

Gabby, who had been thrown across Quill’s legs as if she were a lap rug, wiggled desperately, trying to get her feet solidly on the ground so she could scramble off his lap. Tears pricked her eyes. She was like to die from pure mortification.

In one smooth motion, Quill’s hands closed around her shoulders and he put her back on her feet, rising as he did so.