To his surprise, Phoebe looked stricken rather than joyful. “Oh, no,” she cried. “My clothing isn’t ready.”

“Your clothing,” Quill repeated.

Big tears spilled down Phoebe’s cheeks. “My new mama will think that I’m dowdy!”

“I doubt it,” Quill said dryly. “She’s more likely to think that you’re a nursling.”

Phoebe turned her face into Gabby’s shoulder. “I’m not a nursling,” she said around her sobs. “I don’t want my mama to see me like this! I want to wear my new gown with—with the pin—pin—pin tucks!”

Just then Lady Sylvia bustled into the room, followed by three scurrying dogs. “Well, well, what have we here?” She paused.

The fierce training Phoebe’s ayah had ladled out held her in good stead. As Gabby put her on her feet, Phoebe dropped a beautiful curtsy, despite the little sob that escaped her on the way down.

“Lady Sylvia, may I present Miss Phoebe Pensington?” Quill said. “Miss Phoebe has been staying with us. At the moment she is feeling some concern about her apparel.”

“Don’t know about that,” Lady Sylvia barked. “As I told you yesterday, I can’t take on the business of dressing others. I’ve enough trouble dressing myself.”

Gabby barely suppressed a grin. Lady Sylvia was magnificently attired in a pale-green morning dress with sprigs of lace let in the bosom. Her gloves, shoes, and dogs’ bows all matched.

Lady Sylvia sank into a chair and idly waved a green handkerchief at Codswallop. “I shall have naught but a cup of hot chocolate and perhaps one or two pieces of toast. I’m considering a reducing diet.”

Phoebe was leaning against Gabby’s shoulder, still mourning the pin-tucked dress.

“Yer a pretty little gel,” Lady Sylvia told her. “What are you blubbering about?”

Phoebe flushed. “I was being unladylike,” she whispered. “Please forgive me.”

“Nonsense! Nothing more ladylike than crying. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Erskine’s mother!” Lady Sylvia gave a bark of laughter.

“Phoebe,” Gabby said firmly, “your new mother will not care a pin about the length of your dress. A new dress could never make anyone love you more than they would naturally.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Lady Sylvia observed with a wicked little smirk. Then she caught Gabby’s eye. “Very true as pertains to parents, however. She’s right, Phoebe my gel. Yer mother won’t blink an eye at your garment.”

Ten minutes later, Codswallop announced that Mrs. Ewing had arrived. Phoebe turned even paler and clung to Gabby’s hand.

“Where’d you put her, Codswallop?” Quill inquired.

“The Indian Drawing Room, sir.”

Lady Sylvia was starting on her fifth piece of toast and had accepted a plate of coddled eggs from the footman. “You go right on ahead,” she remarked. “Erskine, I’ll allow you to escort Gabrielle. Just don’t lose control of yourself.”