Gabby looked at her curiously.

“The whole idea of chaperoning is that a gentleman may go wild with lust at any given moment,” Lady Sylvia explained to Gabby around a mouthful of eggs. “Steal a kiss or something equally godforsaken, right in front of Codswallop. But we might as well begin as we mean to go on. And I’m not planning to dog your steps every time you wish to use the water closet.” She smirked at Quill’s furious look.

The moment Quill, Gabby, and Phoebe walked into the parlor, it was eminently clear that Lady Sylvia was correct when she said that Phoebe’s new mother wouldn’t blink an eye at the child’s overly short hem. Not that Mrs. Ewing’s own skirt was a fraction of an inch too short or too long. In fact, Mrs. Ewing looked as close to an illustration from La Belle Assemblée as it was possible for a living woman to be. She was wearing the most elegant morning dress Gabby had ever seen, ornamented with lace knots all the way down the sleeves. And she wore a rakish little cap, tied down with colored silk that matched her shoes.

Yet for all her elegance, she didn’t appear to notice Phoebe’s shabby clothing. She whirled around from the windows as they entered, and hesitated. Then she ran forward and fell on her knees before the little girl. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, cupping Phoebe’s face in her hands. “You are the very image of Carolyn, aren’t you?”

Phoebe looked back at her steadily, ignoring the awkward question. “Are you my new mama?”

Gabby saw with an odd twinge to her heart that Mrs. Ewing’s eyes had filled with tears.

“I gather I am,” she said. “I…I would be proud to be your new mama, Phoebe.” And she reached out her slender hands and gathered the child up, holding her tightly in her arms. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t know,” she said into Phoebe’s hair. “I would never have left you alone. I would have come to India and fetched you myself. But we had no idea that Carolyn and her husband had suffered an accident.”

She stood, still holding Phoebe.

“Please, Mrs. Ewing!” Gabby said quickly. “Won’t you and Phoebe sit down?” She gestured toward a settee.

“Well, yes,” the young woman replied, staggering a bit as she walked toward the seat. “My goodness, Phoebe, you must be all of four years old!”

At that Phoebe raised her head. “I’m not four years old! I’m five!”

“Five.” Mrs. Ewing’s eyes flickered. Then she added lightly, “How very remiss of Carolyn not to inform me of your birthday.”

Phoebe had folded her hands primly, even though she was now perched on Mrs. Ewing’s knees. “My birthday is in May. I will be six.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Ewing said.