Accordingly, Gabby had gone to the toy shop and returned with one of the popular toy theatres. The shopkeeper had claimed that the miniature stage—the size of a dollhouse and designed to fit upon a tabletop—was all the rage amongst youngsters. Children, he said, adored cutting out characters from printed paperboard and staging plays from various playbooks written for tots.
Fiona, as it turned out, was not most children. Although she took after Gabby in coloring with her red hair and blue eyes, her precociousness and ambitious nature clearly came from her father.
“The toy theatre is toosmall,” she’d decreed when Gabby had presented her with the gift over breakfast, which was the one meal the family usually shared together. “It’s for babes—like Maximillian.”
Across the table, her younger brother had predictably scowled.
“I’m not a babe,” he’d muttered at his coddled eggs.
“You’re only five, and I’m seven,” Fi pointed out in lofty tones. “And everyone knows that boys take longer than girls to grow up. Taking that into account, you’re more like three. It’s a fact of nature; there’s naught you can do about it.”
Faced with Fi’s poise and rather daunting logic, Max—who’d inherited his papa’s dark coloring and his mama’s shyness—had turned pleading brown eyes to Gabby. Her heart had melted seeing his flushed, chubby cheeks and quivering bottom lip.
“It’s not nice to tease your brother,” Gabby had said.
“It’s not teasing if it’s thetruth.” Tossing her auburn ringlets, Fiona had turned to Adam, who’d remained absorbed in his newspaper during the exchange. “Besides, a gentleman is supposed to be strong. He isn’t supposed to cry, is he, Papa?”
“A gentleman must be master of himself,” came Adam’s reply. “Self-discipline before sentiment. Always.”
Max’s eyes sheened. Gabby didn’t think he fully understood what his father meant, but the stern tone was enough of a reprimand. He quickly blinked, then lowered his head, shoveling in a bite of eggs.
“And if one is going to do a thing, one should do it properly,” Fi went on triumphantly. “Isn’t that what you always say, Papa? Please may I have the real thing…instead of this silly toy Mama bought?”
Adam had lowered his newspaper long enough to give his firstborn an indulgent look and his usual response to her requests. “Whatever you’d like, poppet.”
Fiona’s carte blanche had resulted in the footmen building the present stage, which took up a third of the large sitting room. Behind the closed blue velvet curtains, the whispering and giggles of the would-be performers could be heard as they readied for their show.
Gabby wished Adam was here. In fact, she wished he was anywhere but where he presently was. The worry she’d been keeping at bay surged, her fingers lacing tightly in her lap.
“You must keep a firmer rein on the children. On my hellion of a granddaughter especially,” her father lectured. “You’re far too soft, Gabriella. Who will look after you when I’m gone?”
“Oh, Father, please don’t talk of—”
“I won’t be here forever,” he muttered. “But whatever Garrity does, he cannot get his hands on your money. Thank God I set up that trust to protect you and the children.”
Before Gabby could reply, a gong sounded five times. Five minutes until the show started.
“Go attend to your guests, Gabriella.” Due to his illness, her father had abrupt spells of fatigue. He yawned, his eyelids suddenly drooping. “I’ll watch the play from here.”
Seeing that he was nodding off, she tucked the blankets more securely around him and went to join her friends in the row of chairs facing the stage. They’d saved her the seat between Polly, the Duchess of Acton and Emma, the Duchess of Strathaven, the dukes occupying the chairs beside their respective ladies.
“Is your papa all right, Gabby?” The soft inquiry came from Polly, who was ravishingly pretty with golden-brown hair and aquamarine eyes. She was also sweet and sensitive, with an uncanny knack for guessing what one was feeling.
“He’s fine. He was just asking about Mr. Garrity,” Gabby admitted.
Earlier, she’d told her guests that Adam was off on a mission with Tessa and Harry Kent. She hadn’t felt right withholding that information since Harry was the duchesses’ brother. Not wanting to cause undue concern, however, she’d kept the details to a minimum.
“I do wish Harry had informed us about this ‘meeting’ tonight,” Emma, the Duchess of Strathaven said.
Gabby had met Emma a decade ago, before the other’s marriage to the tall, dark, and wickedly handsome Strathaven. She would be forever grateful to Em for befriending her at a party; to this day, the duchess was one of the most sensible, kind, and down-to-earth ladies of Gabby’s acquaintance.
“The mission came up at the last minute,” Gabby said quickly. “I’m sure he would have told you otherwise.”
“If Harry had let us know, we could have lent a hand,” Emma muttered.
“That is precisely why your brother didn’t say anything, pet,” Strathaven said dryly.
Emma frowned. “I don’t follow.”
