Fabianus Haviland, Viscount Penweather, sensed the woman’s determination from her stride, her posture, the measured speed with which she covered the dreary ground. An indefinable instinct told him she’d been recently bereaved. This was not a dowager of longstanding, but rather, a woman new to her grief and bent on besting it.
“My sister comes to pay her weekly call,” Grey Dorning, Earl of Casriel said, passing Fabianus a tot of brandy. “To your health.”
“And yours,” Fabianus replied, silently toasting the lady’s fortitude as well. Some widows never reached the indomitable stage. They remained paralyzed for years by the shock of a spouse’s passing, becoming vague, faded creatures whom family worried over and resented by turns.
Casriel took the place beside Fabianus at the window. “Lady Daisy has made it through the first three months of widowhood. My wife, who has reason to know, claims that’s the hardest part.”
Fabianus took a sip of fine libation, savoring the mellow burn in his vitals. “Everyone grieves differently. For some the condolence calls are the greater difficulty, for others the early days without any socializing are the worst tribulation.” For still others, the occasional titled widower, for example, the real torment began when life was supposed to return to normal, which it could never, ever do.
Casriel eyed him speculatively. “I forgot you once had something of a reputation.”
Fabianus’s nickname in the less genteel clubs had been The Widow’s Revenge, and he—dimwitted cockerel—had found that a source of amusement. The whole business had started out innocently enough, with a few merry widows popping out at him from shadowed alcoves. His breeding organs had popped out of his breeches with equal regularity, and a pattern had formed.
He’d soon learned that some widows sought to be pursued, some sought to be temporarily caught, some sought nothing other than affectionate friendship.
The woman in the garden stopped at the fountain in the center of the formal parterres. The month being February, any body of water would be covered with a sheet of ice. Her ladyship toed through the dusting of snow until she found a stout stick, which she jabbed at the interior of the fountain.
“She’s breaking the ice for the birds and squirrels,” Casriel said. “My father taught me to do that. I’m not sure who taught Daisy. She’s the youngest Dorning daughter, and while not exactly a stranger to me, she also married before the rest of us. I am ordered by my countess to reacquaint myself with her. One hardly knows where to begin in such a fraught endeavor, but aided by my—”
“My lord, excuse me.” Fabianus set down his drink. “Your garden has been invaded by a demon sprite, and I must notify my nursery staff.” Fabianus had known dragging Pandora along on this trip was ill-advised, but then, leaving the child to wreak havoc in Hampshire would have been patently stupid.
“My gracious,” Casriel said, eyeing the scene in the garden and taking another sip of his drink. “Intrepid little thing.”
Casriel could afford to be amused. He wasn’t responsible for the imp scampering around a snowy garden clad in nothing more than a pair of unlaced boots.
Fabianus paused at Dorning Hall’s terrace entrance long enough to snatch his cloak before facing the frigid air.
“Pandora Haviland, you will stop this nonsense at once.” He walked, he did not run, across the terrace. “For shame, child, to behave in such a manner.”
Lady Daisy had tossed her stick away and left the fountain. She’d also withdrawn a small white muslin bag from a pocket in her black skirts.
Pandora veered right, down a path that would intersect with Lady Daisy’s. Fabianus did not favor sprinting after the girl, but neither could he allow her to cavort unclad in the elements.
“Pandora,” Lady Daisy called, shaking her little muslin bag. “Are the pirates after you?”
Pandora changed course again, this time heading straight for Lady Daisy. “I’m a pirate,” the child bellowed. “I have escaped Royal Navy!”
What fool put such fancies into an already imaginative head, and why must those boots be untied? Visions of a little smashed nose, a scarred chin, chipped teeth, bloody knees, and endless tears filled Fabianus’s mind.
He stalked after the child onto the path that led to the fountain, resisting with every footfall the urge to simply run Pandora to earth. A footman in Penweather livery and a nursemaid with her cap askew pelted onto the terrace and a skidded to a halt at the top of the steps.
“I have booty,” Lady Daisy announced, extracting some sort of sweet from the bag, tossing the treat into the air, and catching it in her mouth. “Golden lemon drops, purloined from the crown’s dockside warehouses. Who will steal my treasure in these dark, treacherous alleys?”
The result of this speech was for Pandora to gleefully attempt to chase her ladyship, who at the opportune moment turned and snatched the child onto her hip. The widow was nimble, and strong, for Pandora, at five years of age, was no sylph.
“I have taken the fair princess prisoner,” Lady Daisy announced. “A beautiful maiden who will surely bring a fine ransom.”
“Papa, pay the rancid!” Pandora called. “I want a lemon drop.”
The child wanted a sound birching, but Fabianus could not bring himself to heed Nanny’s guidance in that regard. Pandora was so little, and much of the time she was somewhat biddable.
“Commodore Lord Penweather,” Lady Daisy called, “what shall I do with our prisoner?”
Casriel had joined the gawkers on the terrace, and he still looked thoroughly entertained. Clearly, his children were of the well-behaved sort.
“She’s to be taken to the brig,” Fabianus retorted, approaching Lady Daisy. “You lot, make yourselves useful.” The pair on the terrace trotted down into the garden, while Fabianus draped his cloak around Pandora’s chubby form. “My lady, I do thank you, and I apologize as well for Pandora’s unruly behavior.”
Lady Daisy managed to hold the child on her hip with one arm while arranging the cloak with the other.
“I had gone too long without making the acquaintance of a fellow pirate,” she said, passing the girl to the footman. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Penweather. Casriel warned me you’d be visiting, but I thought you weren’t expected until tomorrow.”
Fabianus bowed, though why was Casriel idling about when he ought to be making proper introductions?
“I am at your service, my lady. The horses made better time down from Hampshire than expected.” Frozen roads had advantages over muddy roads.
“Lady Daisy Fromm, pleased to make your acquaintance.” She tossed off a brisk curtsey and took Fabianus by the arm. “I hadn’t realized you had arrived, else I would not have intruded on my brother’s household. You and Casriel attended university together, am I correct?”
She was a small woman, particularly compared to Fabianus, but she was steering him, physically directing his steps to the terrace and conversationally setting his feet on path of small talk and pleasantries.
She was also pretty, or as pretty as any fair-complected lady could be when wearing weeds. She had the unusual lavender-blue Dorning eyes, and her gaze was quite direct. Her features were not exactly delicate—the chin firm, the nose a bit bold—but the whole was pleasingly feminine and set off by a full mouth.