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 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 captive,” 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 small, she had lost her mama, and she did try to be good, according to the nurserymaids and footmen.
“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, like every other child in England save Pandora, were 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 for Pandora’s unruly behavior.”
Lady Daisy managed to hold the child on her hip with one arm while arranging the cloak with her free hand.
“I had gone too long without making the acquaintance of a fellow pirate,” she said, passing the girl to the footman, who bustled off toward the house. “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 on the terrace when he ought to be performing proper introductions?
“Penweather, 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.” 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, if I recall correctly.”
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 the path of small talk and pleasantries.
She was also attractive, or as attractive as any fair-complected lady could be when wearing weeds. Her features were not exactly delicate—the chin firm, the nose a bit bold—but the whole was interesting and set off by a somewhat full mouth.
What raised her appearance beyond mere prettiness, though, were her eyes. Their color was an unusual lavender hue, which was remarkable in itself, and illuminated her countenance aesthetically. The directness of her gaze, though—un-widowlike, almost unladylike—turned that color to cool amethyst fire.
“Your brother tells me you are recently bereaved, my lady,” Fabianus said as they ascended to the terrace. “My condolences on your loss.”
She gazed out over the snowy garden at the crows now squawking and flapping at the fountain.
“My thanks for your kind words, my lord. You are without a coat. Let’s get you inside, shall we?”
Fabianus revised his earlier assessment of her as she escorted him back to the Dorning Hall library. She was not in the indomitable phase of widowhood. Lady Daisy was simply, absolutely, unto her soul, indomitable. The intriguing question was, why had an earl’s pampered daughter had to develop that trait, much less raise it to a high art?
And then another question popped into Fabianus’s head: Who had taught this lady to play pirates and to entrap escaped prisoners with a smile and a promise of lemon drops?
Losing a spouse, even a spouse of middling qualities, was many blows all in one.
Erickson DeQuervain Fromm had pitched from his horse while riding home on a frosty autumn night and had expired where he’d landed. The abruptness of his passing had been the first blow, leaving Daisy figuratively jumping at shadows.