At the moment, as she looked directly at him, they were definitely leaning toward a stormy gray.
Her nose was straight, her lips full—with an intriguing pout to the upper one—her skin pale and flawless, a slight dimple in her chin. Her slim neck could only be judged as regal.
Furthermore, she was tall enough to tower over young Tompkins, and was only a few inches shy of being able to look Darby straight in his eyes, which would make her very nearly six feet tall.
Amazing. One can only wonder how much of her is legs.
“And you are...?” she asked him, definitely imperiously, and with no hint of a country accent. In fact, her English was probably more precise than his own, as he had a tendency to drawl when amused, and he was often amused. He’d best pull out his most precise accent.
He also probably should stop grinning.
“Astounded,” Darby said, bowing. “Perplexed. Nonplussed. Oh, and dry. And you?”
“You’re Viscount Nailbourne,” she countered as Tompkins finally realized he should close the door. “John told me about the eye. You received my letter? I sent one to every address John had provided. You weren’t at the first one and I was forced to continue my search.”
Typical female. Somehow everything apparently has become my fault.
“Clearly a lapse on my part. A thousand apologies,” he said, bowing yet again. “Would you care to continue this conversation upstairs, or are you more comfortable in foyers? I’m amendable either way, and I’m certain Tompkins here wouldn’t mind watching this small farce unfold.”
“I’m more comfortable dry. Our trunk momentarily lies abandoned just inside your gates. I would appreciate having it fetched and taken to whatever quarters you might assign. Once I have your ward settled, I would be more than amenable to continuing our conversation.”
“You’re...you’re not my ward?”
Then who in bloody hell are you?
She looked at him as if he had just popped out a second head. “Certainly not. I’m above the age of requiring a keeper. Marley? You can come out now, please, and allow me to introduce you to your new guardian.”
The young woman pulled back one side of the oversize cloak to reveal a female child of no more than six or seven. The child was clinging to her apparent protector with both arms, her face buried against the damp muslin skirts.
Yes, the legs were that long...
“Marley,” the woman urged, “if you’re quite done with your impersonation of a barnacle, make your curtsy to His Lordship, as I’ve taught you to do.”
“Will not.” The words were rather muffled, but clearly understood.
I don’t blame you, Darby thought.
“She’s prodigiously fatigued, poor poppet,” the woman said through only slightly gritted teeth she still couldn’t manage to keep from chattering with cold. “Unless I gave him a copper, the coach driver wouldn’t bring us any farther. We were forced to walk from the gate. And then it began to rain.”
And there is that glare again. Apparently the rain is also my fault.
Considering that the gate and house were separated by nearly a mile of gravel drive, Darby mustered some sympathy for the child. “I understand. And she’s probably a bit shy, aren’t you, Marley? Tompkins, fetch Mrs. Camford at once, and have her attend to our guests. But first—you still have the advantage of me, ma’am, in more than one way. If I might have your name?”
“Forgive me, my lord. I am Mrs. Boxer. Mrs. Sadie Grace Boxer, sister to the late John Hamilton, and Marley’s paternal aunt.”
More and more curious...but it might help explain her unusual height. John, he remembered, had been quite the beanpole himself. They also seemed to share their blond hair.
“Boxer? S. G. Boxer? You wrote the letter I received last week? I was under the impression that I had been contacted by John’s solicitor.”
“Then you were laboring under a mistaken impression. I never claimed any such thing.”
“No? Well, you certainly implied it, madam. Did you pen the note with Mr. Johnson’s lexicon at your elbow?”
“Are you now implying that perhaps Marley and I aren’t who I presented us to be? Are you questioning that Marley is indeed John’s child, and now your ward?”
Sadie Grace Boxer had stepped forward a pace, her dimpled chin raised. When she spoke, there had been the hint of a drawl in her voice, as if she was pouring cream over steel. Odd, that they both should have the same failing, but for different reasons. Or perhaps she was secretly amused? No, that wasn’t it. What he saw in those eyes was a mix of confusion and...could that be fear? Had his intended joke struck a nerve?
Darby tipped his head slightly. “I wasn’t, no, not completely. But now that you mention it, have you any proof that you and the child are who you say you are?”
Speaking of rats, did he sound like one searching for any way off a sinking ship? Yes, he probably did. But the woman was not what he was expecting, and until he figured out why that bothered him, he wouldn’t be too hard on himself for his suddenly suspicious nature.
Mrs. Camford had just bustled into the foyer, followed by two housemaids, and was already tsk-tsking and issuing orders about clean linens and tubs to be drawn and fires to be laid in both one of the bedchambers and the nursery.
“Can this wait, my lord, as I tend to this small darling?” the housekeeper interrupted, having known Darby since he was in short coats and apparently already half in love with the now visibly shivering blonde poppet with the huge green eyes sparkling with heart-melting tears. “Oh, just look at the little darling. Come to Camy, sweetheart. Camy will make it all better.”
Darby raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the headache he could feel advancing on him. “Scolding me, Mrs. Camford? And with good reason. I can’t imagine what I was thinking. Take them off, with my compliments. I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me.”
“Yes, m’lord, you do that. You’re clearly of no use here.”
At last, Mrs. Boxer smiled. Of course she would. No woman could resist a little crowing when a man has been put solidly in his place.
“I’ll take myself off, then, Camy, before I’m sent to bed without my porridge.”
Sadie Grace Boxer turned toward the stairs, following the housekeeper. “How gracious, my lord. Come along, Marley,” she called over her shoulder.
Instead, Marley walked straight up to Darby, stopping just in front of him. “You’re mean,” she announced. “I don’t like you, and I hope you die.”
“What a charming infant you are,” he said, and inclined his head to her.
The charming infant kicked him straight in the shin with all her might.
“Tired and hungry,” Mrs. Boxer said, perhaps in apology—and perhaps not—hurriedly coming back to take Marley by the shoulders and steer her toward the staircase.
Tompkins quickly suppressed a giggle, and even Mrs. Camford smiled as she brushed past the guests, to lead them upstairs.
“She’s just a child, my lord,” Mr. Camford said from behind him. “Mrs. Camford will soon take her in hand. Didn’t take any sass from our four boys, nor from you, either, begging your pardon. I couldn’t help but see you rubbing at your head. Shall I bring you some laudanum, sir?”
“No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. I’ll leave you and your good wife to sort things out, if I may, and retreat to my study to lick my wounds. Please have Mrs. Boxer brought to me when it suits her.”
Mrs. Boxer. If she looked that good wet, cold