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Regardless, this was a deuced inconvenient time to leave his research.

In truth, there was never a good time for a man who preferred scientific studies to socializing with vain, self-important denizens. Many of whom looked down their aristocratic noses at his hobby. But as the third son of Harland Kellinggrave, Duke of Landrith, they daren’t overtly disdain Constantine or the work he took seriously.

Pompous hypocrites.

Moreover, a fortnight ago, his faithful and reliable research assistant, Harvey Camberg-Trainer, had fallen in love with the pretty clerk at the new French patisserie and boulangerie. Now Harvey was distracted more often than not and had actually confused a Holly Blue butterfly with a common blue just yesterday.

Harvey’s doleful countenance and soul-rending sighs every few minutes as he rested his chin upon his fist and gazed forlornly out the window were enough to cause Constantine to clench his teeth and swear beneath his breath.

Must love render men bacon-brained sots?

Buffleheaded idiots?

Constantine had never suffered from the affliction—praise the saints—but two of his closest chums had. Half the time, he scarcely recognized the perpetually grinning dolts anymore.

If Harvey brought another bag of pastries or loaf of bread to work, Mrs. Mettlebank might well give her notice. The cook didn’t appreciate another outshining her culinary talents. Even Constantine had to admit the French baked goods were superior to anything Mrs. Mettlebank had ever served.

He’d bite his tongue off before admitting that fact, however.

Mrs. Mettlebank accepted his idiosyncrasies, including that he rarely dined on any type of schedule. And she didn’t grumble about him wandering into the kitchen at all hours for a snack. More often than not, she left a plate of something or other for him to sample.

More irksome than Harvey’s infatuation, however, was Faith Roth, the scrivener Constantine had recently hired. And who, any second now, would march into the laboratory-office and, with a single astute glance from those chocolatey doe eyes behind her wire-rimmed spectacles, under sardonically arched strawberry blonde eyebrows, would prick his temper.

As surely and as deliberately as if she’d poked him with a needle.

Had a more exasperating woman ever walked the earth?

She seemed particularly fond of sending verbal darts in his direction, always with a benign expression and perfectly respectable tone.

Miss Faith Roth didn’t fool him for a second.

Beneath her cool and calm exterior bubbled molten lava. Unless he missed his guess—and he was positive he did not—she’d erupt someday, and anyone nearby would get scorched.

Despite her outward poise and decorum, Miss Roth had become a proverbial thorn in Constantine’s side. He’d yet to see her lose her temper, but her expressive eyes rung him a peal at least half a dozen times daily.

He couldn’t terminate her either because not only was she efficient, organized, and an excellent scribe—which Constantine admitted he badly needed—he’d only hired her because he’d lost a bet.

A silly, thoughtless wager he never ought to have placed and wouldn’t have done so if he hadn’t had one brandy too many, and if Lord Ronan Brockman and Aston Terramier hadn’t accused him of being archaic in his beliefs and resistant to social progress—specifically when it came to women.

Those two disgustingly in love chaps thought it hysterical that Constantine had hired Faith Roth, who just happened to be—God save him—bosom friends with their sweethearts.

Fate had an irregular sense of humor.

By Jove, Lord Constantine Peyton Harland Kellinggrave was not antiquated in his thinking.

Despite ridicule and condescension, wasn’t he going beyond the bounds and researching the effects of butterflies and moths on pollination?

Pollination was crucial for crops, orchards, and even kitchen gardens. Bees generally received all of the attention, but moths and butterflies traveled greater distances and contributed mightily to pollination as well.

He tapped his chin with his forefinger.

Hmm. Were nectar-feeding bats also pollinators?

That might be interesting to study as well, but first things first.

Miss Faith Roth.

The perpetual pebble in his shoe. The burr on his bum. The itch he couldn’t reach.