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“No?”

“You need more time to get to know her. She’s quiet. Shy. You don’t have an ounce of that sentiment in you, Nephew, but I can assure you that it’s a difficult thing to grapple with if you have an abundance of it.”

“Do you have an ounce of shyness?” Devin inquired.

“No, it’s not part of the family makeup,” his uncle replied. “Doesn’t come down in the blood, as it were. The Wynters are the opposite of shy: always charging into battle and generally being cut off before the age of thirty as a result. Your parents, both of them, were prime examples.”

Devin had never considered the pruning of his family tree in this light, but he had to admit there was some justification for it. His father had died after his umpteenth duel; his mother had died after eating stewed foxglove against the advice of the family doctor. She had been told that it might give her the art of prophecy.

It was kinder to think of that as a courageous impulse than pure foolishness.

“You see?” his uncle demanded, having apparently followed his train of thought. “I’ve had to rein myself in countless times, just to make certain that you and my children have one parent left.”

This was obviously not the moment to remind his uncle that he was related by marriage, not by blood, to the Wynters. Nor of Sir Reggie’s bet that he could get from London to Bath in a racing curricle. He’d been lucky to land in a hospitable hedge.

That was last year.

“What I’m saying is that you can’t judge Miss Astley on such short acquaintance,” his uncle said. “I’ve come over here to tell you that we’re holding an afternoon tea with dancing for Hazel, and I want you to come. I told you that my cousin Elnora has joined us for the Season, didn’t I? Had to have someone to chaperone Hazel.”

“Otis told me,” Devin said.

“You ignored my invitation.”

“When is the tea?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Very small, very select. The Wildes are coming,” his uncle said. “And two other ladies, including Lady Caitlin. Ten or fifteen in all. I invited Caitlin before I knew that you were fussy about wig ornaments.”

“A question of my nerves,” Devin said, thinking with sardonic pleasure of the moment when Viola bade the vicar to pray for him.

“Poppycock,” his uncle said. “You haven’t a nerve in your whole body. I’ll have some more of that champagne.”

Devin came around the desk, poured champagne into a brandy goblet, and handed it to him.

“Have some yourself,” Uncle Reggie said generously.

“No, thank you.” Devin leaned against the desk in lieu of returning to his seat.

“You need to wear something lively to the tea,” his uncle said, casting a disparaging look at Devin’s black coat.

Years ago, Devin had come to the conclusion that his uncle’s propensity for matching his wig powder to his pantaloons, together with Otis’s penchant for brightly colored waistcoats, was best left to that side of the family. He had loathed roses on purple silk even before Miss Astley had informed him his coat was ostentatious.

“I am better suited to subdued clothing,” he said.

“Black makes a man look sallow,” his uncle said. “I suppose you could do with a light charcoal.”

“I will keep it in mind,” Devin said, accepting this sartorial dictate.

“That’s one thing to be said for Otis dropping the church,” Uncle Reggie said, his mouth compressing. “At least I won’t have to see him around the house in black. I can’t abide black.”

Devin had the feeling that his uncle’s abhorrence for the color stemmed from his wife’s death. “I won’t wear black,” he promised.

“Not to the tea party,” his uncle said. “Lively colors are the ticket.”

“How was Hazel’s first ball?” Devin had danced with his cousin the night before, but it was one of those dances with lots of to-ing and fro-ing, and no time to inquire as to her well-being.

“She thinks she’s in love,” his uncle said.

“After one night? Is it a respectable match?”