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“Daisy and Cleopatra are not great travelers,” Viola said, smiling. “Would you settle for a crow instead?”

“Absolutely!” Otis cried. “We just need a few more animals to put on Noah’s ark at St. Wilfrid’s. The parishioners would be thrilled.”

Aunt Knowe swept in the circle and sat beside Viola, the feathers on her wig waving in the air like the plumes atop an outlandish chicken. “What are you all discussing?”

“My idea for a biblical play cycle,” Viola said, moving closer to the duke, so that Aunt Knowe’s voluminous panniers wouldn’t crush her gown. “My stepfather was somewhat disapproving when I suggested it,” she told the others. “Aunt Knowe wasn’t entirely in favor either.”

“I didn’t know it was your idea at that point,” her aunt reminded her.

“Noah’s ark would have been a clue,” Devin said dryly.

Lady Knowe shook her head. “Don’t encourage her, Your Grace. People think that Viola is sweet-tempered, but sometimes I think she is the most obstinate of the children who grew up in the ducal nursery.”

“A performance of Noah’s ark, with the proceeds given to charity,” Otis put in.

“I agree,” Devin stated.

Viola could tell that the duke was enjoying himself, and she liked it when he looked happy. Because they were friends, she told herself hastily. Good friends. Just look how supportive Devin was being regarding her play cycle.

Mr. Marlowe had been far less confident that her idea had merit. Just now, the vicar was across the room, talking animatedly with Lady Caitlin while Miss Pettigrew sat silently, watching the pair of them. Viola felt another stab of sympathy for the lady. This couldn’t be a pleasant occasion for her.

The duke followed her gaze. “No going over there,” he said in a low voice. “You are the one who instructed me not to appear desperate, don’t you remember? He must come to you.”

Joan and Otis had launched into a lively exchange with Aunt Knowe about the best plays currently being performed in London.

Viola wrinkled her nose at Devin. “You are the opposite of desperate since you appear to be completely uninterested in finding a bride! I count at least five eligible young ladies with whom you could be speaking, not including my sister.”

“Joan is too excitable for me,” Devin said, without a trace of apology in his voice. “She is very talkative. Have you noticed?”

“Her conversation is enthralling,” Viola said firmly. “She’s my best friend, and you mustn’t be critical.”

The duke waggled his eyebrows. “See how I’m moving both of them at the same time?”

She nodded.

“It’s less lazy than moving just one,” he informed her. “But you can take the emotion for granted.”

“Irony? Sarcasm? Wit? Men of your sort use The Eyebrow for everything,” Viola said. “I’ve been cataloguing the effect for years.”

“Men ‘of my sort’?” His voice shaded cool.

“Oh, dear, did you think that you were entirely original among men of wealth and consequence?”

He gave her a thoughtful look. “On the whole, yes.”

“It’s a masculine failing,” Viola told him. “You all think that you’re unique, when in fact you are remarkably similar.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “I assure you that I have virtually nothing in common with Otis, and we share a grandfather.”

They both looked at Otis, who was arguing with Joan, hands waving, eyes bright with laughter.

“Your cousin is charming,” Viola said.

“I am not.” The duke stood, and for a moment Viola thought that she’d hurt his feelings, but he was looking down at her with his usual calm demeanor. “I shall separate Mr. Marlowe from his flock and bring him here, if you’ll excuse me.”

She nodded, and he strode across the room.

It was very kind of Devin to aid Viola in her courtship—if that was the appropriate word—of Mr. Marlowe.