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In short, the heiress was a patent excuse for avoiding marriage for the next decade. Devin couldn’t blame his cousin. He wasn’t looking forward to it himself. But he’d promised himself two years ago that the next time a duke’s daughter came on the market, he’d get the business over with.

“I do think it’ll be better if I move here,” Otis said. “In a few weeks, after I fix things up with the bishop.”

“Will the bishop be surprised?”

“My expectation is that he’ll be as eager to kick me out the door as I am to leave. Hopefully, I’ll be out of the vicarage in time to supervise your courtship,” Otis said. “I already have some advice as regards your marital ambitions.”

“What?”

“You’ll have some competition for the Wilde girl.”

Wynter doubted that very much. He hadn’t been to a ball in years, but the last time he attended one, it reminded him of a Scottish stream when the trout were running. Young ladies playing the role of shining, wriggling trout.

“I’ve got the title and money, I’m not lame or scarred, I don’t drink to excess.”

“Viscount Greywick is looking for a wife,” Otis said. “He’ll be a duke someday. Word is he almost landed the last Wilde, so I suspect he’ll be on the lookout again. He’s younger than you, and to be brutally honest, he’s handsome to boot.”

As Devin understood it, there were an infinite number of Wilde offspring. Greywick could wait another year or two if need be. He shrugged.

“You might want to try to appear less . . . ducal,” Otis suggested.

Devin knew exactly what he was talking about, but his expressionless demeanor had saved his life many a time as a youth caught in the path of his father’s rage, and it was too late to try to imitate Otis’s cheerful smile.

“Lady Joan won’t marry me for who I am,” he pointed out. “She’ll marry me because the duchy of Wynter is older and wealthier than Greywick’s duchy.”

Otis laughed. “Perhaps Hazel has a shot at Greywick.”

“I wish her the best of luck,” Devin said politely.

Chapter Four

The next day

Viola didn’t sleep more than a few hours that night, and by breakfast she had come up with a three-part plan to win Mr. Marlowe’s hand and heart. She had to prove that she was worthy of his attention, bring him to London when the family moved there for the Season, and conquer her shyness.

That afternoon, the Pettigrews and Mr. Marlowe joined the duchess—whom they hadn’t met the previous day—for tea.

Viola was trying to figure out how to prove her worthiness when Barty fluttered down from his perch, stopped at her foot, and let out a gentle caw. He could manage short flights, as long as he didn’t overtax his wings.

“Oh, goodness me!” Miss Pettigrew squealed.

“This is Barty,” Viola said, slipping her hand under the crow’s round tummy and bringing him up to her knee. “He fell from the nest as a baby and now he lives with us.”

Barty cocked his head and looked at Miss Pettigrew. He opened his wings and cawed again.

“He is wishing you good afternoon,” Viola said.

Miss Pettigrew was clearly horrified. “I do not believe in animals sharing human habitation.”

“Insalubrious,” her mother confirmed, frowning at Barty.

Barty fluttered to the ground, picked up a piece of bright red paper that had escaped the maids’ notice, and hopped to Miss Pettigrew. He spread his wings again, bent his head, and laid it next to her slipper.

“It’s a present,” Viola explained.

“More likely payment. He tends to offer a gift before he pecks off a button, and yours are shiny,” Joan said, with a jaundiced air.

“Get that creature away from me,” Miss Pettigrew cried, shrinking back and slapping her hands over her bosom to protect her brass buttons. Her mother snatched up her saucer and held it like a shield.