Page 100

“No.” She took a bite of her now-cold eggs though she couldn’t taste them.

He frowned at her.

“The butler,” Philippa stated; having plunged, there was nothing for it but to keep going.

At this unimaginable revelation the blood drained from her father’s face. “You’re jesting.” His voice was a whisper.

Philippa squared her shoulders. “Mr. Berwick is the prince’s own brother. He is the son of a grand duke. He serves as His Highness’s majordomo out of strong loyalty and affection.”

Her father blinked. “No gentleman would ever serve as a butler, no matter what fancy label you give the position.”

“He is a gentleman,” Philippa snapped, in a tone she had never before used with her father.

“Then there’s something else wrong with him . . . Oh, dear God, he’s a married man.” Mr. Damson dropped his head into his hands. “I should have wedded you to Rodney the day you turned sixteen.”

Philippa rose, then slipped into the chair next to her father. “He is not married, Papa.”

Her father raised his head. “Poor as a church mouse, I expect. No estate.”

“None,” she admitted.

“Still, that doesn’t explain why he’s the butler. The man could marry an heiress if he’s the son of a grand duke. There’s no need to put on livery; there’s many a rich merchant who would love to boast of a son-in-law with that pedigree.”

Philippa bit her lip.

It came to him. “Wrong side of the blanket,” her father stated, his mouth bunching up with disdain.

She nodded.

“Damnation!” The word echoed harshly in the little room.

“Papa,” she said imploringly. “Wick is not—”

“Wick? Wick? Like the wick of a candle? I’ll be damned if my daughter will have anything to do with a man named after a household necessity.” He surged to his feet. “Tell me that the bastard touched you, and I’ll kill him myself.”

Philippa jumped up as well. “Papa, no!”

He grabbed her arms and stared into her face. “No? No, you are still a virgin?” She didn’t answer, and he gave her a shake. “Does that fine prince over there know the consequences of his bastard brother deflowering an English lady? Does he?”

“He didn’t deflower me,” she whispered.

Her father’s face relaxed, but his grip didn’t. “Ah.” Then, more slowly: “That would explain why he’s not here, trying to make his way out of the servant class by marrying you.”

“He refused to marry me!” She half shrieked it.

Her father dropped her arms, tottered, and sank back in his chair. “Margaret, Margaret, why did you leave me?” he moaned.

Philippa raised her chin. She couldn’t even imagine what her mother would make of the situation. “I asked him to marry me.”

Her father’s only response was a loud groan.

“And he refused on the grounds of his honor.”

“Where did I go wrong?” he moaned. “What did we do wrong, Margaret?” He raised his head. “This is all because of Rodney, isn’t it? You got a bee in your bonnet about Rodney, and so you fell for a good-looking servant with an interesting tale.”

“Wick is a gentleman and as honorable as you are. He means to be a doctor, just like your own brother.”

“You are not the first,” her father said, unheeding. “There’s that daughter of the Earl of Southplank, a year or two ago. Everyone knew she ran off with a footman, some say for an entire week. But she’s properly married, right and tight now.” He stood again. “And that’s what you’ll be as well. I’ll visit Sir George this very afternoon.”