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But perhaps, if he was wrong, and she wasn’t a lady . . .

Not that he was looking for a wife, of course. But during the last year he had noticed the way Gabriel liked to hold Kate’s hand, the way he swept his wife into his arms, the way he kissed her when he thought no one was looking.

Back in Marburg, the king would have paired Wick off by now, given him to a third or fourth daughter of a gentleman, a woman grateful to be connected in any way to the royal family, a woman whose father would willingly overlook Wick’s ignoble birth. But here in England, he had volunteered to become his brother’s majordomo. He had chosen to run the castle, and he was damned good at it.

He’d known perfectly well what that choice meant for his future. As a servant, he was a servant, no matter how high in the hierarchy of service. He would never marry a gentleman’s daughter. And he’d accepted that, content with an occasional trip to London to meet cheerful women who were neither ladies nor servants but happy to share a bed for a time.

Content, at least, until his brother fell in love.

One night, before the baby was born, he was making his nightly rounds and recognized Gabriel’s laughter coming from the study. Thinking to find out the joke, he had his hand on the door when he heard his sister-in-law gasp in such a husky, pleading way that, disconcertingly, he realized his brother’s laughter was aroused by something rather different than a mere jest.

Needless to say, he didn’t go in.

Even so, he kept trying to tell himself that he had no use for a wife, given that his wife must necessarily be a servant. Kate, after all, was the granddaughter of an earl. She was a perfect person to marry a prince. Gabriel was extraordinarily lucky to have met her.

There were few Kates in the world, and none who ended up paired with bastards.

But still . . . as he followed Miss Damson’s admittedly delicious figure from the kitchen, he thought, for the first time in his life, that perhaps he could marry a servant after all.

If the servant was a lady.

Chapter Three

Philippa was feeling wildly self-conscious as she walked out of the kitchen ahead of the devilishly handsome Mr. Berwick. In fact, her skin prickled all over at the idea that he was just behind her.

Which was ridiculous. Absurd.

He was a majordomo, for goodness’ sake. A butler. Her mother would turn in her grave at the very idea that she was noticing a butler’s profile, let alone his voice.

True, he was the most handsome butler she’d ever seen. He didn’t bundle his hair into a little bag the way their family butler, Quirbles, did. Instead, it was pulled back from his face in a way that emphasized his brow. His eyebrows formed peaks over his eyes.

And those eyes . . . they were fierce and proud, like an eagle. Not like a butler. Nothing like a butler.

It wasn’t just she who saw it either. Back in the kitchen, they had all instinctively acted as if he were a gentleman rather than a butler. Fascinating.

Her mind returned to the baby. She was almost certain that Jonas merely had a very bad case of colic. She’d seen as much several times while accompanying her uncle on his rounds, and once in Little Ha’penny itself. But the worrisome question was whether the baby might have something called intussusception, if she remembered the name right. That was when the bowels were all going the wrong way, and no matter what anyone did, the baby died.

She started walking a little faster. There was no point in mentioning this possibility to the princess since it would terrify her for no good reason. If it was intussusception, there was nothing to be done. But she was fairly sure that her uncle had told her that intussusception was always accompanied by a very slow pulse. Jonas’s pulse had seemed quite normal, and in any case, Lily had not reported seeing any blood in his stool—another telltale sign.

She started ticking off in her mind all the things she had to do: reassure Jonas’s mother, first of all. Then give Jonas a warm bath, with a little massage of his tummy. She had some balsam in her bag that she could rub on it.

Her uncle had believed that massage did no good, but at least it didn’t hurt, not the way that spirits did, or copious amounts of castor oil. Her uncle always said that some baby’s bowels just weren’t ready to digest properly.

“Nothing to do but wait,” she said aloud, remembering her uncle’s brusque advice to new mothers.

“What did you say?” Mr. Berwick said from behind her.

Even his voice was bewitching, with its smoky foreign tone.

She didn’t turn around but just kept marching up the stairs. “I trust I am going in the right direction for the nursery?”

“It’s just above the portrait gallery where I was walking Jonas, so we have another flight to go.”

Philippa’s legs were starting to ache. Becoming a nursemaid at Pomeroy Castle would definitely make her stronger.

“How did you learn French?” came that voice from behind her.

Her foot hesitated on the step, then she said quickly, “My aunt was French.” That wasn’t true, and Philippa quite disliked telling lies. She was from thoroughly English stock, whose only claim to exoticism was the red hair that cropped up now and again.