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That hung in the air for a good second. Or ten.

Then she heard it: down the corridor came a thin, protracted wail, an agonizing sound.

“Ah, bollocks,” Mr. Berwick muttered.

It was such an English expletive—and said in such a velvety, accented voice—that Philippa couldn’t help laughing.

A smile spread over his lips too. “You really aren’t worried about Jonas’s survival, are you?”

She shook her head. “He’s crying because milk doesn’t agree with him. But it’s not a mortal condition, and his stomach will eventually get used to it.”

“Fancy yourself a doctor?”

“No, but any person with common sense can see when a baby has colic,” she said. “It’s always better to do nothing in such cases.” She hesitated.

“What?”

So she told him, in a rush, about her fear that Jonas had intussusception. “But I’m sure that my uncle told me that there would be blood in his nappy,” she finished. “And there isn’t.” Jonas’s persistent wails were coming closer.

“It sounds to me as though you’re right,” Mr. Berwick said. “Still, we need your uncle to come take a look at the baby. Where is he? I’ll send a carriage immediately.”

“You couldn’t!” Philippa gasped, horrified. “He would—no!”

“But he’s the best doctor you know. We need him.”

The door opened, and Kate reentered, carrying Jonas and followed by a man who was the prince, presumably. A tottering elderly lady clutched his arm. She wore so much face paint, topped by a fuzzy and rather shabby wig, that she resembled a Chinese dog that had gone through Little Ha’penny along with a traveling fair.

But it was the prince who caught Philippa’s eye. She stood rooted to the spot and looked from Mr. Berwick’s eyebrows to the prince’s, at their hair, their eyes, their chins . . .

“Her Highness, Princess Sophonisba, and His Highness, Prince Gabriel Albrecht-Frederick William von Aschenberg of Warl-Marburg-Baalsfeld,” Mr. Berwick announced. Turning to them, he said, “May I present Miss Damson.”

“Most irregular, being introduced by the butler,” the old lady said irritably. “Well, who are you, then?”

“I’m—”

“She’s a friend of mine,” Kate interjected. “She’s come to help with Jonas.” She smiled at Philippa, and Philippa realized, rather to her surprise, that it was true. Even though she’d known Kate for only a matter of hours, they were friends.

“I can’t hear a word over that howling,” Princess Sophonisba said. “I never heard of a lady nursing her own baby before. I’m sure that’s the problem.” She leveled a thin finger at Kate. “What that child needs is the milk of a hardy peasant. Yours is probably thin and blue. Though now I think on it, you’re practically a peasant yourself.”

Philippa’s eyes met Kate’s, and Philippa said hastily, “I’ll just walk Jonas in the corridor until he calms, shall I?”

“Yes, do,” the elderly princess said. “He sounds like one of the devils they like to talk about in church, the kind who have nothing to do but yowl. Wick, why aren’t you offering us something to drink? Just because Rome is burning doesn’t mean we needn’t fiddle. This screeching is terrible for my nerves.”

Philippa settled Jonas into the crook of her left arm and nodded to the footman, who opened the door for her.

In the hallway, Jonas waved his tiny clenched fists and wailed. He was pulling up his legs again, so his stomach must be aching. Philippa settled him on her shoulder and patted his back gently as she walked.

If Mr. Berwick insisted on summoning her uncle, it would all be over. Her father would arrive within hours, and she would end up back in Little Ha’penny, married to Rodney. Jonas let out a big burp.

“You have a lot of air in your tummy,” Philippa said. He was still crying, but he sounded more halfhearted about it. Another big burp erupted from his stomach.

She kept walking, up and down, worrying at the problem of her uncle, her father, Rodney, Jonas, colic . . . what if she was wrong? If it was intussusception, her uncle would say there was nothing to be done. But . . .

Finally, the door to the dining room opened, and Kate emerged. “Bless you,” she said, taking the baby. The moment he came off Philippa’s shoulder, he screwed up his face and cried even louder.

“Hush, sweet one,” Kate crooned.

“Try your shoulder,” Philippa said. “Like this.” She arranged the baby so he was lying over his mother’s shoulder.