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“Small as a flea,” the princess said scornfully. “And his eyebrows jut out like the casements of a shop window.”

“I suppose you will have gathered by now that my birth was not sanctified by matrimony,” Wick said to Philippa.

Philippa nearly choked on her bite of roast beef. “I—”

“Does it appall you to hear of it?” he inquired, putting on an innocent expression. “I’m afraid that we’re used to the circumstance around here since it’s been the case since birth. My birth, that is,” he added.

Philippa finally managed to swallow her beef. “Not at all,” she said weakly.

“Give that girl some chicken,” Princess Sophonisba bellowed across the table. “She’s got a lung weakness, likely won’t last the week.”

Prince Gabriel rolled his eyes and nimbly reeled his aunt back into another topic of conversation.

“My aunt drinks too much,” Wick observed.

Philippa put down her fork. She very much hoped it was the right fork; with three to choose from, she had chosen at random. “I have noticed that inebriates tend to have few teeth. However, the Princess Sophonisba seems remarkably endowed, in that respect.”

“Yes, she’s gnawing that bone like a champion bulldog,” Wick said. “Well, then. Have you decided to tell me where to find your uncle?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Please don’t ask me.” Wick had a beautiful mouth. She jerked her eyes away and hoped he hadn’t noticed she was gaping at him.

“How long does it take to ride to his house?”

“Please don’t—”

“If Jonas continues to improve, I won’t summon him. But if Jonas grows more ill, even suddenly, how long would it take to fetch him?”

“A day,” she said relieved. “He would be back here the next morning if I sent a note along. Especially . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Especially because said uncle is probably looking desperately for you under every hedge and hillock,” Wick stated.

There was a moment of silence between them.

Philippa decided that she’d rather not answer. She’d read somewhere that prisoners couldn’t be forced to incriminate themselves. So she took another bite of roast beef.

“You’ll rue the day you were caught in the parson’s mousetrap,” Princess Sophonisba said to Prince Gabriel. “Children are women’s work. Your father would be ashamed of you.”

“Ah, but the cheese in that mousetrap was irresistible,” the prince said politely. “If you’ll excuse me, dear aunt. Miss Damson, Wick. I believe my turn has come.” With that, he left.

“You’d better stop looking at that wiggle-eyed gal,” Princess Sophonisba said, waving another chicken bone at Wick. She didn’t seem to expect an answer because she turned about and started haranguing a footman.

“Wiggle-eyed?” Philippa asked.

“She means velvet,” Wick said. His smile was—well—it should be outlawed. It made her insides feel hot and yielding.

“Velvet eyes?” Philippa said, pulling herself together. “I think I prefer wiggle.”

“Smoky,” he offered.

She wrinkled her nose. “I sound like a brothel, all velvet and smoke.”

“And what do you know of brothels?” he asked. His smile made her heart pound.

“Nothing,” she admitted.

“Well, I can tell you this,” he said, leaning toward her. “There are no doxies with smoky sea-green eyes nor hair the color of pearls.”

“Not bad,” Sophonisba barked from across the table.