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“A head is like a house,” he said. “If it’s crammed too full, it’s cluttered.”

“Rodney’s house doesn’t have a stick of furniture in it,” she said flatly.

Her father’s shoulders slumped. “I thought I was doing the best for you.”

“Papa,” she said, “I will not marry Rodney. Ever.”

“Just come home,” he said, coming to his feet and taking her in his arms again. “Just come home, please, Philippa. These last weeks have been insupportable.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, realizing the depth of her own unkindness, however unintended it may have been. “I was as bad as the serpent’s tooth in the Bible, wasn’t I, Papa?”

“Not quite,” he said wearily. “And it was Shakespeare’s Lear who called his thankless daughter a serpent’s tooth. But I haven’t felt so distraught since your mother died, and that’s the truth. I’ll have to speak to Sir George. I told him that you were visiting my brother all this time, but he suspects otherwise, of course. The servants have talked.”

“Please not the first day,” Philippa implored. “Surely, we can have a quiet day to ourselves. I’ll have a posset made, and we’ll play a game of chess in your study.”

They did just that.

Chapter Eleven

But the very next morning her father looked up from his plate and nodded to the butler, standing at a side table by the fire, ready to provide fresh toast. “That will do, Quirbles.”

Philippa put down her fork as their butler closed the door quietly behind him. “What is it, Papa?”

“You’re not the same,” he said abruptly.

She blinked at him.

“There’s something different about you.”

“I hope not.” She didn’t know whether to hope that Wick’s French letter had worked just as it ought or not: there was nothing to the outward eye that admitted she’d been ravished—and loved.

“What happened in that castle, Philippa?” her father asked. His voice was kind, but firm.

She picked up her fork again and studiously pushed her eggs to the side of the plate. “I took care of the little prince. I told you that already, Papa.”

“That’s not what I mean . . . His father didn’t do anything untoward, did he?”

Philippa’s mouth fell open. “Of course not, Papa! What a thing to suggest!”

“His Highness is not English.”

“He is all that is honorable,” Philippa said reprovingly. “And the princess is perfectly lovely. We even became friends. And by the way, she is English—though really, Papa, you should not make assumptions about people’s characters based on where they come from.” In truth, she missed Kate, which was absurd because they had been acquainted for only a few weeks.

“Nevertheless, you have changed somehow. What happened there?” her father persisted.

With a deep breath Philippa took the plunge. “I fell in love.”

“Ah, I thought so,” her father said, with the satisfaction that comes with having one’s guess confirmed. “You know, sweetpea, when your mother was dying, she was very worried about you. She was certain that I wouldn’t notice what you were feeling or thinking.”

“Well, you didn’t, when it came to Rodney,” Philippa pointed out, rather unkindly.

“I made up for that now,” he said, taking a bite of kipper.

She watched him chew and smile to himself.

But then the significance of it hit him. He put down his fork with a sharp click.

“You fell in love—with whom did you fall in love? Some dissolute scrap of gentry hanging around the prince’s knees, hoping for a handout, I’ll warrant. One of those glittering court fellows with no more substance or ethics than a tomcat!”