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“Ah. Well, I disagree. After all, Holofernes’s head is generally depicted with a morose expression—naturally so, given his demise—and your quite lovely smile disqualifies you. What’s more, I have fond memories of that gown doused in water.”

Stella barely took that in before they arrived at Mrs. Thyme’s side. Her aunt raised her head and peered out from under the damp cloth draped over the upper part of her face. “Your Grace, you must forgive me, as my wretched head prevents me from rising to greet you. My hair is so dowdy that I’m embarrassed to let you see me.”

“You are exquisite as ever, even while suffering,” Silvester said, one hand cupping Specs again while he dropped into a bow.

“I trust your fraternal kindness,” she said. “I certainly couldn’t trust any of Stella’s suitors.”

Silvester cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“Do play chess on the other side of the room,” she begged. “The two of you laugh so much. It makes my head ache.”

“Are we never to laugh, or should we restrain ourselves only when your aunt is poorly?” Silvester inquired as they walked to the other side of the room to set out the chessboard.

“She finds laughter saucy at best, and vulgar at worst,” Stella clarified.

Silvester groaned. “At what age were you orphaned?”

“I was eight years old.” Stella flipped open the games table.

“Now I am in a properly subdued frame of mind for luncheon, ready to express my pity for female orphans with a shower of sovereigns.”

His tone was sardonic, but the quick glance he gave her settled warmly into her stomach.

“I am lucky to have had relatives,” Stella said, feeling a stab of disloyalty. “Mrs. Thyme cares for me.”

“Obviously. What a pity that she doesn’t like evidence of your happiness. Or trust you around your suitors.”

“She does trust me,” Stella protested. “Here we are on the opposite side of the room, where she cannot hear our conversation. You could be saying provocative things.” She felt herself turning pink. “Not that you would, because you don’t feel that way, but—you know what I mean.”

“It’s because she trusts me,” Silvester said, matter-of-factly. “She knows I’m courting Yasmin, so I am neutered.”

Stella frowned.

“Castrated,” he amended.

Her mouth fell open.

“Since you read the first four volumes of the encyclopedia,” he said helpfully. “Unless that was an exaggeration? Did you avoid reading definitions that your aunt would term unladylike? Which begs the question how a lady can possibly be offended unless she already knows the offensive reference?”

Stella couldn’t stop herself from gurgling with laughter. “I’ve often wondered the same thing! My aunt reproves me for not blushing when indelicate topics are introduced—but how can I blush unless I know they are indelicate? And if I do know the referent, why would I blush?”

“The same reason that your aunt is offended by the sight of male feet even though presumably she has seen your uncle’s toes any number of times,” the duke pointed out. He cast her a wicked look. “It’s the product of intrinsic female delicacy. Of course, there’s a chance that you simply don’t have that attribute.”

Stella was pretty sure he was right, but she was absolutely certain that her aunt would have an attack of vapors if she heard this conversation, so she changed the subject.

“You may play White,” she said, beginning to set out the chessmen. “You might want to put Specs on the ground, as she will never be able to resist the chance to leap to the table and scatter the pieces.”

Silvester sighed. “It goes against my grain to accept White and make the first move, but I need every possible advantage in order to win.” He put down Specs, who promptly ran out of the drawing room.

An hour later, Stella was fighting off a brutal attack by Silvester’s queen when a scream erupted from somewhere upstairs.

Across the room, Mrs. Thyme started awake. “Shall I have no rest?” She sat bolt upright, her face draining of color. “An intruder knew that we were left alone in the house, and he has gained access!”

“I’m sure it’s nothing so horrifying,” Stella called, coming to her feet and running across the room to pat her aunt’s hand.

Another scream echoed down the stairs.

“The butler is out,” Mrs. Thyme gasped. “You mustn’t go upstairs, Stella. Stay here with me! Lock the door!”