Another princess? She, plain Philippa Damson, who had only rarely been out of Little Ha’penny, and never even to the city of London, was to dine with not one princess but two? “I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just a nursemaid.”

“I forgot that!” he said. His eyes laughed at her. “You’re a nursemaid. I suppose you don’t know how to use a knife and a fork.”

Philippa drew herself upright. “You may jest, Mr. Berwick, but I certainly do know how to use proper cutlery—as does every well-trained servant.”

“Are you well trained?” he asked cordially. “We never quite got around to that part of the interview.”

“Of course!”

He walked around the far end of the table and back toward her. “Do you know that there are a thousand things I ought to be doing at this moment?”

“I quite believe you,” she said. “Please feel free to attend to them.”

His dark eyes met hers, and he cocked a mocking eyebrow. “I can’t leave new staff alone in a room with the silver.”

Philippa suppressed the impulse to give him a set-down, reminding herself that she was now a servant—just a servant—before saying, as haughtily as she could, “Do be sure to count the forks after I leave the room.”

He came a step closer. “You would make an enticing thief. How did you hear of our need for a nursemaid, by the way? You simply appeared out of thin air, and the footman whom I sent to Manchester hasn’t even returned yet.”

“I didn’t come from Manchester,” Philippa said. His eyes made her feel rather hot, a feeling that Rodney’s gaze had never aroused. Though the very thought of Rodney was dispiriting.

“Then where did you come from?” He drifted a step nearer, and now he stood directly before her. Mr. Berwick wore beautiful claret-colored livery with frogged buttons. Somehow on him it didn’t look like livery but like the uniform of the Queen’s own Hussars. And, like them, he was broad-shouldered and muscled and immaculately kempt.

Philippa pulled herself together, and said, “I grew up in a village not far from here. When I heard about the baby, I thought I might be able to help.”

“You did?”

Perhaps he was more like a magician than one of Her Majesty’s Hussars. Something about his eyes was making her feel quivery. “And I have helped,” she stated, confident that this, at least, was not a fib.

“You are a mystery.”

“There is nothing mysterious about me. I’m a very ordinary girl.”

“You can sing in Italian—”

She began to explain, but he held up his hand. “Kate told me all about it.”