“Speak for yourself,” the irrepressible princess retorted. “I’ve no wish to know what sort of roguery you get up to in private. Ain’t a fit subject for the dinner table. Watch your manners!” And with that, she poked him in the chest with the chicken leg.

Philippa felt giggles rising in her throat. A footman leaned down beside her and gave her a portion of roast beef.

“If you want your own drumstick, I can request one,” Wick said. His voice was deep and husky, as different from Rodney’s as wine from water. And there was that enchanting accent, the one that made her a little breathless.

“No, thank you,” she said, pulling herself together. To her relief, the prince had engaged his aunt in a discussion of Emperor Napoleon’s height.

“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.