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.

Philippa jumped. Caught by the sultry tone in Wick’s voice, she’d forgotten all about the princess.

“You’d better look out,” Sophonisba said to her, using a half-eaten chicken leg as a pointer. “The man’s a devil, of course. His brother was the same. Do you think the princess had a chance once Gabriel had her in his sights? Not a chance!” She snorted. “I almost had to give up my brandy, but he ended up marrying her.”

“Brandy?” Philippa repeated, completely bewildered.

“Don’t ask,” Wick murmured.

Sophonisba had apparently reminded herself of the drink; she was now demanding some to accompany her chicken.

“You seem remarkably unscandalized by the knowledge of the unseemly circumstances of my birth,” Wick said. “I’m still waiting for you to shudder and avert your eyes.”

“Have people shuddered in the past?” she inquired.

“Ladies have.” There was something uncompromising in his voice. A little bleak.

“I am no longer a lady,” she said, shrugging. “Though of course, one must distinguish among bastards.”

“Must one?” Wick asked.

“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “There are those who earn the appellation, by their behavior, and those who are merely given it by circumstance. Besides, I’ve been thinking a great deal about what it means to be a lady.”

“I suppose your altered circumstances led to such philosophical thoughts,” he asked, his eyes laughing again. “Because true ladies never contemplate the question. So what qualities did you conclude were necessary? Elegance, culture, discernment? Or perhaps the ability to live in luxury is enough?”