“Why don’t you go and dissect some dead bodies, then?” she asked, trying to ignore the fact—and utterly failing to do so—that Wick had sat down beside her. Her pulse instantly quickened. For one thing, his leg was touching hers. For another, as soon as they sat down, it felt as if the world drew in and became as small as the three of them. As if she and Wick and sleeping Jonas were utterly alone in the whole castle.

“Me?” He seemed startled for a moment. “Nonsense.”

“Why nonsense? My uncle told me that there’s a terrible shortage of doctors in England. You told me the other night that you’d been at Oxford; did you take a degree?”

“Of course.”

“A good degree?” she persisted.

“A double first. Is that good enough for you?”

“Goodness. Well, then, all you have to do is attend the university in Edinburgh for a year,” she said. “I suppose it would be better to go a little longer, but my uncle told me that many doctors attend for only a year.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Well, because Gabriel and I—because I’m here.”

“I can see that it’s quite nice for your brother to have you as his majordomo,” she acknowledged, “but if you wish to heal people, I think every sick person would feel that you should forfeit the butler’s pantry.” She heard her own voice and winced with embarrassment. It was something about him. He made her feel joyful and slightly cracked.

“My father—”

“Your father isn’t here,” she said, cutting him off. “I know you’re a grand duke’s son, Wick, but it doesn’t seem to have done you much good. Why not just forget about that and do what you wish?”

“As I wish . . .” There was a tinge of wistfulness in his voice. “I would wish that my father had never seduced my mother although that would have had unfortunate consequences for myself.”

“I meant realistic wishes,” Philippa said, sitting up straighter so she could rock back and forth in her place, in hopes of keeping Jonas asleep.

His reply came with a rueful smile. “I cannot believe that it would surprise you to know how many doors are closed to bastards.” Philippa met his eyes, and the pain in them was unmistakable.

“Those doors hold only fools,” she said softly but fiercely. “You should be judged for the man you’ve become, not by the circumstances of your birth.”

He was silent for a moment, his eyes still on hers. The expression in them changed somehow, and suddenly her heart was beating in her throat.

“At any rate,” she said quickly, taking refuge in words, “no one here in England would have the faintest idea whether your birth was irregular or not.”

“I have a responsibility to my brother,” Wick said. But that expression was still there. It was almost . . . tender.