“Ah, I thought so,” her father said, with the satisfaction that comes with having one’s guess confirmed. “You know, sweetpea, when your mother was dying, she was very worried about you. She was certain that I wouldn’t notice what you were feeling or thinking.”

“Well, you didn’t, when it came to Rodney,” Philippa pointed out, rather unkindly.

“I made up for that now,” he said, taking a bite of kipper.

She watched him chew and smile to himself.

But then the significance of it hit him. He put down his fork with a sharp click.

“You fell in love—with whom did you fall in love? Some dissolute scrap of gentry hanging around the prince’s knees, hoping for a handout, I’ll warrant. One of those glittering court fellows with no more substance or ethics than a tomcat!”

“No.” She took a bite of her now-cold eggs though she couldn’t taste them.

He frowned at her.

“The butler,” Philippa stated; having plunged, there was nothing for it but to keep going.

At this unimaginable revelation the blood drained from her father’s face. “You’re jesting.” His voice was a whisper.

Philippa squared her shoulders. “Mr. Berwick is the prince’s own brother. He is the son of a grand duke. He serves as His Highness’s majordomo out of strong loyalty and affection.”

Her father blinked. “No gentleman would ever serve as a butler, no matter what fancy label you give the position.”

“He is a gentleman,” Philippa snapped, in a tone she had never before used with her father.

“Then there’s something else wrong with him . . . Oh, dear God, he’s a married man.” Mr. Damson dropped his head into his hands. “I should have wedded you to Rodney the day you turned sixteen.”

Philippa rose, then slipped into the chair next to her father. “He is not married, Papa.”

Her father raised his head. “Poor as a church mouse, I expect. No estate.”

“None,” she admitted.

“Still, that doesn’t explain why he’s the butler. The man could marry an heiress if he’s the son of a grand duke. There’s no need to put on livery; there’s many a rich merchant who would love to boast of a son-in-law with that pedigree.”

Philippa bit her lip.

It came to him. “Wrong side of the blanket,” her father stated, his mouth bunching up with disdain.

She nodded.

“Damnation!” The word echoed harshly in the little room.

“Papa,” she said imploringly. “Wick is not—”

“Wick? Wick? Like the wick of a candle? I’ll be damned if my daughter will have anything to do with a man named after a household necessity.” He surged to his feet. “Tell me that the bastard touched you, and I’ll kill him myself.”

Philippa jumped up as well. “Papa, no!”