Storming the Castle
Page 10

“You have a lot of air in your tummy,” Philippa said. He was still crying, but he sounded more halfhearted about it. Another big burp erupted from his stomach.
She kept walking, up and down, worrying at the problem of her uncle, her father, Rodney, Jonas, colic . . . what if she was wrong? If it was intussusception, her uncle would say there was nothing to be done. But . . .
Finally, the door to the dining room opened, and Kate emerged. “Bless you,” she said, taking the baby. The moment he came off Philippa’s shoulder, he screwed up his face and cried even louder.
“Hush, sweet one,” Kate crooned.
“Try your shoulder,” Philippa said. “Like this.” She arranged the baby so he was lying over his mother’s shoulder.
“But his head is hanging down. All the blood will go to his head.”
“This way feels better for his stomach. Listen.” Sure enough, his crying did not cease, but the wails weren’t quite so desperate.
“Go eat something,” Kate said, nodding toward the door. “We’ve worked it out. Gabriel is coming to take a turn in half an hour, and then Wick will take a turn.”
Philippa nodded. “And then Princess Sophonisba, I expect?”
Kate blinked. “Well—” She caught Philippa’s smirk and grinned. “Go eat!”
Philippa returned to the dining room to find the prince seated at the head of the table, and Wick at its foot. She hesitated for a moment, uncertain where to sit.
A footman stepped forward. “Miss Damson,” he murmured, pulling out the chair next to Wick.
Two slender silver candelabra threw light on the silk damask covering, the gold-plated dishes, and a greater assortment of cutlery than she knew existed. For a moment, Philippa felt dizzy. Was it really only yesterday that she had been lying in the straw under Rodney?
Could it really be her, sitting in a castle, eating with royalty? She didn’t dare look to her right, at Wick, or even more terrifying, to her left, at the prince himself.
Across from her, Princess Sophonisba sucked vigorously at the chicken bone she clutched. “You’re pretty enough, but you look like a bit of a goose,” the old lady said. “Haven’t you ever been in a castle before?”
“No, I haven’t, Your Highness,” she said, picking up her napkin and spreading it in her nap.
“Most people in this one are dim as a snuffed candle,” Sophonisba said. “In fact, one castle is the same as another. The lot of them sit around buggering each other, if not the sheep.”
The prince cleared his throat and leaned forward, giving Philippa a charming smile. A smile she recognized from his—
Brother? They looked almost identical, which couldn’t be accidental.
“You seem to have performed miracles already with Jonas,” he said. “I don’t know how we’ll be able to thank you.”
“Give her a gold chastity belt, I’d think,” Princess Sophonisba said. “The way your brother’s looking at her, she’ll be dropping a bastard in a matter of nine months.”
So Wick was the prince’s brother. No wonder they looked so much alike.
The prince closed his eyes for a moment. “I apologize—”
The princess talked right over His Highness. “Actually, that’s just what we need around here. More bastards. Look at Berwick, here.”
Philippa didn’t dare look. She could feel him sitting next to her, could feel his large body, his eyes resting on her.
“Look at him!” the princess ordered.
Philippa looked.
To her relief, he was grinning, his eyes alight with a deep pleasure that sent little shocks down her spine.
“A bastard,” the princess said with satisfaction, licking her fingers. “And yet he’s the best of the lot. My favorite, and I’m a judge of men. Always have been, ever since I dumped my barking-mad betrothed and decided never to marry.”
Philippa felt a smile playing on her lips as well.
“You may be in a castle, among royalty of sorts,” Prince Gabriel remarked from the other end of the table, “but I’m afraid you’ll find, Miss Damson, that we descend to the lowest type of behavior while in private.”
“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.
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.”