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“But surely someone could steal the box?” Daphne asked.

Mr. Cushing’s manner turned grim. “They would have to kill me first,” he vowed.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. My uncle entrusts me with these tasks and I would never fail him.” He winked at Daphne and tucked into his eggs. “Beggars cannot be choosers and poor relations must earn their own way. I do quite like being Uncle Timothy’s runner, though.”

“Why is that?”

“I see the most wondrous places.” He gestured with his fork. “I should never be invited to such a place as Castle Keyvnor at Christmas, much less have the opportunity to meet so many people throughout the year. His gifts give me purpose and adventure. I hope he never runs out of gems to give away.”

“Does he often give gems away?”

“He is a collector of some renown, and has neither wife nor children. As he ages, he seems more inclined to bestow fine gifts on others. It is a mark of his splendid character.”

“He might honor you with such a gift, surely?” Daphne suggested.

Mr. Cushing laughed easily, as if he had never given the notion any consideration. “But why? If he made me rich, he might lose me as a servant. Indeed, I might decline such a gift if it meant surrendering the opportunity to meet ladies like you, Miss Goodenham.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling merrily, and Daphne could not help but be flattered by his attentions.

He had admitted he was penniless. He certainly had no title. Encouraging his attentions would do naught in the achievement of her goal to ensure the future of herself and Eurydice.

Daphne smiled, then excused herself. She did not want to be late for church, lest she miss a glimpse of the duke, and she did not want to walk to Bocka Morrow with Nathaniel Cushing, lest his presence keep the duke from speaking to her.

Her grandmother had taught her much of choosing practicality over romance.

* * *

Miss Goodenham came to church.

Alexander hid his smile behind the gesture of taking a pinch of snuff, for he was absurdly glad to see her. He watched as she surveyed the congregation and noted that her gaze lingered upon him. His smile broadened that it was admiration lighting her gaze and not revulsion.

Yet he had chosen this hideous outfit of mauve and silver to appall one and all. Even the red flower clashed.

Perhaps the lady had bad taste.

Or perhaps she was sufficiently perceptive to see beyond illusion to the truth. As if to reinforce that notion, she smiled prettily when their gazes met, then seated herself with her cousins.

How could he determine how trustworthy she was? Anthea had hit the mark when she suggested he wed an honest woman. The trick was to find one.

Perhaps he could charm a dinner invitation from the family. It would give him both the opportunity to observe Nathaniel Cushing and to learn more about Miss Goodenham.

Before the bells of St. David’s had finished their merry pealing after the service, Alexander was expected at eight at Castle Keyvnor for dinner. Miss Goodenham’s pleasure in the news was unmistakable.

“What a marvelous buttonhole you have today, Your Grace,” she said, then leaned closer to sniff the flower. Her eyes widened and he wondered if its perfume sent the same surge of desire through her.

Her gaze dropped to his lips and parted slightly, even as she flushed.

He recalled the sweetness of her kiss and wanted another.

“Wherever did you find it?”

“Ah, I could never tell!” he said with a giggle. “A man must keep some secrets to himself.”

“As must a lady,” she agreed. “Secrets, do you not think, add a wondrous spice to any exchange?”

“Secrets,” he agreed, “sift the observant from those less so.”

Her smile was radiant. “I see we are of one mind in this. Do you ever attend the theater, Your Grace?”