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“Oh, the administration,” he could not help but echo with amusement.

“Don’t make fun of my choice of words.”

“Well,” he declared, arching one brow. “I do hope you realize you are saying this to a former officer in His Majesty’s army.”

This she dismissed immediately. “I should have said that you enjoy styling yourself as a rebel. I rather suspect that at heart you’re just as conventional as the rest of us.”

He paused, and then: “I hope you realize you are saying this to a former highwayman on His Majesty’s roads.”

How he said this with a straight face, he’d never know, and indeed it was a relief when Grace, after a moment of shock, burst out laughing. Because really, he didn’t think he could have held that arch, offended expression for one moment longer.

He rather felt like he was imitating Wyndham, sitting there like such a stick. It unsettled the stomach, really.

“You’re dreadful,” Grace said, wiping her eyes.

“I try my best,” he said modestly.

“And this”—she wagged a finger at him, grinning all the while—“is why you will never be head boy.”

“Good God, I hope not,” he returned. “I’d be a bit out of place at my age.”

Not to mention how desperately wrong he was for school. He still had dreams about it. Certainly not nightmares—it could not be worth the energy. But every month or so he woke up from one of those annoying visions where he was back at school (rather absurdly at his current age of eight-and-twenty). It was always of a similar nature. He looked down at his schedule and suddenly realized he’d forgotten to attend Latin class for an entire term. Or arrived for an exam without his trousers.

The only school subjects he remembered with any fondness were sport and art. Sport had always been easy. He need only watch a game for a minute before his body knew instinctively how to move, and as for art—well, he’d never excelled at any of the practical aspects, but had always loved the study of it. For all the reasons he’d talked about with Grace his first night at Belgrave.

His eyes fell on the book, still open on the table between them. “Why do you dislike this?” he asked, motioning to the painting. It was not his favorite, but he did not find anything to offend.

“She does not like him,” she said. She was looking down at the book, but he was looking at her, and he was surprised to see that her brow was wrinkled. Concern? Anger? He could not tell.

“She does not want his attentions,” Grace continued. “And he will not stop. Look at his expression.”

Jack peered at the image a little more closely. He supposed he saw what she meant. The reproduction was not what he would consider superior, and it was difficult to know how true it was to the actual painting. Certainly the color would be off, but the lines seemed clear. He supposed there was something insidious in the man’s expression. Still…

“But couldn’t one say,” he asked, “that you are objecting to the content of the painting and not the painting itself?”

“What is the difference?”

He thought for a moment. It had been some time since anyone had engaged him in what might be termed intellectual discourse. “Perhaps the artist wishes to invoke this response. Perhaps his intention is to portray this very scene. It does not mean that he endorses it.”

“I suppose.” Her lips pressed together, the corners tightening in a manner that he’d not seen before. He did not like it. It aged her. But more than that, it seemed to call to the fore an unhappiness that was almost entrenched. When she moved her mouth like that—angry, upset, resigned—it looked like she would never be happy again.

Worse, it looked like she accepted it.

“You do not have to like it,” he said softly.

Her mouth softened but her eyes remained clouded. “No,” she said, “I don’t.” She reached forward and flipped the page, her fingers changing the subject. “I have heard of Monsieur Watteau, of course, and he may be a revered artist, but—Oh!”

Jack was already smiling. Grace had not been looking at the book as she’d turned the page. But he had.

“Oh my…”

“Now that’s a Boucher,” Jack said appreciatively.

“It’s not…I’ve never…” Her eyes were wide—two huge blue moons. Her lips were parted, and her cheeks…He only just managed to resist the urge to fan her.

“Marie-Louise O’Murphy,” he told her.

She looked up in horror. “You know her?”