“Do you think . . . ?” Afraid even to put words to the nebulous fear that had been plaguing her, she had to start over. “Do Daddy and the admiral really trust him? Or is it, perhaps, that Daddy’s trying to keep an eye on him for Blinker?”

Mama’s brush paused mid-stroke. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Because . . .” Because her father had slung an arm around her shoulders last Sunday after the gentlemen had left and said how glad he was that she wasn’t quite so eager to leave them as Ivy. Maybe it was just Daddy teasing her. Or maybe it was a warning not to give her affection—or her trust—to the Russian too quickly.

A lesson she’d learned the hard way four years ago. Sunday night she’d gone up to her room and dug out the letter her old friend Johanna had posted to her as her family left England. Don’t take it personally, it had said at the end.

She wouldn’t even have considered it, if not for those words. Then she couldn’t help but do so. Couldn’t help but remember anew that, all that time, her supposed friend had been someone other than who Lily had thought. She’d knowingly used her. Deceived her.

Not a mistake Lily cared to repeat—especially with a man who intrigued her in a way simple friends had never done.

Mama patted her hand and then motioned toward the path they’d followed into the park. “There’s Jamie. I suppose that means we ought to pack up, if I mean to make my aid meeting on time. Are you certain you don’t want to join me today?”

Her eyes darted to the path where Eaton’s grandson was strolling, ready to help them carry their supplies home again, then back to her mother. “I promised Daddy I’d have lunch with him.”

Mama’s smile was warm. Indulgent. Unsuspecting. “That sounds far lovelier for you. And while your father has certainly not told me of any suspicions he has of Mr. Marin, if they exist, I’ll say quite readily that I like him. And not just because he saw my point with the propaganda poster either.” She paused. Grinned. “At least, not entirely.”

Chuckling, Lily stood, hands moving toward the easel and their art supplies. Doing by rote the familiar while the forbidden danced on her tongue. She didn’t want to ask the question that had settled there, ready to spring. But she had to. “Do you ever regret not helping Daddy when he asked? With the propaganda?”

Mama’s hands didn’t pause, just gathered her brushes. “I do not. Perhaps my stance is unpopular in our crowd, but . . . art is a powerful thing. It can inspire us, move us, create feeling in us. I cannot justify its use in deception.”

Lily unclipped her paper. “But what if it could help end the war?”