“Jane likes her.” Quinn’s duchess was friendly to nearly everybody, but her genuine liking was a precious rarity.

“I like Eleanora Hatfield, when I’m not terrified of her, and I have raised misanthropy to a mythical quest. Why were Naylor’s fingers ink-stained, Quinn? I know that’s a significant detail, but I can’t recall the particulars. Was he a printer?”

Damn Stephen’s voracious curiosity. “He was a talented artist fallen on hard times after some sort of scandal. More than that, it has not been necessary for me to recollect. Eleanora never judged me for being the offspring of a foul-mouthed, gin-drunk fiend. I do not judge her for her antecedents, and we’ve both benefited from that arrangement.”

A footman came in to light the lamps and build up the fire. Soon, the children would be turned loose from the nursery, and Quinn’s favorite hour of the day would arrive. He suspected Stephen called later in the afternoon because that meant a chance to visit with his nieces, upon whom he doted.

“Naylor was an artist fallen on hard times after a scandal,” Stephen murmured. “His hands were always ink-stained, and even living in the most rotten neighborhood of devil-begotten York, his missus could afford to share bread and jam with my thieving little self.”

Like tumblers in a lock clicking into place, Quinn could feel Stephen’s prodigious intellect closing in on a deduction.

“We are a long way from York, Stephen, and it was a long time ago.”

“Naylor was a forger,” Stephen said, saluting that conclusion with his drink. “Apparently, a successful one. Eleanora the Incorruptible has rogues and scalawags for family. I’ll bet that makes for a very interesting Christmas dinner.”

Quinn brought the pitcher of lemonade over from the sideboard. “Conjectures like that can get a man called out and leave a bank without the finest auditor in the realm.”

Stephen used his walking stick to snag the afghan draped over the back of the chair Quinn had vacated.

“Give it up, Your Perishing Grace. Word of a gentleman, honor of a Wentworth, solemn promise of a reformed stealer of currant buns, I’ll never mention this to anybody outside the family. If anything, my regard for Mrs. Hatfield swells to even more impressive proportions when I think of how far she’s come. A man might shed a dubious past with hard work and good luck, but a woman’s reputation can never be rehabilitated.”

“And yet,” Quinn said, as the soft thunder of small feet reverberated from the corridor, “Mrs. Hatfield is formidably respectable. Prepare for an invasion.”

Stephen set his drink aside just as the door burst open, and three small female whirlwinds all attempted to climb into his lap at once.

*  *  *

Ellie’s life was a constant balance between appreciating the comforts of her station and warning herself not to grow attached to them.