‘The Awassi represent M. Archambault, M. Chastain’s student who made the glamour à la Chinoiserie. Belgium Milk Sheep is M. Bertrand. Cotswold . . .’ He sighed heavily and tapped the page with his finger. ‘Cotswold is the Chastain household.’

Truly shocked, Jane could only stare for a moment. To have accepted hospitality from a man and then to spy on him was beyond the pale. ‘You cannot believe that.’

‘Not willingly, no. And yet, Yves seems a likely choice, because of his youth and the influence that they might promise him for being a cousin of the Bonapartes.’

‘But he thinks that Napoleon is the wickedest man in Europe.’

‘That is what he told his youngest brother. But if he were a Bonapartist, and under his father’s roof, what else could he say?’ Vincent rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. ‘I do not like the thought any better than you, but I have been watching them. Your observation on our first day here was right: there is an unnatural tension between father and son.’

‘Surely though, were there cause enough for Yves to so betray his father’s wishes, he would not remain under his roof.’

‘Yes . . . well.’ Vincent covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. When he drew it away, a shadow remained. ‘A young man might not always have his independence. I was fully an adult before I renounced my father.’

‘Love . . .’ Jane stopped, unwilling to push him into a revelation he did not wish to disclose.

He drummed his fingers on the table, jaw working silently. ‘I have never related what caused the breach with my father, have I?’

‘No, beyond that he did not want you to pursue glamour.’ She took his hand. ‘If it is too private, I do not wish to intrude.’

He snorted. ‘No, I am learning that it is better to keep no secrets from you, though I would rather not burden you with my troubles.’

‘I trust you understand now that I do not think it a burden.’

‘I do.’ Vincent sighed heavily, then stood to pace around the room. ‘Forgive me. I am so in the habit of keeping this to myself that it may take me some time to order my thoughts.’

Though she longed to comfort Vincent, Jane held still rather than risk frightening him into flight. He strode with the restless grace of a caged bear.

‘My father, as I have implied, has strict ideas of propriety and exacting standards for what comprises the masculine ideal.’ He knit his hands together at the base of his neck and paced another moment before continuing. ‘He saw my interest in the “womanly” art of glamour as being evidence of . . . partialities which alarmed him. When I refused to drop the interest, he whipped me. I was a stubborn child, and simply found ways around his injunction. He then devised a schedule and course of curriculum designed to turn me into the model of good breeding.’