He took in a breath, still staring out the window. “That I can promise you. Who is he?”

Even with his promise, Jane felt such foreboding that she needed to swallow before speaking. “Captain Livingston.”

A shriek sounded from the door to the drawing room. “No!”

Beth flew across the room, eyes wild. Jane shrank back in her chair as Beth set upon her, hands slapping at Jane’s ears and face. “I hate you! I hate you!”

“Beth!” Mr. Dunkirk seized his sister from behind in an attempt to wrest her away from Jane, but her hands sought purchase in Jane’s hair. The force yanked Jane’s head painfully forward. He twisted Beth’s hands, prying them out of Jane’s hair. When she pulled away, strands of lank brown hair hung from her grip. She screamed and sobbed as he dragged her, writhing, away from Jane. Mr. Dunkirk held onto her and said, “You must listen. You must be calm.”

“She promised.”

“And she has kept her promise to both of us. I knew you had formed an attachment; do you hear me? I already knew. I only asked Miss Ellsworth to tell me if it was a dangerous one.”

Jane sat trembling in the chair, unable to breathe. Now, when a swoon would be most welcome, all of her faculties spun with keen awareness of the betrayal, however justified, that she had inflicted on her friend.

“She’s lying. He would not—he loves me.”

Rousing herself, Jane said, “Beth, I saw them—”

“You are not helping.” Mr. Dunkirk shot a look at Jane so sharp that she shrank back into her chair. He tilted his head down so his mouth was by his sister’s ear. “Now listen, dear heart, you must be calm or you will alarm the servants. We do not want them carrying tales. No harm has been done so long as this remains between the three of us. Do you hear me?”

Beth moaned. “She’s lying. Make her admit that she’s lying.”

“What has she to gain by lying? Hm?” He waited for a response, but Beth lay limp in his grasp. “May I trust you to be calm?”

She nodded, though her breath shuddered through her body like a storm.

“I am going to let you go. Please do not embarrass us with a further scene.” He let go of his hold on Beth. Where he had held her wrists, vivid red marks shewed the shape of his fingers.

She stood for a bare moment before running out of the door, the sound of her feet pounding down the hall, no doubt headed to her room. Mr. Dunkirk watched her go, his face a terrible mask of rationality.

Jane closed her eyes to block the sight of the perfect calm that masked the bright anger which burned in his gaze. How would Mr. Vincent draw that face? The lines etched themselves across her inner vision. Jane shuddered.

She heard Mr. Dunkirk cross the room, and the clink of glass as a decanter was opened. Jane opened her eyes. He held a glass of brandy, which he drank from hastily before pouring a second glass and handing it to her. “My apologies.”