“I know.”

“You do?” He held her at arm’s length, all astonishment.

“Beth told me.”

He frowned. “What did she say?”

“That Mr. Dunkirk had investigated you and that Vincent was not your real name. Nothing more.” Jane cocked her head. “Is that why your journal has the initials V. H.?”

“Indeed. Does that bother you? That I have lied about who I am?”

“No. Your art tells me everything I need to know.” Her mind went to the glamural in her room. She itched to shew it to him.

He smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “You should know that Vincent is my given name. My surname is Hamilton; I brought Mr. Sewell to verify that I am who I say so that your father might have no reservations about the match.”

“It would not matter if he did.”

“It flatters me that you say so.” Mr. Vinc—No, Mr. Hamilton led her back to her chair and seated her in it. “I changed my name because my family was embarrassed by my artistic interests. I promised them that I would work in anonymity to protect their honour, such that it is. My father is Frederick Hamilton, the Count of Verbury. I am his third son. There is no fear of having to suffer the intricacies of court life, as my brothers are both in good health, but it does mean that we can live in comfort, without having to suffer the pains of an itinerant glamourist’s life.”

Jane heard only one thing in his explanation. “You will not give up your art to return to them!”

“I already have.” He kissed her hand. “I found something more important.”

“No!” Jane stood, and took him by the hand. She could not explain her own thoughts as she ran up the stairs to her room, Vincent close behind her. Jane flung open her door and pushed him through. He stopped at the sight of the glamural.

He was silent for a long moment.

She waited, not afraid of his judgment, because she knew well that the glamural was better than anything she had ever attempted, but for him to understand what she meant by shewing it to him. In the lines of the trees there was a surety that she had not known she possessed. The leaves trembled with her as if attuned to the passion she felt for Vincent. A breeze caressed them, and through the glamour she could imagine his touch on the wind.

“Jane . . .” He trailed off, lost in the forest she had created.

“You gave me this.” Pressing his hand between her palms, Jane willed him to understand. “It belongs to both of us now, and I will never forgive myself if you give up art. Not for me.”

Vincent laid his free hand against her cheek. “Promise me that you will always be my muse.”

“I will.”

His eyes creased in a smile, and he bent down to kiss her with gentle lips.