“They cannot hear us, Miss Ellsworth.” He shrugged, rolling his shoulders under his coat. “You need not be civil to me.”

Stunned, Jane stopped speaking and stared at him. “I do not understand your meaning.”

His jaw clenched and he seemed about to say something, but the moment passed and his anger subsided. “What tableau vivant shall we do?”

“No. No, you may not start such a conversation and pretend that you did not. Tell me my offense so that I might apologize.” Even as she said this, Jane remembered her brusque conversation with him on the lawn at Robinsford Abbey. “I am sorry that I did not take the time to view your painting when we last saw one another.”

He snorted and shook his head. “I was grateful that you did not, but your behaviour today shows that is not your usual wont.”

“My behaviour!”

“I am a glamourist, Miss Ellsworth. I create illusions in an effort to transport my viewers to another place. So I do not like it when people expose how my illusions work. Each person who looks at what I do takes my work away from me.”

“But you are teaching Miss Dunkirk. How can you complain about others knowing your secrets if you are teaching them?”

To her surprize, he lifted his hand and pressed it to the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “You mistake my meaning. I should learn to keep my thoughts to myself, as I rarely express what I mean.” He sighed. “It is not the knowledge of glamour which I guard; it is the art created by it. Illusions should be entrancing without someone looking behind the scenes to see how they are made. Would you enjoy a play where you saw the mechanicals exposed? For me, it is much the same. I want the illusion to remain whole. If someone thinks about how it is done, then I have failed in my art.”

At last Jane apprehended his meaning and how she had transgressed at the ball and then again here, but her own principles were different. “I have always thought that an educated audience could more fully appreciate the effort which went into creating a piece of art.”

“The effort, yes, but I want to transport the audience to another place; I do not want them to think of effort or technique.”

Jane was silent. She did not agree with him, but knowing now his feelings on the matter, she resolved to avoid offending him in the future. “I can enjoy both, Mr. Vincent. I assure you, your art is compelling. I nonetheless apologize for looking behind the curtain, as it were.”

He regarded her for a moment, then looked away, his face expressionless. Without accepting her apology, he said, “They must wonder why we are taking so long to prepare the tableau vivant.”

Jane started, having forgotten entirely why she stood, seemingly alone, with this man. She looked at the silent party, who had begun gesturing animatedly in their direction. “Have you one prepared? I can pretend to lend my support, or—”