As Jane took her seat between Mr. Dunkirk and Mr. Buffington, she glanced across the table at Melody. Her sister had been brought in by the aging vicar who had the living at Banbree, and was seated next to Mr. Marchand. To her credit, she gave the vicar the courtesy of her attention, though her eyes did wander down the table to the head, where Captain Livingston did the honours as the host. His attention was engaged by his dinner partner, yet he somehow contrived to include Miss FitzCameron in the conversation as well. Jane could not see how Miss FitzCameron’s partner was taking this monopoly of conversation, but suspected that with Captain Livingston’s natural charm he would not feel ill-used.

When all the guests were settled, Lady FitzCameron raised her glass to Mr. Vincent, who had been accorded the seat on her right as the honoured guest this evening. “Dear friends: Mr. Vincent is a glamourist beyond compare, as his work here testifies. Let us raise a toast to his work and to his health.”

They all raised their glasses with a will, even Mr. Buffington agreeing that he had never seen the like. Mr. Vincent rose and bowed, and then, before their acclaim could die away, he reached out and twisted his hand once, releasing a flock of doves which flew up and disappeared against the night sky in a rain of stardust.

Everyone applauded at that, and Mr. Vincent sat down again. His hand shook as he reached for his wineglass. Though Jane longed to know how he had accomplished the illusion, she kept her faith with him by not peeking behind the scenes. Resolutely, she turned her attention away from his end of the table, and back to Mr. Buffington.

For the whole of the first three courses, Jane endured his conversation, smiling when she must and giving his unceasing discourse about hunters, pointers, and pheasants such attention that it unfortunately encouraged him to talk all the more. It was fortunate that he did not require much response beyond, “Oh, my,” and “Is that so?” for it left Jane free to soak in the ambiance of the glamour which Mr. Vincent had wrought.

The area she studied most lay past Mr. Buffington’s shoulder. A grove of delicate laurel trees trembled in the light breeze. Rendered in far greater detail than Mr. Vincent had employed in the scenery for his shadow-play, Jane could still sense his hand in the graceful line of the trunks. It was apparent that they were inspired by the laurel tree above Long Parkmead’s strawberry patch, but none of his trees slavishly copied the original.

When the fourth course began and the table was turned, Jane was at last freed from the dinner partner on her left and could address the one on her right. To talk with Mr. Dunkirk would give her much pleasure as she felt certain he would share her enthusiasm for the forest glade around them. Once they had moved past the pleasantries which convention dictated, Mr. Dunkirk asked, with brow raised, “May I ask for your opinion on Mr. Vincent’s work?”