Jane struggled to master herself. “Truly, I am fine. I only wanted a respite from the crowded drawing room.” She turned away to study the trees in an effort to regain her composure. “I find your work so very, very restful, Mr. Vincent.”

“Good.” He glanced across the room and said, “Did you see her?”

Jane stammered before realizing that he meant only the dryad, which was close at hand, and not Beth. “Oh yes, I did. It is a fine subtlety. You should be proud of your work, though I am not sure that Lady FitzCameron will appreciate having a tribute to my sister in her dining hall.”

“What? What tribute is this?” Beth turned on her heels, as if nothing troubled her save for the mystery which Mr. Vincent presented.

He grimaced, which made the gauntness of his face become more severe. “Look carefully. I think you will find my bit of play. As for Lady FitzCameron, I doubt she will notice—it is for more perceptive eyes. In any event, she was impressed with the tableau vivant we performed, so I may always pretend that it was in homage to her taste in liking it.”

“It is not?”

Mr. Vincent turned to regard the dryad, and his face softened more than Jane thought possible. “It is not.”

A less perceptive individual might have missed the softening. Another might have seen it and mistaken it for regard for Jane’s talents, but Jane believed that it was to the art itself that his heart belonged. The art that was embodied in her sister.

“Oh! I see her now.” Beth ran to the dryad and exclaimed. “Do look, Edmund. It is so clever of Mr. Vincent to include her. Such a wonderful reminder of our strawberry-picking party. So delightful.”

As the others admired the dryad, Jane longed to escape their company; to flee to her home, where she might have the luxury of reflection and calm. But that was not a choice she was granted, so she returned to the drawing room, walking behind the others with Beth as a guard against idle words. The Dunkirks at least valued her for something, however small that may be. Lady FitzCameron looked up as they entered and beckoned, at which point Mr. Vincent excused himself, leaving Jane to Mr. Dunkirk’s attentions. Though this was something to be desired above all, Jane could not quite give herself to the conversation.

“I wonder if you might—” Mr. Dunkirk’s query went unfinished as a shout broke the idle chatter in the room.

Captain Livingston flung down his hand of cards, his face flushed quite red. At his side, Mr. Buffington leaned back in his chair with the beneficent smile of a weasel.

“I did warn you that I wasn’t bluffing.”

Scowling, Captain Livingston drew forth the bundle of bills so recently given to him by Miss Dunkirk.

At that moment, Mr. Vincent arrived by her side. His face was grave and his lips tight with some repressed emotion. “Lady FitzCameron requests your attendance.”