“When I was younger,” she said, “I told myself that as soon as I had pin money, I could find my daughter. Then I began the search, and Artemis was nowhere to be found. The drink helped me cope with that. The drink and the painting. I could be alone for hours, nothing but a canvas and my colors, and for a time, I could forget that a piece of my heart was missing.”

“Tell me more about this missing piece of your heart,” Robert said, passing Constance a sandwich. “What do we know of her early situation, what direction is your inquiry agent pursuing now?”

“The couple who took her in had no children of their own. They were clergy, both from large families. When Artemis was about seven years old, an influenza epidemic hit the town where her adoptive father was vicar. Both husband and wife died, and I wasted years pursuing the adoptive father’s side of the family, only to learn that the wife’s side took Artemis in. Her adoptive mother was one of eleven. My efforts have focused on finding the other ten siblings, in hopes that Artemis yet bides among them.”

“If means and determination can find her, Constance, she will be found. Do we alert your family the ongoing progress of this quest, or wait to inform them when we have results?”

Constance hadn’t thought that far, hadn’t considered repercussions. “I am bringing scandal down on my family if I try to take a place in my daughter’s life. I avoided involving Quinn in my search precisely because I did not want my scandal to touch him any more than it already had.”

Robert took a bite of his sandwich. “If your sister should offer us her cook’s services as a wedding present, we will accept. As far as scandal goes, I will inevitably fall to pieces at some social event. Half the neighbors or what passes for good society in these surrounds will see me again disoriented, disheveled, fumbling for words, and unable to control my movements. If I do not create that degree of spectacle, I will have a staring spell at a formal dinner or in the churchyard. More lemonade?”

“No, thank you. You are saying that a by-blow will pale in comparison to your disability?”

He went rummaging in the wicker hamper. “I have two half sisters, courtesy of my father’s philandering. You may have met the one, Miss Sybil Price. Her parentage is probably an open secret—she looks nothing like the man who married her late mother. Nathaniel tells me some viscount or other is about to offer for her, and her irregular origins are no hindrance to that match whatsoever. This pear torte even smells divine. We ought not to let the last piece go to waste.”

“Your smile is divine—also devilish.”