“‘We too have scattered arrows.’ Isn’t that what the Edgertons’ motto means, Freddie?”

“I—I believe so.”

Lord Vere scratched himself in his armpit and nodded in satisfaction. “Well, there you go, Miss Edgerton. I’ve told you everything I know about the Edgertons.”

She was glad of the numbness his genealogical treatise had produced in her. She couldn’t think. Therefore she couldn’t quite feel the horror of knowing she’d made the worst mistake in her life.

But the marquess was not yet through with her. “It has just occurred to me, Miss Edgerton: Is it not somewhat inappropriate for you to be hosting so many of us gentlemen by yourself?”

“Inappropriate? With Lady Kingsley in attendance every step of the way?” She beamed at him, even as she sawed energetically at the venison on her plate. “Of course not, my lord. Besides, my aunt is also in residence.”

“She is? I’m sorry. I must have forgotten meeting her already.”

“It’s quite all right, sir. You haven’t met her. Her health is frail and she is not strong enough to receive callers.”

“That’s right. That’s right. So it’s just you and your widowed aunt in this great big house.”

“My aunt is not widowed, sir. My uncle is very much alive.”

“He is? I apologize for my mistake. Is his health frail too?”

“No, he is away.”

“I see. Do you miss him?”

“Of course,” she said. “He’s the heart and soul of this family.”

Lord Vere sighed. “I aspire to that. One day I should also like my niece to say that I’m the heart and soul of my family.”

It was the moment Elissande was forced to conclude that Lord Vere was not only an idiot, but an idiot of staggering proportions.

“I’m sure she would.” She mustered a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you will be a wonderful uncle, if you aren’t one already.”

He batted his eyelashes at her. “My dear Miss Edgerton, you smile so divinely.”

Her smiles were her armor. They were a necessity. But of course, a man like him wouldn’t know the difference.

So she let him have another one. “Thank you, my lord. You are so very kind and I’m so very glad you are here.”

Lord Vere at last turned to talk to Miss Melbourne on his other side. Elissande took a sip of water to calm herself. Her head was still numb, but the sinking sensation in her stomach was already quite horrible.

“I’ve been studying your very intriguing painting, Miss Edgerton,” said Lord Frederick, who’d been quiet most of the evening. “But I can’t seem to quite identify the artist. Would you happen to know?”

Elissande regarded him warily. Idiocy was something that ran in the family, wasn’t it? But he’d asked a reasonable question and, as much as she wanted to crawl under a blanket and douse herself in laudanum, she could not leave him without an answer.

“I’m afraid I’ve never inquired into it.” The paintings—there were three on the same theme—had always been there. And she’d always done her best to ignore them. “What’s your guess?”

“My guess would be someone from the Symbolist School.”

“What is the Symbolist School, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Because the Symbolist School could not be explained in isolation—it was related to but distinct from the Decadent Movement, which arose in reaction against Romanticism’s unquestioning embrace of nature—Elissande soon became aware that Lord Frederick was very well versed in art, especially art of their time.

After three courses of Lord Vere’s escalating inanities, it was a relief and a pleasure to encounter conversation that was intelligent and to the point. When she’d had something of a preliminary grounding in the ideas and motifs of the Symbolist School, she asked Lord Frederick, “What do you think, then, of the symbols in the painting?”

Lord Frederick set down his utensils. “Does the painting have a name?”

“It’s called The Betrayal of the Angel.”

“That’s interesting,” said Lord Frederick, leaning back in his chair to better study the canvas. “I thought at first that the angel was the Angel of Death. But it is the Angel of Death’s express role to take a man’s life. So it doesn’t accord with a theme of betrayal.”

“Do you think the man struck a bargain with the Angel of Death, perhaps, and then the angel reneged?”

“That’s an interesting idea. Or perhaps he had no idea what kind of angel she was. Perhaps he thought her the gentle, harp-plucking kind.”

Elissande considered it a moment. “Wouldn’t such an angel have white wings and a white robe?”

“Yes, she would, wouldn’t she?” Lord Frederick spread his thumb and his index finger along his chin. “Perhaps she transforms? If I were to paint this theme, I might show her mid-transformation, her white wings and robe turning black as she flies away from him.”

If he were to paint this theme. “Are you an artist yourself, sir?”

Lord Frederick picked up his fork and knife and bent his face toward his plate, seemingly shy about discussing his artistic inclinations. “I do enjoy painting, but I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call myself an artist. I’ve never exhibited.”

She liked him, Elissande realized. He had not been blessed with his brother’s Olympian looks, but he was pleasing in both his features and his demeanor—not to mention he was an intellectual giant next to Lord Vere.

“Was Shakespeare any less a poet before he published his first volume?”

Lord Frederick smiled. “You are too kind, Miss Edgerton.”

“Do you paint portraits or classical themes or perhaps biblical stories?”

“I have done a portrait or two. But what I like best is painting people when they are outside. Taking walks, picnicking, or just daydreaming.” He sounded embarrassed. “Very simple things.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said sincerely. So much of her life had been spent trapped inside this house that the simple activities Lord Frederick took for granted were infinitely appealing to her. “I would be privileged to see your work someday.”

“Well”—his already sun-ruddied complexion acquired an even deeper color—“perhaps if you ever came to London.”

His blush further endeared him to her. Suddenly she realized something else: Lord Frederick would do well as a husband for her.

He was not a marquess himself, but he was the son of one and the brother of one and that was almost as good, with the influence of his family and all their connections behind him.

Furthermore, she could trust him to understand a delicate situation. Should her uncle come calling, Lord Vere would no doubt nod and agree that of course Mrs. Douglas longed to return to her own home and, well, here she was, and could he help hand her into the carriage? Lord Frederick, a far more discerning man, would sense her uncle’s malice and help Elissande secure Aunt Rachel’s future well-being.

“Oh, I shall try,” she said. “I most certainly shall try.”