While Elijah could no longer see the mistletoe, because his vision was consumed with Jenny Windham. The New Year could not arrive soon enough, but as Elijah studied Jenny’s painting, his unease on her behalf grew.

The French took their art seriously, and Jenny’s unconventional approach might draw their fire. Bad enough she was a woman, and worse yet she was a talented woman. If some of the established portraitists perceived that she was a brilliant, talented woman, the result could well be savage. Was that what she sought in France? Persecution rather than freedom?

Jenny’s cat, who had taken to following Elijah about in the secret way of cats, stropped itself against his shins. “She’s not taking you either, old boy. Best find some other lady to dote on you.”

Another rap on the door interrupted Elijah’s study of Jenny’s handling of fire.

A tall, dark-haired, green-eyed man stood there, looking fierce and disgruntled. “You’re not Jenny.” He had the same angle to his chin as Jenny, and eyes that had seen the world at less than its best.

“You must be her brother. Elijah, Earl of Bernward, at your service.”

“Rosecroft. It being Christmas, you address me as St. Just or suffer dire consequences.” The man’s bow was the merest gesture. “Where is my little sister?”

A small, dark-haired girl came galloping down the corridor. Timothy shot through Elijah’s feet and made it to the mantel in a single determined bound. “Papa! Papa, Mama says to tell you she and Baby Belle are with the aunties in the library. The aunties want to kiss you hello. They already kissed me on both cheeks, and so did Grandpapa and Grandmama!”

The fierce expression became fiercer yet. “If you value your life or your sanity, Bernward, remain above stairs until dinner.” St. Just’s daughter led him away, a man facing inescapable doom—a man who also hadn’t even glanced at the paintings.

Elijah had barely collected Jenny’s brushes for cleaning when yet another rap sounded on the door. When Elijah glanced at the mantel, Timothy was nowhere in sight.

A liveried footman held out a silver tray. “The post, your lordship.”

Elijah took the letters—three again—with a sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with the servant’s use of his title. Three letters meant his siblings were doubling up, or the cousins and aunties had been recruited for the siege, which was a drastic tactic indeed. Pru in particular hated putting pen to paper, being more a man of action—or impulse, which amounted to the same thing at his age.

Elijah tidied up thoroughly, cleaned every brush and palette knife, stacked sketches neatly in several piles, and generally procrastinated as long as he could. The portrait for Sindal was coming along nicely. He considered starting on a session with it, decided that would be rank cowardice, and opened his letters instead.

By the time he’d finished reading the third one, he looked up to find Joseph Carrington, Earl of Kesmore, standing in the doorway, Timothy in his arms. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“Are you going to kiss me? I have declared this space a kiss-free zone.” The declaration was recent but well intended.

Kesmore sauntered into the room and paused to study the portraits. Elijah could hear the cat purring and tried not to feel betrayed. “No mistletoe here, God be thanked. Downstairs, it’s a veritable gauntlet. His Grace must have appointed himself Lord of Misrule early this year. How goes the painting?”

Joseph Carrington was the closest thing Elijah had to a friend on the premises, so Elijah understood the question was not about painting per se.

“My family has taken a notion to bludgeon me into submission.”

Kesmore settled into one of the rocking chairs, the cat curling up in his lap. “You have a deal of family. I gather from the various lamentations of my in-laws that sisters are the worst.”

Sisters were bad enough. Brothers were bad enough.

Elijah brought a fragrant, single-page missive to his nose, set it aside, and took the second seat. “My mother has explained to me—ten years after it might have done some good—that I will never gain admittance to the Royal Academy.”

“Mothers, even your mother, can be wrong. Her Grace’s judgment was not infallible where Louisa was concerned, and His Grace knew not how to intervene between two such strong-willed and dear ladies.”

“You are a good friend, Kesmore, but my mother’s logic is unassailable. She not only turned down the suit of one Mortimer Fotheringale, she told him at the time he had not one-tenth of my father’s artistic talent, no imagination, and no respect for what women could contribute to art. Mind you, my father was an amateur caricaturist only—though I gather Fotheringale was among his targets, and Papa must rely on his marchioness to match his coats and waistcoats. According to my mother, the only way I might meet with more enmity from Fotheringale is if I were her daughter rather than her son.”

Kesmore scratched the beast’s white chin. “Who is this Fotheringale person? Shall I shoot him for you?”

Tempting thought, because Kesmore was only half jesting. “Dear Mortimer is the wealthiest member of the Academy’s nominating committee, though Mother was right about his talent. He paints only academic subjects, takes forever to do them, and then gives them away, probably because nobody would pay money for them. The assassination offer is appreciated but hardly in keeping with the spirit of the holidays.”

The door opened, and Sindal slipped through, closing it quickly behind him. “I thought it might be safe in here. It’s Bedlam downstairs—children, dogs, His Grace producing sweets for the little ones at every turn, mistletoe everywhere. I’ve brought fortification.”

He held up a bottle as if it were the price of admission to the studio.

“Come join us,” Kesmore said. “Bernward here is not going to get into the Academy, and, of course, true love is to blame. He wants cheering up.”

Sindal pulled up a hassock and uncorked the bottle. “What academy?”

Hazelton came next, though how such a big man moved without making a sound was a mystery. He too brought fortification and had dragooned a passing footman into supplying more of same at regular intervals, as well as quantities of sweet breads with butter.

The cat made the round of various laps; the bottles made the rounds. Stories of Christmases past came out, and Elijah even offered a few of his own—cricket in the portrait gallery, freezing his arse off with two of his brothers to see if the animals spoke at midnight on Christmas Eve, hitting his granddame with a snowball by accident and having to visit her as penance thereafter.

“Bet she spoiled you rotten,” Hazelton groused. “Old women know best how to spoil a little fellow. My son’s nurse is eighty if she’s a day.”

Sindal took exception. “She is not. She just looks eighty so she’ll be safe from you.”

“I’ll have you know…” Hazelton began, while Elijah’s attention wandered to his brothers’ letters. His mother’s news was disturbing, because Fotheringale had no motivation for giving up his various grudges. Artistic insecurity had a prodigious memory, one that typically magnified slights and forgot praise.

Hazleton left off defending his manly honor, or his eyesight, or something. “Bernward’s brooding. Pass him the bottle.”

Kesmore passed Elijah the cat instead. Timothy’s claws went to work directly on Elijah’s thigh. “Come, young man. Tell us what afflicts you, and we’ll ridicule you for it accordingly.”

How inchoate inebriation had added years to Kesmore’s standing, Elijah did not know. “My brothers miss me.”

Looks were exchanged all around, and then the door opened. Jenny’s brother, St. Just, slid through. “I’ve brought more refugees. The carnage on the battlefield is terrible. My own dear wife kissed the butler and was sizing up the senior footmen when I escaped.”