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Protests formed and fractured on her tongue. She hesitated.

“Thank you,” she said, “but it’s a good deal out of your way.”

“Off Charlotte Road, near Mills Court, in Shoreditch. I had the address from Mr. Pickersgill. Oddly enough, I know the building.” He shook his head. “I’m a member of the Board of Works, city representative, in the architect’s office. The lease was just reviewed at our last meeting.”

He observed her for a moment. “You’re shocked. So was I. Your address shocked me, I’ll admit it. Come, we’ve much to discuss.”

Lucy put her foot on the step and allowed him to help her up into the coach. She slid into her seat warily, setting her bag at her feet. After a curt word to the coachman, Mr. Yardley climbed up after her, sprawling onto the bench opposite. At once, the coach began to roll, the horses clopping over the cobblestones.

“Speaking with the Keeper made me reflect again on my days as a student.” Mr. Yardley crossed his legs, flinging an arm across the back of the bench. He was the picture of ease, utterly relaxed. Meanwhile, Lucy smoothed her skirts, trying to keep her knees from bouncing. Her nerves were jangling.

“We were still at Trafalgar Square. Boys in shirtsleeves, working with high spirits under the dome of the roof. It was cramped, but invigorating. We could hear the bells of St. Martin’s. You must find it dismal, descending into the earth.”

She smiled a tight smile. She’d heard and read plenty of commentaries, older men—artists and critics—harkening back to the glory of yesteryear. High-spirited boys under the dome, before the invasion of the pinafores.

“It’s all I’ve known,” she said. “I can’t complain.”

“You appreciate what you have.” Mr. Yardley nodded. “It’s to be commended. You are to be commended. You’ve worked hard. I recognize ambition and I respect it. I was ambitious, as a young architect. But, like you, I lacked certain advantages. My fellow students were designing interiors for the country homes of their family friends. My father couldn’t provide such connections. He was in the timber trade. He did business in Shoreditch, actually.”

He gave a one-armed shrug. “I didn’t want to design warehouses, but I had to establish myself somehow. Perhaps I ruined myself, from the artistic standpoint. After a while, the odor of commerce clings to everything you touch.”

He was still stung by her comments about Weston Hall. The coach began a wide turn. She allowed its motion to act upon her, sliding closer to the window. She edged aside the shade, praying for an inspiration, a rush of ameliorating words carried in with the breeze. She watched a hansom cab speed past, not Gwen’s. It was bright red, the driver young and dapper.

“You must be wondering why I’ve sought you out.”

She turned her head. He looked serious. Even so, the lines fanned out from his eyes, signs of good humor. His physiognomy suggested pleasantness. Why did he make her skin crawl?

“I am responsible for His Grace,” he said. “I made a promise to his father.”

Responsible?

“His Grace isn’t a child.” As soon as she spoke the words, she wanted to retract them. Mr. Yardley drew his long upper lip down over his teeth, an exaggerated frown.

“He is a danger, Miss Coover, to himself and to others. I am tasked with protecting him from his worst self. You know, I presume, that he was not the heir. Have you heard what became of his older brother?”

She cleared her throat. “He drowned, I believe.”

Mr. Yardley smiled a thin, sad smile.

“Drink was a devil for him, as it is for His Grace.”

She shifted on her seat. It was remarkably comfortable. Gwen would have discovered by now that the seats of hansom cabs might as well be stuffed with rocks.

She couldn’t relax into the soft leather. Her body was rigid.

“You will not feel insulted, I hope, if I say I do not trust that His Grace has employed you as his painting teacher for the right reasons.” Mr. Yardley uncrossed his legs. He was so tall their knees might have brushed if she didn’t angle her legs to the side.

“You should not trust it either. I say this for your sake, as a father. I understand you don’t have a father of your own. The outcome I predict from these lessons, should they continue, is . . . how to put it? Not a picture of a horse.”

Blood roared in Lucy’s ears. The lids of Mr. Yardley’s kindly blue eyes drooped slightly at the corners.

“I’ve upset you,” he murmured. “But it couldn’t be helped.” He rapped his knuckles against the bench. Once, twice.

“I have a proposal,” he said, leaning forward. “We can help each other. You were served with a thirteen-week notice of eviction. I can see to it that you are rehoused within the month.”

She pressed her back harder into the seat behind her. What about the Cantrells? The Stavelys? The Pritchards?

“Thank you, but there’s nothing wrong with the building. That’s the rub.” It came out saucier than she intended. Oh well. She leveled her gaze at him. “It’s not rehousing I want. I mean to stay where I am, all of us do. Once Lord Mabeldon is made aware of the irregularity—”