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Lucy couldn’t endure another second. She darted in for a robe, ducked behind the screen, and changed quickly.

“Here,” she said, emerging, thrusting her dress, a heap of brown and black silk velvet, into Maude’s arms. With that, she marched out into the hall. The sound of laughter followed her.

She couldn’t pose on the staircase in Weston Hall, stand frozen with her cymbals while Anthony roamed, flirting drunkenly. He might even brush past her, climbing the stairs, some other girl on his arm, his lips near her ear as he led her to his bedroom. What mood gripped him on the eve of his birthday, his freedom?

He was bound to behave recklessly.

She stared at the mosaic floor. Its intricacy provided distraction. She drifted down the hall. Library. Picture gallery. She hovered on the threshold of the gallery. Yellow silk brocade hung between black pilasters; ornately framed pictures were spaced evenly along the walls. She adored elaborate carvings, rich colors, patterns, textures. Suddenly, though, she found herself reckoning the countless hours of labor hidden by the dazzling surfaces. Not just the architect’s and the artist’s labor, but the labor of the artisans and clerks, the stonecutters and woodcutters, the miners, the stevedores, the weavers, the needlewomen. It went on and on. She was part of this web that made so much beauty and so much misery.

What mood gripped her tonight? The opulence attracted and repulsed her.

“Miss Coover, is it?” She jumped. Augustus Burgess was coming toward her, carrying a large hat.

“I thought your name was familiar,” he said. “You’re Gwen’s friend. She thinks highly of your paintings.”

Had her mouth fallen open? If it had, he had the tact not to mention it. Gwen talked about her? As a friend? Gwen admired her painting? Here was her chance to impress Augustus Burgess, and she was opening and closing her mouth like a fish.

“The coaches are waiting,” he said, when it became clear she had no response to offer. “Will you be so kind as to tell the fair company that whenever they’re ready, we’ll depart?”

He handed her the hat.

“For the Huguenot,” he said, grinning. He had a lively good humor. A sense of fun. She’d expected a bit more snobbery and neurasthenia from the art world’s darling. She imagined future salons, sketching with her friends. Kate and Gwen. Gus and Ned.

Never again would such an invitation lead back to the Duke of Weston.

Tonight was a cruel trick, an anomalous cruel trick. She would get through it. She turned the hat in her hands. Then she sighed. Might as well.

“Did you paint a miniature of Lady Euphemia Philby?”

“Weston’s sister?” He looked surprised. “I did. She’s a dear friend. You know her?”

She hesitated. “When did you see her last?”

“It was quite some time ago.” The acuity of Burgess’s gaze was truly unnerving. “I heard she went to France,” he said slowly.

Something in his tone gave her pause. She studied his face, intelligent and mobile rather than handsome.

He didn’t believe she’d gone to France. Hope sparked within her. It was all the opening she needed.

“Please.” She met his bright eyes squarely. “If you know something to the contrary, tell me.”

Burgess considered her. “I’m not in the habit of betraying confidences,” he said. “I’ve been afraid to talk to Weston. I don’t know if she told him . . .”

She finished the sentence. “That she eloped. She did tell him.”

“Ah.” He slouched against the doorframe, thinking. He was narrow shouldered, with a slight stoop. Not an imposing physical presence, but a strangely magnetic one.

“She hadn’t eloped, when last we spoke. In fact, I didn’t know for sure she had.” He pushed a long wing of dark hair behind his ear. “She told me that she wanted to elope, to America. With a cowboy, she said. The miniature I painted, it was a token for Weston, to remember her by. When I heard she went to France . . . Well, I wondered if that was the real story. But with Effie, you never know. She said all sorts of things. So, she went to America?” He laughed. “Weston covered it up, I imagine. He always hated it, talk. Gossip. Got enough of it early on.”

“He doesn’t know where she is.” She looked down at the hat, but she could still feel Burgess’s eyes boring into her. “No one does. I shouldn’t be saying this.” She glanced up. “Did she mention theaters?”

“Rafferty’s Music Hall.” He sighed. “She liked the singers. She tried to get me to go with her, on several occasions. I would have, but I had a commission to fulfill, and by the time I called on her, she’d gone. To France. I was nearly chased off the doorstep.”

She could imagine it. She’d someday like to paint the butler of Weston Hall, rising out of a crypt. What must he be thinking about the party of the century?

Burgess straightened. “Is there anything I can do?”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know. If you hear from her, tell Weston.”