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The breeze riffled the leaves overhead, sifting light from shade. The lenses of his spectacles twinkled.

Spectacles, side-whiskers, long black frock coat, wide trousers, ebony cane—his antiquated costumery certainly set him apart from the general run of young men about town. He didn’t aim for fizzing, that was obvious.

“I should warn you,” he continued, “there’s a small chance you’ll wait longer than a month for your wages. My brother and I are in the midst of renegotiating our financial relationship.”

He turned his head and glanced toward the house. His profile was all hard planes: strong nose, shelflike cheekbones, peaked upper lip, the fullness of the lower more squared off than curved.

Nina lowered her valise onto the petal-strewn grass. He couldn’t suspect her. He had a prodigious brain, not the second sight. Her bad conscience was playing tricks on her. He didn’t offer her employment to catch her or to catch Jack. The explanation was simpler.

He liked her because she’d annoyed his brother. Hiring her, he’d annoy his brother further.

She remembered the duke’s bloodied shirtfront, the cold rage in his eyes.

“Renegotiating,” she said. “Is that what the gentlefolk call it? You were giving each other a good slogging.”

He looked back at her and laughed. So often laughter—male laughter—grated. She was accustomed to guffaws, grunts, chortles, barks, yips, honks. Mr. De’Ath’s laughter was different. It was like molasses rippling off the back of a spoon.

“Whatever you call it, the disagreement will be decided in my favor.” He shrugged. “Without further fisticuffs. Or broken Bohemian glass.” The corner of his mouth turned down. “I shouldn’t have reacted as I did. Next time, I’ll count to ten.”

She knew she was staring, but it was so unexpected. The critic turned his criticism on himself.

Arrogant Mr. De’Ath—chagrined by the destruction in the drawing room.

She’d been chagrined too, for her part in it. Clara and the other parlormaids would have to clear the mess. She’d apologized profusely as she said her goodbyes.

She prayed her dismissal would suffice by way of retribution, although she feared it wouldn’t. The Duke of Umfreville was sour, vain, humorless, petty . . . a beef-headed boor. He placed blame reflexively.

Alan De’Ath—he was a different sort of creature. Infinitely more complicated and compelling.

And, to her, infinitely more dangerous.

“I’m very grateful,” she said again, more steadily this time. “But I can’t accept your offer. It would be different if I were going back home to stay. But I’ve the thought to leave London altogether.” Lying went more smoothly when one based the ruse on fundamental truths. Now her words flowed. “I’d rather move to the country than start any new job here. I like the country air. My aunts have a lovely cottage with a spare room, and behind it there’s a little hill covered with gooseberry bushes. My plan is to open my own pastry shop and sell gooseberry tarts.” She felt a buzzing in her veins as she spoke. Ever since she’d spent those golden months in Hensthorpe as a girl, she’d imagined returning for good. Living in the cottage. Herbs overhead, cats underfoot. How surprisingly giddy-making, to reveal her most cherished hopes to a stranger.

A fizzing, gorgeous, legendarily shrewd, lordly stranger, famous for unflinching judgment.

Foe of banality and contrivance. Foe of fakers.

Her foe.

“I never intended to remain in service.” She realized her gaze had dropped to the grass, fixed on the pink petals clinging to the metal tip of his cane. She forced her eyes up. “It’s a good thing, really, that things turned out as they did.”

“You plan to open your own shop?” He tipped his head just enough to indicate . . . incredulity.

She flushed. Blast. Not well-trodden, was it? The road from service to shopkeeping.

“More of a dream than a plan,” she said hastily. “I’d never afford it.”

She could, though. Now. For years, she’d kept account books. She’d saved enough cash to put down on Mr. Craddock’s bakery in Hensthorpe. Mr. Craddock was fond of her and amenable to the transaction. His slugabed sons reserved their elbow grease for lifting tankards. Mr. Craddock would sell, and she would be the one to buy.

“I distinguish between dreams every day.” Mr. De’Ath was looking at her thoughtfully. “Often dreams are self-indulgent fantasies. A tone-deaf Italian count thinks he’s Verdi.” He made a derisive gesture with his hand. “I smite those kinds of dreams with my pen.”

She tracked the motion. His knuckles had all but disappeared, bones submerged in the angry puff of surrounding tissue. He couldn’t smite anything with his pen at the moment. He noticed her gaze and smiled with all his sharp white teeth.

“But sometimes they’re visions,” he continued softly. “Sometimes dreams are maps of the future scrawled behind our eyelids. A way of seeing what doesn’t exist, what only we, the dreamers, can bring into being. This second type of dream produces art. True art. And other marvels.” Behind his lenses, his gaze had a pale, intense dazzle. He seemed to peer into her.

“This is my florid way of saying that you, Miss Finch, strike me as the sort who dreams that second type of dream. A visionary who makes the impossible happen.” He placed his swollen hand on his heart. “And so, while I regret that you won’t accept the position, my disappointment is offset by the expectation that you will someday bake the gooseberry tart equivalent of a Mozart concerto.”

No, he didn’t look serious. He’d found his speech comical. He found her comical.