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She was still studying his face.

He cleared his throat. “I spent the morning perusing auction catalogues. Sleaford has a lot of six paintings coming up for auction here, at Broughton’s. They’re on view now. I’m going to put them to the test.”

“The test . . . of your opinion?” The crease in her lower lip deepened as she compressed her mouth in something like a frown.

“The test of my flawless connoisseurship.” He said it dryly. “The pictures are by an eighteenth-century British landscape painter. James Berney. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

“No.” She looked away. “Where would I have heard of him? Oxford?”

He cocked his head. She had sharp eyes, and a sharp tongue when nettled. More employers than Geoffrey would scold her or sack her. She must have been thinking the same thing. She looked back at him, rueful, a wince puckering her forehead.

“Please do go on,” she said, and opened her notebook.

Where had she worked, before Umfreville House, and how had she fared? Did her intelligence and temper often land her in trouble? Perhaps she’d stayed at home, with that brother, cooking and cleaning, baking Victoria sponge.

He had to shake himself to proceed. “James Berney. He was an obscure painter, relatively speaking. He lived and died in Norwich and never showed in London. Not the most profitable proposition for a forger. But he does have a bit of posthumous fame to recommend him. Or to ruin him, as the case may be.” He paused. “I blame myself.”

“You blame yourself because . . .” She looked down at the notebook, not at him.

“Berney’s a favorite of mine. I was the first critic to write seriously about his body of work.” He gave a small, immodest shrug. “And I’m the critic best equipped to determine the authenticity of his pictures.”

“Of course they’re authentic.” She raised her head. “The auction house wouldn’t sell them otherwise.”

“Is that right?” he murmured, lifting his brows. “I’m sure Mr. Broughton would appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“What would I appreciate?” Broughton was lumbering back into the office, looking well pleased. “Mr. De’Ath, you’ll appreciate this. I conferred with Mr. Goldthwaite. To secure your consignment, we’re willing to offer an advance.”

Alan shook Broughton’s hand as Miss Finch noted down the terms.

The advance would answer to the purpose, in the short term.

Wages. Paper.

Of course, Broughton wouldn’t ever receive the consignment. Geoffrey would yield, restoring Alan’s funds to keep the family collection—and his dignity—intact.

Alan didn’t mind wasting Broughton’s time. After all, he was poised to do the man a professional service.

A few minutes later, the three of them were climbing the marble staircase, heading for the private viewing room where Chips Sleaford’s lot was on display.

Broughton was the first to approach the six pictures.

“James Berney,” he said with satisfaction. “Some of the finest I’ve seen.”

Alan studied the nearest picture. A narrow, rutted road winding through trees, a great deal of dusky sky above. A picture with uncommon depth.

He studied the others one by one, lingering on the last. It showed a farm cart on the edge of a forest and triggered a memory. He’d spent a summer holiday—the first after his father’s death—trekking Norfolk with his friend Neal Traymayne. They’d gone up to the heights in the north, and to the lowlands, where vast shallow lakes gleamed between sedges. Glorious swimming, everywhere. On the days his leg hadn’t permitted tramping, they’d ridden together in farm carts. Neal had never pressed him on it. He’d taken it as a matter of course, juggling potatoes to amuse the farmers’ children as they bumped along.

Were there potatoes in that cart? The corner of his mouth kicked up in a smile. When he looked up, he met Miss Finch’s eyes. She was standing awkwardly, behind the easels, as though she didn’t dare to face them.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

She went scarlet. “It’s what you think that matters.”

He tilted his head in encouragement. “I think I want to know what you think.”

Broughton ran his thumb across his mustache, bushy eyebrows raised as he looked between them.

Miss Finch didn’t move. Her big brown eyes beseeched him. He smiled more broadly and beckoned.