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Henley laughed. He knew well enough that Alan disapproved of the artists’ biographies he published, bowdlerized narratives meant to promote their careers and their dealers’ galleries. Bloated, gossipy advertisements. They’d had the same exchange countless times before.

“An essay, then,” conceded Henley, with a waggle of his tufty eyebrows. “On something controversial. Impressionism?”

Alan levered up one shoulder and let it drop, a passable shrug. “If you’ll accept a defense.”

“By June,” Henley called over his shoulder, grin half-hidden by the red thicket of his beard. “Go long. I like to chop at verbiage.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

Alan felt the pain knife through him. One wrong step and his hip would pop like a cork.

Where to go? Stairs were unthinkable. The exhibition lay up one flight, the shops and lounges down another.

The old smoking room.

But today, what with the crush of gallery-goers, he risked leading two dozen hangers-on to this forgotten sanctum.

He had no choice. Pale dots blotted the edges of his vision. He had only so many moments, so many steps, before the pain blinded him. The episode would pass, if he could sit.

He walked forward. He had the trick of it from years of practice. Body in motion, mind afloat. As if by magic, the crowd began to flow in the opposite direction, back toward the entrance. He could hear the reason why. Princess Louise. Her name emerged from dozens of lips, a collective sigh.

He kept putting one foot in front of the other. He passed between the potted palms, fighting the dizzying notion that the hall was stretching out before him, his destination ever-more distant. Almost there. Eons later, he saw his hand pushing aside red brocade. He was entering the smoking room. Only a few paces across the Persian rugs remained. He collapsed onto the rococo chaise longue.

And with his molars grinding, he molded another smile and aimed it up at Miss Finch.

—

“Don’t stand there.” De’Ath stretched out in the chaise longue like a lazy cat. “Come in.”

He’d abandoned hat and cane, and he’d folded his right arm behind his head, the left draping the chair’s scrolled frame. He looked languorous, flamboyantly at ease. Except . . . his face was white and set, a smiling mask.

Nina hesitated, the heavy red drape bunched in her hand. The room was dim and sultry, walls covered with crimson silk damask, air scented strongly with sandalwood. She could imagine peering through Laddie’s stereoscope at a pornographic scene set in exactly this sumptuous little chamber. Propped on a pillow, hair wild, De’Ath was the indolent libertine, exhausted by bed sport.

But he hadn’t ducked into this alcove to seduce her. Why, then?

“I thought the paintings awaited your verdict.” She said it in a light tone.

“They can wait a little longer.” His tone was also light. “I’ll let Princess Louise inspect them first. As soon as she leaves, the crème de la crème will pour out on her heels. I’ll have more room to think.”

“That’s why we’re here?” She let the drape swing down behind her. “You want to avoid the crème de la crème?”

His waxen smile didn’t budge. “Exactly.”

She lived with professional liars. But even for an amateur, De’Ath was doing a piss-poor job.

“You’re not unwell?” She took a step forward. Darkness rolled off him in waves. She recognized this kind of unsustainable tension. It was Jack’s, right before his calm shattered into rage.

“As a matter of fact, I’m thirsty. Aren’t you?” The curve of his lips scarcely shifted as he spoke. “Two coffees. Mine, black. Yours, how you like it.” He unfolded his arm, produced a leather billfold from inside his jacket, and held it out to her. “Straight down the stairs. Show the monogram and they’ll let you carry away the cups.”

She stared. He’d bid her come in because he didn’t want her to be seen lingering on the threshold. And now he wanted to be rid of her.

“Buy a fountain pen while you’re at it. Go past the coffee room, and the billiards room, and the dining rooms, then take a left at the library. You’ll see the shop. It caters primarily to hobbyists with pin money. Sells prints of the most popular pictures and artistic paraphernalia. Overpriced tubed oil paints, porcelain mixing pans . . .” He rolled a shoulder in a supine shrug. “The pens are acceptable. Pick your favorite.”

He wanted to be rid of her badly.

“Why—” she began, then broke off. It was pointless. He wasn’t about to explain himself.

“Why,” he repeated. “Why should a gallery have the amenities of a gentlemen’s club plus a department store?” His tone retained its lightness. “Reassures the patrons. Olgilvie created a luxurious venue to distract from the frightening spectacle of art that doesn’t sentimentalize, moralize, or otherwise conform to prevailing expectations.”