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Nina pushed out of the chair. “Go on, Ruby. It’s all right.”

“He ain’t all right,” said Ruby.

“She’s always down on old Jack. Don’t it make my heart bleed.” Jack sighed to Nina, then met Ruby’s narrowed gaze. “You heard my sister. She and I are due for a little chin-wag.”

Ruby hesitated. The fire popped behind her.

She looked a question at Nina. Come along?

Nina gave her head a slight shake and tried to look unconcerned. It won’t be so bad.

Ruby swished by Jack without another glance.

“Ta-ta,” he said, and rounded the pile. He approached Nina, kicking aside canvases and stepping over books.

“You’re here,” he said darkly, and threw himself into his chair. “De’Ath found me out? Is that it?”

“No.” Nina shifted her cup to her other hand so she could dry her dripping fingers on her skirt. “No, I came back to tell you about the man who owns the auction house.”

“What about him? Must be bloody awful if you couldn’t put it in a letter.”

Nina’s cheeks blazed. She hadn’t considered posting a letter. She’d been all muddled up.

“Mr. Broughton,” she said. “He went to Norwich to put the screws to Mrs. Beechey.”

“So? Mrs. Beechey won’t welch. I paid her well.”

“You went to Norwich?” She sagged. “You could have mentioned that to Laddie. I was thinking the worst.”

“And that’s why you destroyed the studio?” His pleasant tone brought up gooseflesh on her arms.

“The aim is to destroy evidence.” She deposited her cup on the table and took a deep breath. “Jack, it’s over.”

“Not if you do as we agreed and stick to De’Ath.”

“Even if he doesn’t find us out this time, we can’t sell more pictures.”

“Not in London, perhaps.” He steepled his fingers, rings twinkling. “Not at auction. Not at the moment.” He shrugged a shoulder. “All those industrialists up north want art.”

“Blast the industrialists!” She stumbled to her paint box, where she stowed her two account books, and seized the larger.

“All my Hensthorpe plans and calculations.” She fanned the pages so he could see how closely written they were. “I’ve been saving, for years. For this.” She went to him, book held open. On one page was a sketch of Mr. Craddock’s bakery with its big bow window, the bricks and flints lovingly shaded. On the other, a floor plan of the kitchen as she imagined it, the prices of the new equipment penciled around the edges. “You make art for Manchester, if you’re so keen on it.”

Jack’s eyes were fixed on his steepled fingers.

“Not in the cards.” He extended his hands to her. Together, they observed their tremor.

She swallowed her resentment with a bitter draft of shame. Those eighteen months’ hard labor at Pentonville had ravaged him, giving his fingers a permanent crook. He’d broken his right thumb breaking flints. Even as that time receded into the past, the damage revealed itself more fully.

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her book. “I’m sorry for every mean thing you’ve endured, for me. But I can’t paint Titians ’til kingdom come. I won’t. And even if I were willing, what then? Sooner or later, someone will catch up to us.” She took a shaky breath. “Luck only holds so long. You know it as well as I do.”

“A far sight better than you do.” Jack leaned back in the chair. His collar looked greasy, and his trouser cuffs were soiled.

“Jack,” she said slowly. “You weren’t more than a day in Norwich? But you weren’t here. Where were you?”

“I had places to go. Business.” His gaze dropped. “Whitechapel.”

Nina stared at his face, uncomprehending.