Genevieve and the busy, laughing little boys, old Jock snoozing happily, and everything Elijah had ever wanted summarized in one painting. Even as his mind comprehended that the portrait was good—better than he’d known—his brain was scrambling to make sense of the painting in its present context.

“What is that doing here?”

“I agree,” Buchanan said, stepping closer to the painting. “If I’d commissioned this, I would never have let it out of my sight, but it arrived with a note from no less than His Grace the Duke of Moreland, with leave for the committee to consider it when deciding upon their nominations. Said his daughter, whose artistic sensibilities eclipse those of any academy member, required it of him. Even Fotheringale shut up for once. You apparently have a talent for rendering children.”

Or for rendering any setting that included Genevieve Windham, and yet the committee’s flattering reception of this one painting did not change anything—anything of consequence—one bit.

Though Elijah spared an internal sigh for Genevieve’s generosity of spirit. Maybe a return to the Harrison family seat would help ease that ache—and maybe not. “I’m off to Flint Hall, Buchanan. You’ll want to send that painting back to Kent with all due care.”

Elijah snatched up the case of drawings and departed. When he’d traveled halfway to Flint Hall and had to stop to rest his weary horse, it occurred to him to wonder what was in the case.

Some of his mother’s drawings? She was quite talented… and yet, the package was for his lordship. A gentleman did not open another gentleman’s mail.

Though Elijah’s drawing of Jenny and the children was in there, and Elijah was seized with an abrupt yearning to look upon that image. He wanted to indulge the impulse now, before he dealt with the drama of his arrival at Flint Hall, before Genevieve left the country for a journey that could go on for years, before anybody who knew him might observe his folly.

He appropriated the snug at a familiar posting inn, opened the case, and unrolled a thick sheaf of drawings. What they revealed had him cursing, laughing, and climbing back on his tired, muddy horse.

* * *

“So you’re really going?” Louisa kept the question light, because Jenny was in love, and people in love were prone to inconvenient histrionics, as were people in expectation of interesting events.

“Aunt Arabella has agreed, so yes.” Jenny held a boot in each hand, ordinary lace-up half boots, but they must have had some significance known only to her, because she held them as if they were… original poems penned by a beloved.

“And how long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.” The boots went into a trunk, placed gently, like an infant’s baptismal gown might have been stowed away. “Have you seen my—?” Jenny worried a nail then retrieved an embroidered bag hanging inside the door of her wardrobe.

From her seat at Jenny’s escritoire, Louisa watched as the little bag got the same sentimental treatment. “What’s in there?”

“Elijah’s Christmas present to me. He left it on my pillow before he came downstairs on Christmas Eve. The embroidery is his mother’s, and it’s exquisite.”

Embroidery, no matter how beautiful, was tedious as the devil, and Jenny could create more fantastic stitchery even than what graced that bag. “He gave you the bag?”

Jenny nodded, her gaze on the bag where it lay on top of the other contents of the trunk. She might have been regarding the mortal remains of a beloved pet, based on her expression. “He gave me sketches, I’m sure of it. I’m saving them for when I’m in Italy, or Austria. Possibly France.”

Or maybe Bedlam. Louisa shoved to her feet and snatched the bag from the trunk. “You haven’t even opened your Christmas present, and yet you won’t leave the country without it. You, Sister, are in a state.”

Jenny said nothing, and that gave Louisa pause. The old Jenny, the Jenny who called everybody dearest and had to have a sketchbook in her hands, was never in a state, much less one she admitted openly.

This Jenny had a softness about her, and while she was given to leaving rooms abruptly, and sometimes looked as if she’d been crying, she was an easy person to love.

Eve’s brilliant ploy with Deene’s supposed Christmas gift had not worked, or not worked well enough, and Their Graces were watching these travel preparations with worry in their eyes.

Worry for Jenny, who’d never given anybody cause to worry.

Louisa opened the bag and peered inside. “These are not sketches.”

“They’re not?”

Before Jenny could grab the bag back, Louisa extracted a sheaf of letters. “Oh, good. Some are written in German, and I do enjoy German. This one’s Italian, and there are several in French. This must be… I didn’t know Elijah had a grasp of Russian.”

“He spent a year in St. Petersburg. Let me see those.”

Louisa handed over one, the first one in French, and watched while Jenny translated.

“Oh, that dear, dratted, man. That dear, dear…”

Rather than listen to Jenny prattle on, Louisa translated another of the French missives. “These are letters of introduction. Your dear, dratted man has written you letters of introduction all over the Continent. This one is written in French but addressed to some Polish count. This one is to some fellow on Sicily. Will I ever see you again?”

“There are ruins on Sicily. Greek, Roman, Norman… Beautiful ruins.”

What that had to do with anything mattered little compared to the ruins Louisa beheld in her sister’s eyes. “Was he trying to send you away?”

Jenny handed Louisa the letter, watching with a hungry gaze as Louisa tucked the epistles back into their traveling bag. “I didn’t ask Elijah for those letters, and I won’t use them.”

“Why in blazes not?” Blazes was not quite profanity. When a woman became responsible for small children, her vocabulary learned all manner of detours.

“Because he’ll never get into the Academy if he’s seen promoting the career of a woman in the arts. The Academy has been his goal and his dream for years, and he’s given up years of time among his family to pursue it. There’s unfortunate history between one of the committee members and Elijah’s mother, and it will obstruct Elijah’s path if he’s seen to further my artistic interests. I would not jeopardize Elijah’s happiness for anything.”

Elijah. Not Bernward, not his lordship, and certainly not Mr. Harrison. Perhaps Eve’s pretty, empty box hadn’t been entirely in vain.

Louisa pronounced sentence as gently as she could. “You love him. You’re in love with him.”

A young girl, a girl who’d never known real heartache, would have beamed hugely at this pronouncement and fluffed her hair or twitched her skirts. Jenny’s smile as she regarded her nearly full trunk was that of a woman, a woman who’d endured both life’s joys and its sorrows. “I love him.”

Being a Windham, this was a life sentence without hope of parole or pardon. “Does he love you?”

The smile dimmed, went from soft to uncertain. “Elijah is very kind. He cares for me, but he gave up everything to pursue his painting professionally—home, family, social connections—and now he has a chance to have it all back and more. The regent has taken notice of him. His family is clamoring for him to return to Flint Hall. As a Royal Academician, Elijah can accept their invitation without causing injury to his pride.”

Jenny’s recitation made no sense, though it resembled the convoluted maunderings of people overcome by sentiment regarding a member of the opposite sex. Louisa attempted to apply logic to the situation anyway.

If Bernward returned Jenny’s sentiments, he’d pop in at the ancestral pile, appease the family, then turn his horse right around and stop Jenny’s mad flight. His chances of doing so were enhanced if somebody—say, the Earl of Kesmore—made certain the exact details of Jenny’s departure and itinerary were put into Bernward’s talented hands.

“I think you should read these,” Louisa said, passing the bag of letters over to Jenny. “Bernward has lovely penmanship, and you should know which doors he’s so graciously opened for you.”

Also, how far away those doors were. Louisa led her sister to the escritoire then sent the footman in the hallway for tea and cakes. As much praise as Bernward had heaped on the talents of the woman whose aspirations he ought not support, it was going to take Jenny quite a while to read his letters.

The door banged open, but it was not one of the small Windham grandchildren charging into Jenny’s sitting room, but rather, Their Graces—His Grace at a brisk pace, Her Grace following more decorously behind.

“Your father has come up with a wonderful addition to your itinerary.” Her Grace sounded particularly pleased with His Grace. “You really must consider it, Jenny. Why, at this rate, we’ll be sending you to darkest Peru and the Sandwich Islands!”

Eighteen

Louisa’s expressions were not often hard to read, but Jenny’s sister looked torn between humor and exasperation.

“Perhaps you’re sending Jenny to Sicily now? She says there are wonderful ruins there. Greek, Roman, and what was that other?”

Such a helpful sister. “Norman,” Jenny said. “Though we have Norman ruins aplenty here in England.”

Her Grace beamed at the duke. “We can convince Arabella to nip down to Sicily, can’t we, Percival?”

As if traveling half the length of Italy was on a par with tooling out to Richmond. Jenny felt something building inside, something she’d felt since Elijah had been nowhere to be found after the Christmas open house. Whatever it was, it was not ladylike or pretty, but rather, loud and maybe even profane.