“Ten years ago, Fotheringale was only getting started as a patron, but you were… You were restless, Elijah, as all young men must be, and your mother could not watch your talent be smothered by the weight of a title and family obligations.”

“A wanderjahr, then. You wanted me to have a year to wander, a time to fly free as an artist and to learn more of my craft.”

His lordship let the remaining sketches roll up all at once. “I wanted you to stop trying to herd eleven younger siblings into order, to stop trying to outshine the very stewards with your knowledge of the land, to spend less time with your nose in a ledger book and more time where you were happy. All too soon, you will find Flint and its obligations around your neck like a millstone. Your mother and I agreed that your art deserved support.”

Images of Jenny holding yarn for her sisters, playing hoodman-blind, dancing dutifully with her brothers flashed through Elijah’s mind while he tried to absorb his father’s words.

“You made the right choice,” Elijah said slowly. “I know more of the greater world, more of human nature, and more of myself for having pursued my art. I thank you for that.”

His father studied his drink for a moment then treated Elijah to a doting smile. “You will make a fine Marquess of Flint, and the Academy will be lucky to count you among their members.”

His lordship’s words held apology, but something more too: a paternal blessing Elijah would happily have wandered another ten years to earn.

“I rather doubt I’ll ever see membership in that august body, nor will I seek it further. Fotheringale has deep pockets, but he’s been allowed to elevate his sycophants regardless of lack of ability. He has been less than gentlemanly regarding Mama, and his antipathy toward women artists generally sets art back, rather than propels it forward.”

His lordship picked up Elijah’s glass and handed it to him. “I had not counted on your stubbornness when you took off to paint the world, but it sits well on you now. You will be called principled and a man of integrity. We are agreed Fotheringale is an ass, but your mother says he is to be pitied.”

And Mama’s opinion would always matter greatly to Flint. Elijah touched his glass to his father’s. “To Mama and her stubbornness. Do you ever regret the choices you made?”

He asked because a man could love his wife and still be honest. Flint’s answer was to leaf through the sketches and pull out one of a young couple from a bygone era, his evening attire nearly as resplendent as her ball gown—for all the image was in black and white.

“The fashion at one point was to have mirrors in ballrooms, the better to serve both light and vanity. At our betrothal ball, I caught a particular glimpse of your mother’s face as we danced, and it has been all the answer any husband should ever need.”

The young marchioness gazed at her husband much as the queen had gazed at her king—with love and admiration, but without the worry. Clearly she had found her way into the arms of the one man in all the world who was right for her.

Flint picked up the sketch. “I would give up the ability to see any color, the ability to sketch, and several appendages as well to spend my life with your mother. She says Fotheringale is to be pitied, and she’s right. The Academy needs fellows like yourself, who stand above old Foggy in both talent and consequence, but your mother would ask you to show some tolerance to a man who ended up without talent, title, or lady.”

Without lady.

“About the lady.”

The lady who was setting off on her own wanderjahr, which might easily turn into years, not of exploration but of exile, while Elijah… what?

While he missed her. While he looked at his drawing of her the same way his father gazed at the portrait of her ladyship. While he never got his greens quite right and had nobody to tell him so.

Elijah had been stubborn, but Genevieve Windham could hold onto things—guilt, goals, those sorts of things—more tightly than Elijah ever had. He’d given her all the letters of support he could, but he had not given her the one thing any artist needed to endure the privations of her trade, the one thing that might turn her steps in the direction of home and people who loved her.

“The lady? Are you inquiring about your mother?” Flint asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Elijah drank as well—somebody had made some sort of toast—and swallowed a bit of brew that kicked like a happy donkey.

“Not that lady. I must cut my visit short, your lordship. I must see about a lady who will wander for ten years, alone and far away, unless somebody offers her a different path. You cannot see a few paltry colors, but I cannot see my way home when it’s staring me in the face.”

Elijah turned to go, pulling Kesmore’s letter from his pocket as he headed for the door. Today was Wednesday, which meant Jenny might leave as early as—

A knock sounded on the door.

Flint caught Elijah’s eye. “Enter.”

“Callers, your lordships. The Duchess of Moreland and Lady Genevieve Windham. The young lady said I was to interrupt you, and the marchioness agreed.”

“See them in,” Flint said, which was fortunate, because Elijah could not organize a single thought beyond a fleeting recollection of His Grace’s reference to the espionage of women.

* * *

Flint Hall was every bit as imposing as Morelands, and far more grandly appointed. Jenny suspected much of the art was her ladyship’s, though it wasn’t quite as warm or detailed as Elijah’s renderings.

“Their lordships will see you now.” The liveried footman was all that was correct and courteous, without being friendly. Her Grace swept by Jenny and paused outside a door to greet another lady of mature years.

“Happy Christmas, Your Grace!”

“Charlotte! Happy Christmas!” The ladies touched cheeks, linked arms, and Jenny felt misgiving uncoil in her belly. Elijah’s mother had that certain self-possession Jenny associated with émigrés and duchesses, a self-possession that might equate to impatience with a young lady seeking an audience with a son recently returned home. The marchioness turned a brilliant smile on Jenny, one that did not remind her of Elijah at all.

“Lady Genevieve, welcome. Elijah has told me much about you, and I confess I am most curious. Thomas, we’ll be having tea and a tray, please.”

As the ladies strolled into a roomy, paneled parlor, the marchioness bent her head close to Her Grace’s. “Did you like the portrait of His Grace? I am dying to see it. Moreland has such presence, much like Flint.”

Jenny did not hear the duchess’s reply, because Elijah was standing across the room, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight that showed him both tired and handsome.

So very handsome.

“Ladies, welcome.” An older fellow advanced, one who had Elijah’s eyes and chin. He bowed over Her Grace’s hand with old-fashioned courtliness, and still Elijah did not move from his spot by the window.

“And you must be Lady Genevieve. Elijah would no doubt enjoy showing you our portrait gallery, though we keep it chilly this time of year to discourage impromptu athletic competitions—to no avail, I might add.” Lord Flint cleared his throat. “Elijah?”

“Yes, Elijah,” the marchioness added. “The tea will take a moment, given the state of the kitchen of late. Show Lady Genevieve the portraits.”

Elijah held out his hand, and Jenny stifled the urge to run to him. “Nothing would please me more. Lady Genevieve, welcome.”

Still he did not smile. Jenny took his arm and processed from the room with him as if they were promenading around some ballroom before all of Polite Society.

“I should not have come.”

“I’m so glad to see you.”

They’d spoken at the same time, which caused Jenny to pause in her progress down a quiet, carpeted hallway. “I beg your pardon?”

Elijah glanced around. “My brothers are playing skittles in the portrait gallery, and it’s bound to be freezing. Come. We’ll have only a moment, and there are things I need to say to you.” He took her hand in his and tugged her into a room near the end of the corridor.

And Jenny allowed it—there were things she needed to say to him. They might be the last words she ever exchanged with him, but she needed to say them more than she’d ever needed to paint, draw, or embroider.

More even than she needed to keep a promise extracted by a wily, if mortally ailing, brother.

Elijah closed the door behind them quietly, and Jenny found herself in a room much like what the Windham children called Her Grace’s Presence Chamber. The walls were full of sketches, the furniture was as comfortable as it was elegant, and everywhere there was color. The upholstery was blue and cream, the gilding a mellow gold. Green pillows riotously embroidered with flowers added a comfy touch, and gold fleur-de-lis decorated the walls.

“There’s no red,” Elijah said.

“That’s what you wanted to say to me?” Though he was right. The room sported neither red nor pink, even.

“This is my mother’s parlor, and it has no red. But that is not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say—”

He went to the door and locked it, which could presage either difficult words or—

He took her in his arms and brushed his mouth across hers. “We haven’t any mistletoe, Genevieve, and I know you’ll soon be on your way, but—”

Jenny went up on her toes and kissed him back, kissed him as if he were every destination on His Grace’s splendid itinerary and the place she’d come home to all rolled into one. “Hang the red, hang the mistletoe, Elijah.”