If George Bambridge had not heaved such an audible sigh of relief, Jason was certain he would have been able to hear Miss Winnifred Crane's heart break. She was so utterly stoic, he thought, taking in her countenance. Looking straight ahead at Lord Forrester, her gaze never wavering but her face becoming increasingly pale with every tick of the clock. As if she had suddenly come to understand that her dreams would never be realized.

As if she had just learned she was stuck where she was, and there was no escape. Just the inevitable.

Jason knew that feeling all too well.

They stood there for some moments, the room shattering down about her ears, and yet, still, Miss Crane did not move. Jason began to become concerned-had she fainted . . . standing up?-until he realized she was no longer looking at Lord Forrester. She was looking at the wall behind him.

Like most of the walls in the Historical Society's rooms, the space behind Lord Forrester was crammed with a multitude of paintings, from every conceivable era of history. Jason tried to make out which one she had focused on so intently, but couldn't decipher her gaze. The Poole? The Durer? The Rembrandt sketches?

"I'm so sorry to have disturbed your afternoon, my lord," George Bambridge said, putting a controlling hand on his cousin's arm. "This is a complicated business. We will endeavor not to disturb you further." He tugged Miss Crane kindly but firmly toward the door, which he opened-and nearly caused the Earl of Salisbury to stumble into the room. To no one's surprise, the audience they had left behind in the great rooms had gathered by Lord Forrester's doors, all hoping to overhear an ounce of the interior conversation.

Say what one will about British stoicism, Jason thought wryly, but he didn't know a single Brit hesitant about eavesdropping. And now that they had a view of the scene, their gazes did not waver.

All the while, Winnifred Crane's eyes remained fixed on the wall behind Lord Forrester's massive desk. Unable to leave well enough alone, George looked to Jason as he tugged. "I know you have some influence over these things, Your Grace, and I do hope this confusion will not affect your decision regarding my application for membership," he said beseechingly.

"Lord Forrester!" Miss Crane spoke up, resisting her cousin's tugging and standing her ground. "I . . . I would make you a proposition."

"Winnifred, please," George whined, "we must be going."

"If I cannot prove to you that I am C. W. Marks," she continued, heedless of George, "can I at least attempt to prove that I have the education, the talent, the creativity . . . the imagination necessary to be C. W. Marks? Would you take my suit seriously then?"

Lord Forrester regarded her suspiciously for a moment, his eyes flicking to the black-clad gentlemen crowding the door behind her, looking like a crowd of vultures, waiting to feast upon the remnants of Miss Crane's career.

"I suppose if it was put past doubt, I would have to," he said finally, drawing no amount of angry and scandalized titters from the gathered crowd. "But doubt is a difficult thing to surmount. And I'm not at all certain it can be done away with entirely."

She nodded, swallowing, allowing herself one nervous look down to her hands. But when her eyes came up, they had that sparkle of newfound fire. Of determination.

"That painting behind you"-she pointed-"of Adam and Eve."

"The Durer?" Lord Forrester replied, following her finger to the appropriate piece. "A particularly splendid representation of the German Renaissance."

"Yes, it is," she agreed. "But what if I told you it was not painted by Albrecht Durer?"

A jolt of shock rolled through the assembly. Monocles were dropped. Even an utterance of "I say!" drifted over the mutterings and cries.

Meanwhile, Winnifred Crane simply took a deep breath.

"And what if I could prove it?"

Four.

Wherein our hero does not appear, except anecdotally.

"THIS really is the limit, Winnifred, even for you!"

George stomped through Totty's small foyer like a giant fee-fi-fo-fumming his anger out at the world, making small crystal and china knickknacks shake on their various surfaces. Winn followed George through the door quietly, calmly closing it behind her. Now that the interview with Lord Forrester was over-the moment that she had been preparing for, working toward, and building up in her mind for more than a year-Winnifred could feel nothing but a peaceful calm. Let George rant and rave. Let him argue and wheedle-she had done what she set out to do, and now . . .

She was on her way. She had taken the first step down the path to the life she wanted. Now all she had to do was take the others.

"A painting? A bloody painting! That's how you decide to compromise our entire future?" George turned on her, running his hands through his dark hair. "One that is a Durer, no matter how much you pretend otherwise."

She had been caught by that painting, almost from the moment she had entered Lord Forrester's office. She had known that her father had given it to the Society in his will, of course, but the luck of it appearing on Lord Forrester's wall . . .

At first it had amused her. It was as if her father were watching over her even now. But then, as everything began to fall apart around her ears, her hopes of recognition as C. W. Marks fading away, she quickly realized it was the lone, last chance she had to succeed.

"Lord Forrester," she had said, once the murmurs and cries in the Historical Society's rooms subsided at her last announcement, "you must know that my father spent the last few years of his life attempting to compile a comprehensive life history, thesis, and list of works of Albrecht Durer."

"Of course, he wrote of it often."

"Over many years, he acquired a number of works for Oxford and a few for his personal collection. Including that one." She pointed to the untitled painting, which she had always referred to simply as the Adam and Eve. It was a graceful painting, one Winnifred had admired for years. A small canvas, no more than a foot and a half long by two feet wide. Adam to the left, leading the painting, Eve looking youthful and innocent to the right. Fig leaves protected their modesty, and the Tree of Knowledge between them, lit from behind, beckoning like the siren it was. The apple was in Eve's hand, shining and true. But whereas most depictions of this most important moment in human history had the snake hanging from the tree and whispering in Eve's ear, in this version, the snake wound its way around Adam's ankle, securing his fall.

"Yes, and the Society will be eternally grateful that he entrusted us with such an important piece in his will." Lord Forrester replied, his eyebrows rising.

Winnifred smiled kindly, hopefully putting Lord Forrester a bit more at ease-she wasn't planning to take back the painting, and didn't want the head of the Historical Society or any of the other gentlemen listening to think such a thing. The preeminent artisan of the German Renaissance, Albrecht Durer was, of course, one of the most popular historical painters right now-one could almost say his renown was reaching a fever pitch-and an original work of his would command a hefty sum. She was already doing enough damage to the Adam and Eve's value simply by questioning its provenance.

"Yes, I'm sure," she demurred. "In assisting my father with his project, I have been corresponding with a number of Durer enthusiasts throughout Europe." At that, she shot a hard look to George, who could do nothing more than look dumbfounded. Not even he could dispute that she had been working in such a capacity, as her father's aide. "And I have come to believe that this particular painting, while a very fine representation of the German Renaissance, is not a Durer work."

"This is preposterous!" she heard George swear under his breath. In fact, she was not the only one with keen hearing, because Lord Forrester quelled any further outburst from George's quarter with a spare glance.

"How"-Lord Forrester cleared his throat-"did you come to this conclusion, my dear?"

Well, she had been bold enough to bring it up, no reason to be coy now. Although, with George listening so intently, she did need to be careful.

"There is a gentleman who has been archiving all the Durer papers he can lay his hands on, and when I mentioned this painting to him, he mentioned a number of letters that he had found associated with it, written by the hand of someone who seemed to be taking credit for the work." She took another deep breath, falling into the flow of the lecture. "And you must admit, there is something marginally . . . different about this painting than other Durer works. Indeed, even his other depictions of Adam and Eve. The unfinished feeling of the tips of Eve's hands-as if she herself is an unfinished work by God. Durer was detailed in his oils; the unfinished effect was not of his style. The way Adam turns from the canvas-we see barely a third of his face . . . and here is Durer, the most influential portraitist of his generation, not showing us a face? And there is the movement depicted in the . . . er . . . foliage."

Winn could not help but blush. One thing about this painting that had always captivated the pubescent Winn, when boys were more a mystery than ever, was how it created the impression that if a breeze blew the wrong way, the painted fig leaves might blow away with it.

Several of the gentlemen present, including Lord Forrester, were peering at the small canvas now, examining it. Wondering.

"To be completely honest, my father debated including this work in his compendium for weeks. Months," Winn added hopefully, and then cursed herself for doing so. Because George took her pause for breath to jump into the fray, arguing.

"Even if your father had questioned the painting's authorship, he obviously came to a conclusion about it, as he never spoke of it to me as anything other than a Durer."

Winn could only set her mouth in a harsh line, as the men spilling into the room murmured agreements with George. Even one or two giving a "right-o, my good man" and other such inane male encouragements.

Even dead and gone, her father-in the eyes of the Society's members-remained the final word on all things artistically historical. And here she was, admittedly disagreeing with that final word! "All the same," she stated, quelling the ripple of voices, "I hold fast to believing that those letters and documents will prove this work is not a Durer."

"And may I see these letters?" Lord Forrester frowned, finally tearing his eyes away from the Adam and Eve.

"I . . . I do not have them," Winn had to admit.

"Of course you don't," George replied. "Lord Forrester, you cannot be seriously entertaining this notion that this painting is a fake . . . And that of all the people in all the world, she's the only one to have discovered it!"

"I don't believe it a fake-I believe it mislabeled. And I'm not the only one," Winn countered, glancing to George. "The letters exist. But they are in Basel, Switzerland. Where Durer was living and studying at the time of this painting." She took another deep breath. "I would have to retrieve them."

That sent a ripple throughout the room and out into the hall. A woman-granted, one well of age-taking on such a task, such a journey, simply to prove a point . . . well, it was ridiculous! Preposterous!

"Your Grace?" Lord Forrester looked to Jason Cummings, lounging against the windowsill. "What are your feelings on the matter?"

Every eye in the room turned to the young Duke. In her desire to put forth her proposal, Winn had somehow forgotten he was there. But now . . . he looked casual, unaffected. But she could tell he had been listening the whole time.

"Well," he drawled, rubbing his chin lazily, "either she is absolutely right, or this is the most complicated lover's quarrel I've ever been witness to."

The room and those beyond sent up a huge guffaw of laughter, and Winn felt her face go up in flames. A lover's quarrel indeed! Over the past year, she had moved about as far away from loving her cousin as a human could manage. But she could not help but sneak a glance at George. His face had reddened as well, but he could not help but show a modicum of relief with it.

"But," the young Duke continued (annoyingly referring to her as if she was not in the room), "she does not ask for the Historical Society to fund her travels or research. Nor does she ask even for admittance to the Society. In fact, the only thing she does ask is for acknowledgement should she succeed. And if she fails . . ." He peered at her then, his dark eyes such a devilish contrast to his bright red hair that in the right light-and of course, if one was not acquainted with him personally-Lord Jason Cummings could be mistaken for Lucifer himself. "If she fails, it's no skin off my nose." He looked to Lord Forrester. "Nor yours. I see no reason not to entertain this notion."

And those were the words that had gained Miss Winnifred Crane her bargain with Lord Forrester. And brought her here, to Totty's home, where George ranted and raved without any hope of denting her joy.

Joy. Excitement. It was bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst forth in a series of adolescent giggles as she worked the knot of her cloak free and handed it to the waiting butler.

"Thank you, Leighton," she murmured, accidentally giving him the most winning smile, such that the unflappable man blinked twice before blushing.

"Winn, darling, you've made Leighton go all red," Arabella Arbuthnot Tottendale, affectionately known as Totty, said as she descended the stairs. "And George. Dare I hope your excursion went well?"

"It did not, Totty," George spoke up as he tried to shrug his oversized shoulders out of his coat. "You will not believe the tangle Winnifred has willingly-" But he was interrupted by Totty sweeping past with an upraised hand.

"I can tell already this conversation cannot be had in a foyer-it has an appalling lack of sherry."

Winn caught Leighton deftly rolling his eyes. And the downstairs rumor that Totty had an eye hidden underneath her lace cap must have had some merit, because even though her back was to him, she called out, "Leighton, is there something wrong with your vision?"

Leighton, for his part, had recovered his unflappability and swiftly answered, "No, ma'am."

"Good to hear. I should hate to have to put you in spectacles. Ghastly indulgence for a butler. Oh, and keep Mr. Bambridge's coat handy; he'll have to leave shortly enough if he's to dress and attend the theatre with us this evening."

And with that, Totty crossed into the cozy sitting room, poured herself a liberal glass of sherry, and ensconced herself by the fire. Winnifred and George could do nothing but follow.

"I still don't see why I must bear the expense and put up at a hotel," George grumbled. "There's room enough for me here, and you yourself have told me time and again that your childhood friendship with both our mothers extended to her offspring."

Winn caught Totty's eye and shrugged. But the older lady simply winked back at her. Before Totty was a Tottendale, she was just a girl, growing up in a practical and boring village in the south, where luckily, the only thing to defy practicality and boredom could be found just next door: Clara and Margaret. A pair of cousins who were raised practically as sisters. Totty ran wild with them, until their wildness ran out and everyone involved had to become a young lady. A trying loss, but their friendship bore it, and when they were married and had children, gifts and letters were exchanged, visits and holidays spent in each other's company. And when grief came, when Totty lost her son and husband, or Winn her mother Clara, it was shared, and thus eased. And when Winn finally plucked up the courage to leave Oxford and come to London and try her fate, Totty immediately offered to act as chaperone, guide, and friend. And Winn could not be more grateful.

Especially when it came to George.

"Because you have told me time and again that your intentions toward Winn are more than cousinly." She sent a soft look of inquiry to Winn, the same one she offered whenever the subject of her and George's relationship was discussed. Winn dodged it, much as she had all the times before. "And," Totty continued, "while I may not be strictly concerned with appearances in general, both your mothers would rise from the grave and murder me if they thought I had damaged your reputations. So considering I doubt there is sherry in hell, which is, quite frankly, where I know I'm headed, I'll keep myself comfortable here on earth as long as possible. Besides"-she sent George a look of sympathy-"this is a ladies' house. You bump your head on the door frames once a day as is."

It was true, even George would have to admit that. The little house on Bloomsbury Street was everything that was comfortable, stylish, and chic. If you were a single gentlewoman. And Totty had purchased it two years ago for just that reason. She'd told Winn in a letter at the time that it was because while living with Phillippa Worth, she'd discovered "the bigger the house, the fewer options you have in keeping out disagreeable company. At the rate Phillippa involves herself in charitable functions," she wrote, "it is only a matter of time before a sewing circle or some such odious thing takes over a wing and never leaves." So now, Totty had her little house, with its little garden and little stairs, and little door frames that George's gargantuan size simply could not avoid. Now, she could sit by her fire and ignore invitations to charity teas or the theatre if she felt like staying in . . .

"Totty," Winn asked suddenly, "what prompted the desire to go to the theatre this evening? I thought you hated boring lovesick swains pouring their hearts out from the shrubbery."

"Yes, and I have a rather thin tolerance for the plays as well." Totty smiled at her own joke. "But the short answer is you, my dear. I received a note not five minutes before you got home, from Phillippa Worth, saying that we simply had to attend her box this evening-she had to be the first person to host the Winnifred Crane."

As Winnifred went white and George practically purple, Totty could only purr, "Like I said, dare I assume your excursion went well?"

"It . . . might not have gone exactly as planned," Winn began cautiously.

"You knew about this the whole time, didn't you?" George accused Totty. "You knew she was going to march into the Historical Society and destroy her good name with this joke . . ."

"Now, now, George," Totty soothed, patting his hand in the politest, yet most dismissive manner possible. "I knew only that Winn had an appointment this afternoon, one you were not meant to tag along to-yet somehow you managed to lose me just as we were sitting down to the luncheon Leighton took whole minutes to prepare, and followed her. But I am very curious to find out what did happen."

And so, Winn laid the story out for her. From the authorship of the papers by C. W. Marks to having her father's letter of introduction drown in the fountain, to a Duke, of all people, playing her quiet yet effective champion, to seeing the Adam and Eve on the wall and her utter boldness to offer Lord Forrester a . . . wager of sorts.

"But it really isn't a wager, as he loses nothing if I win and I lose nothing but face if I do not, but it seems I must plan a trip to the Continent posthaste," she concluded. And then, the weight of the story hitting her, "Totty . . . do you think I might have a glass of sherry as well?"

"I'll be damned if you are," George growled like a wounded bear from his corner.

"Now, now," Totty chided. "The girl is thirty years of age. I'm sure she can handle one small glass of sherry," she said, pouring a rather liberally sized small glass for Winn.

"Not that!" George barked. "I'll be damned if you think to travel all over the Continent."

"You cannot stop me, George. As Totty said, I'm well past age. I have no need of guardianship."

"I've never met anyone more in need of it!" he cried, practically laughing. "Before last week, you'd never been outside of Oxford-and barely outside of the libraries. It was ridiculously easy to follow you to Somerset House, simply because you had no idea how to get there. You think you can travel on your own to Basel, Switzerland?"

"Maybe, maybe not." She narrowed her eyes. "But I have to try."

"And how do you expect to fund this trip, Winnifred?" George countered. "Totty shouldn't pay for it."

"Can't in any case-I'm a woman on a budget." Totty lifted her glass of sherry to George.

"And you have no funds of your own," he continued, coming to stand over her, looming-and due to his great advantage in height, and Winn's seated position, George was a world-class loomer.

But Winn simply looked up and met his eye in a cold, hard stare. "And whose fault is that?" she accused.

George sucked in his breath and let it out in a great sigh. All the while holding Winn's constant gaze.

"Heavens, if you two are going to talk about money again, I'm going to go scold Leighton for watering down this sherry," Totty supplied, rising and drifting out of the room. Leaving Winn and George to stare daggers at each other.

"The only reason-" Winn began, breaking the silence.

"If your father-"

"The only reason I do not have my inheritance in place right now is you," she finished.

"No, it's not. If your father wanted you to have the paintings," George argued, practically by rote, "he would have specified it in his will. He would have sourced the monies used to buy them."

They had had this fight so often by now, Winnifred could almost predict what would be said next. She would argue that her father's private collection of paintings was the result of lifelong dedication and the vast majority of his salary and earned funds. He specified in his will that his estate would go to his daughter-and his estate consisted of those paintings, a few trinkets, and little else. It wasn't an extensive collection-and mostly by minor painters. But there was a Clara Peeters, a Frans Hals, a Jean Fouquet, and several others from the Dutch Golden Age and Northern Renaissance. And worth enough money that, if sold, Winnifred could live off it quite comfortably for the rest of her days . . . but that part she did not mention to George.

George would then argue that her father acquired those paintings under the guise of adding them to the University's impressive collections and thus they belonged to the school.

Winn would counterattack, saying that if that were the case, why had no one kicked up a fuss about the few of his collection that were to willed to entities outside the school (such as the Adam and Eve to the Historical Society)?

George would throw up his hands and say that Winnifred understood nothing of academic politics.