Winnifred would then reply that she understood enough of academic politics to know George was only supporting the school's claims (and indeed, likely instigating them) to further his own ambitions to fill her father's vacant seat and be made a full professor-jumping over several more well-known and well-published dons. His appointment would be secured if he managed to have Alexander Crane's personal collection added to the school's. Leaving Winnifred penniless.

And then George would argue that her father never intended that she not be taken care of.

"Besides, your father knew you would be taken care of," George said, heartfelt.

It seemed they were skipping directly to the end of the argument this time. Intelligent of him, she had to credit. "By me," he continued. "By your husband."

And there it was. The true root of the problem. Oxford professors, aside from the stature of being one, held certain other privileges that dons did not . . . one of them being the option to marry. And so, George needed to become a professor before they could marry, and he could only become a professor if he bargained away Winn's inheritance. It made her feel used. One of the coins on a table in a card game. But more than that-more than the idea of being won or played for-the idea of marrying George . . . hell, the idea of marriage in and of itself . . .

Every time he brought up this topic, all Winn wanted to do was squirm away to a place where she could breathe . . . where she felt free.

"We've been intended for each other since you were fifteen," George said softly.

"Not formally," she whispered, but she doubted George heard it.

"Half your life, you've known we are going to be married. Our mothers planned it. But now that your father . . . quite frankly, no longer needs you to take care of him, you build up these ridiculous notions about running across Europe and being a scholar and you postpone us." He came and sat across from her, in the chair Totty had abandoned by the fire. He reached across the gap between them and took Winn's hand, held it, forced her to look at him. "I've loved you my whole life, Winnifred. Please, put this idea of a grand adventure out of your head and come back to Oxford, and we'll get married-we won't worry about your father's paintings anymore, because they'll be right there; you can visit them any time you like. And life will go back to what it should be. It will go back to normal."

Winn looked up into George's face. The same face she had adored as a child, gone angled and scruffy with time, his eagerness pushing itself against her. She should acquiesce. She knew Oxford's ways; she would be a perfect professor's wife. She had been trained to it, some might say. She should give in. Marriage to George was what everyone around her had expected of her. . .

But there was no one around her anymore.

She was the only one left.

"Normal for you," she began quietly, "is to have me correct all your students' essays and to lay out your lesson plans."

"That's not-" He tried to interrupt, but Winnifred would have none of it.

"I have written your lectures, fixed your papers for publication, hell, I've written long passages of them . . . Damn it all, no wonder Lord Forrester mistook you for C. W. Marks . . ."

"You shouldn't swear, Winnifred," George scolded, but Winn paid him no heed.

"You want me for an assistant, not a wife," she argued.

"That is most certainly not true!" George denied. He would have made a clumsy attempt to kiss her-she could see it in his face-to prove his passion for her had she not immediately stood up and began to pace the length of the carpet.

"And tangentially, how is it that I am intelligent enough to write your lectures and yet not clever enough to be C. W. Marks? How could you say those things to Lord Forrester? How could you?"

"Winnifred, I . . . didn't think you authored . . ."

"Yes you do. Whether or not you think I could have authored those papers, you know I would never try to take credit for my father's work, as you led him to believe. You should be ashamed." She met his gaze and said again for good measure, "You should be ashamed."

And he was. George had the good grace to let his face burn raw, like the young boy she remembered him to be.

"You don't understand . . . How can a man have a wife who is more famous in his field than he is?" George whined weakly. "It's preposterous. You can't be C. W. Marks."

"Now thanks to you I have to go about proving it." She shook her head. "I barely recognize you anymore. This past year . . . I should have been able to rely on you after my father's death, but instead . . . What happened to my cousin? To my friend?"

George's spine stiffened. "Your friend grows tired of waiting for you to grow up. You're not a girl anymore. You can't run after adventures. We have a life waiting for us-it's been planned for ages."

And they came to the same place again. The circuitous argument. One they were too deeply entrenched in to resolve. In the past, she had tried to extricate herself from it. Tried to voice her concerns, but instead of allaying her fears, George had merely dismissed them.

And now, if she said she didn't wish to marry George anymore . . . well, she would never see her father's paintings again, certainly . . . but more than that, she would be saying good-bye to the map that had been laid out before her, by people who wanted only the best. And George . . . He had been her friend once. It was hard to let go of that.

But if she did marry him, that fresh air, where she could breathe . . . the excitement of discovering something new and seeing the world first hand-not just in books . . . it would never be hers.

It was time to bring the argument to an end. Its true end.

"You're right," she said, causing George to look up, startled. "I'm not a girl anymore. I spent my youth in a library. And gained knowledge that I used to make a reckless wager with Lord Forrester this afternoon. So, since I'm in the mood to make reckless wagers, I have one for you."

She took a deep breath, while George waited, perfectly still, for what she had to say.

"Let me go to Europe and try to discover the origin of the Adam and Eve painting. If I manage to prove conclusively that it is not a Durer work, then you stop backing the university's assertion that the paintings are theirs, thereby letting me have my inheritance." And letting me go, she added silently to herself.

"And if you fail?" George asked, taking two steps forward, closing the gap between them.

"And if I fail . . ." Winn steadied herself. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want, Winnifred."

She swallowed and nodded. "If I fail, I . . . I will come home and marry you immediately."

"No more delays?" His eyebrow went up.

"If that's what you want," Winn declared, her heart racing. "So . . . is it a bargain?"

As the door clicked closed behind George a few minutes later, Winn could not help but let out a huge sigh of relief. More and more the past few months, she had begun to look at George as not her cousin and friend, but as her jailer. As the man trying to keep her in her tidy little box. But now, with this wager in place, at the highest stakes anyone could play, she saw her chance for freedom. She simply had to win it.

"Well, my dear?" Totty said from the staircase. "Did you come to any new conclusions?"

"Some," she replied, then, staring contemplatively at the door, "I just wish I understood why he's acting this way. Why he feels the need to force my hand in such a manner."

Totty shook her head. "He can feel you slipping away. You have been his future for as long as he's been yours. Some men don't take well to having their plans altered." She came and took Winn by the arm. "Come, we have to dress for the theatre."

"More than that, Totty. I have to plan a trip to the Continent!"

When George stepped out onto Bloomsbury Street, he was whistling. Certain in his heart that Winnifred would fail and he would earn his professorship and, therefore, they would finally marry. Within two to three years, with Winnifred's help, he would be dean of the History of Art Department. He would be admitted to the Historical Society, take his place among men of understanding and learning, and with her as his wife, be able to pontificate on German gilding or Italianate architecture or whatever happened to be modish at the time. Maybe even get appointed to the government for some cushy job as a historical consultant . . . certainly those positions existed. And they would grant him stature, position, and money. And life would go on as he had anticipated.

Now, all he had to do, George thought with a small spike of fear, was make certain that Winnifred failed.

Five.

Wherein our hero makes a bargain of his own.

OVER the next few weeks, Jason would have forgotten that afternoon at the Historical Society with Winnifred Crane. He would have gone about his life, his hunt for a bride with the same hope and trepidation that had marked his suit until now. Yes, that afternoon would have faded into a mere anecdote, lost in the back of his brain until some mention of an Adam and Eve painting, or a girl who looked like a sparrow, reminded him.

He would have forgotten. If he had been allowed to.

"I just heard!" Jane cried as he walked in the door to Rayne House that evening for supper. Located in Grosvenor, Rayne House was suitably old and suitably large to impress upon their neighbors the magnitude of the Rayne name. It was also suitably cavernous to create an echo effect, so when Jane made her declaration, it was as if thirty women did at the same time.

"Phillippa just left. Apparently she is adamant that she'll be the first to grab Winnifred Crane as an associate. 'I don't care how bluestocking she is,' Phillippa said, 'if she has the gumption to walk into one of those stuffy societies and claim entrance, she'll have the gumption to sit next to me at the theatre.' " Jane beamed. "You were at the Historical Society this afternoon, correct? What was it like? What happened?"

"She's not a bluestocking," Jason said absentmindedly. At least, he didn't think she was. Never having really had any contact with bluestocking women, he sort of assumed he'd manage to pick them out by the color of their socks. "She's a . . . direct sort."

Jane's eyes, if possible, went wider. "Did you actually meet her? Winnifred Crane? What was she like? You cannot imagine all the dust this kicks off of every ladies' society and salon in town."

Did he actually meet her? Jason almost laughed aloud. "Yes, I met her. Spoke with her. Sort of . . . maybe blackmailedthestafftoletherinside," he mumbled, surprised to find himself blushing.

Jane's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"You were involved?" she screeched. "Tell me everything. Now! I must have the whole story before Phillippa does . . . er, I mean, before she hears it from someone else . . ."

As Jane pulled him into the sitting room, forced him into a chair, and played the rapt audience, Jason told her how he had spent the afternoon, from getting unceremoniously brained by Miss Crane's errant hand to how she had marched into the Historical Society great rooms, and his small role in the farce of getting her an audience with Lord Forrester.

"Honestly, I thought we were going to have to go across the hall to the Royal-steal some of their medically minded men, because everyone in the room turned a shade of white unseen this side of Queen Elizabeth." Jason sighed, taking the small plate of food handed to him by a very efficient and quiet footman, and shoving the first of many small sandwiches in his mouth. The events of the day had lead to his skipping repast-and he was starving.

"But, Jason, I don't understand," Jane said, shaking her head, taking the baby handed to her by a very efficient and quiet wet nurse. Little Lissa, Jason's newest niece, cooed and gurgled in the pleasant state that followed her feeding-fat, dumb, and happy, Jason had taken to calling it. Watching his sister be a mother was perhaps the greatest argument for marriage. And watching his niece spit up on her was perhaps the best argument against procreation.

"Oh, Lissa," Jane groaned, handing the baby to Jason as she took a rag from a servant and dabbed at the spittle that drenched the shoulder of her deep green gown. "This is a new Madame Le Trois!"

"You're the one who wore it while holding a five-month-old," Jason rationalized.

"So I should give up on looking modish once I've had children?" Jane countered. "No, thank you. And Byrne would agree with me."

"Where is the man responsible for producing this wriggling mass of flesh?" Jason asked, holding up Lissa, who cooed merrily and reached for his nose as he made faces at her.

"Helping his brother with something at the War Department," Jane replied. "And don't try changing the subject. You deeply respect your fellow members of the Historical Society. I don't understand why you decided to give all these old men heart seizures by assisting Miss Crane."

"Why did I do it?" Jason stuttered. "Well . . . I mean, logically . . ."

Why did he do it? A question he'd been asking himself all day. In all honesty, he didn't have a clue. He had been the one assaulted, true. He could have just walked away at that point, accepting her apology. Then, of course, it was only basic manners that had him fishing the wet paper out of the fountain. After that, he could have easily made his escape. But then again, they had been headed to the same place. It would have seemed strange, wouldn't it, if he hadn't escorted her?

But he didn't have to encourage her. He could have agreed with that annoyingly persistent George Bambridge and discouraged Winnifred Crane from her course. But then again . . . she was correct, the charter did not specifically ban females. And as out of place as a woman was at the Historical Society, Jason had an absurd love of logic, especially the way it turned on autocratic old rules when applied. He could easily rationalize and argue that . . . Oh to hell with it-the truth was . . .

The truth was, he'd done it because it was fun. A small mischief that caused no real harm and caused a great stir.

And it had been so long since he'd had a little mischief.

But as Jason fumbled and flummoxed for an answer to Jane's question, bouncing his niece on his knee, she finished mopping up Lissa's mess and took her back from him.

"Did she make an impression on you?" Jane asked. "Granted, I know little of Miss Crane's people, but if Phillippa has her way she's about to become the most famous debutante this year."

"She's a bit too old to be a debutante," Jason replied. And then, with a pointed look to his sister, "And no-she did not make an impression on me. At least not the kind you imply."

"No, I don't suppose any young lady who lays down a challenge to the head of the Historical Society came to London with marriage on her mind." Jane sighed. "Truthfully, Jason, I don't care why you did it. I'm just pleased you did. Imagine-you of all people shaking the dust off the establishment!" She laughed, and Lissa gurgled with her. "At least all those young ladies will have something else to say to you other than to comment on the weather or compliment your eyes. Oh no! Lissa!" Jane cried, her other shoulder now drenched with baby sick. "You couldn't have given that particular gift to your uncle?"

But Jason could only smile mischievously at his niece. Then, not allowing his sister to change the subject . . .

"They compliment my eyes?"

Indeed they did (and his hair, and once, even his teeth, like a prize-winning horse), but over the course of the next few weeks, they also spoke in great detail about the outrageous Miss Winnifred Crane and her challenge. Not only were young ladies and their mothers remarking on her behavior (an unsurprising number of the mothers feared her influence on their daughters), but the fathers, the brothers, the gentlemen of the ton were all discussing it as well, asking Jason who this Miss Winnifred Crane was, and did she really think she could prove that painting wasn't real?

It was about the time that Jason saw the betting book in White's, with Miss Crane's name mentioned on every single line of the front page, and then glanced over at the London Times, which, too, bore her name, that Jason realized he was not going to be permitted to forget Miss Crane-as all of England was paying rapt attention.

"You would not believe the people at the theatre," Phillippa had said a few days after his encounter with Miss Crane. They were at a card party, sanctioned by the Worths. And as Jason was chaperoned by Jane, he was fairly safe from the worst of the fawning.

The gossip, of course, was another matter.

"Everyone craning their necks to see this tiniest slip of a woman, and being rebuffed by her gargantuan bodyguard of a cousin. I swear I haven't had so much fun in ages." Phillippa sighed, playing a trump and taking the trick. "And she's adorable, and such fun to talk to. She told me that the pattern on the Marchioness of Broughton's gown-you remember Nora, don't you, Jane?-well, the pattern was not French as she supposed, but actually Slavic! Nora was utterly red faced. Well, more so than usual." Phillippa's expression of delight turned into a pretty pout. "If only she would stay in London, I'm certain I could wash the bluestocking right out of her." Then, her turn well played, she took to her old habit of tapping a nail against her teeth, lost in thought. "It's simply too bad she is so intent on her course and going to the Continent. I haven't had a protegee in years; there is so much I could do with her . . ."

"Thank God she's set on her course, then," Jane muttered under her breath.

"What's that?" Phillippa replied.

"Nothing. Simply, having been a protegee of yours, I can only think Miss Crane is better off on her own."

Phillippa narrowed her eyes. "You were not a protegee, you were a prototype. There are always flaws in the first model."

Sensing the verbal sparring match to come, Jason decided to excuse himself loudly. "Oh look, I'm to sit out this hand." He laid out his cards and scooted his chair back from the table. Jane and Phillippa noticed nothing.

As Jason made his way across the room, he exhaled deeply. It was his third such event in three days, and somehow, Jane and Phillippa managed to start bickering halfway through each time, only to be reconciled ten minutes later, Jane once again focused on keeping him safe in his pursuit of a bride. As thankful as he was for Jane's presence this year, he really despised those ten minutes. He found himself at the refreshment table, pouring himself another cup of too sticky sweet tea, ducking to taste it, then turning and bumping into a soft feminine hand, which had the sad effect of splashing tea on his face and down his front.

"Oh, Your Grace!" Miss Sarah Forrester cried, putting down her own tea. "I'm so sorry-I was reaching for the cream, and I didn't think you were going to turn . . ."

"I have rotten luck with turning, it seems." Jason sighed, taking his now ruined cravat and dabbing at his soaked chin. "One of these days I'll think to go left instead of right."

"It's my fault," Miss Forrester claimed, picking up a napkin from the table and wetting it from a pitcher of water. "I have always favored my left hand, you see, no matter how often I've had it drilled into me to use the right. I have accidentally knocked over more cups of tea than I care to admit." She smiled at him as she dabbed at his neck. A brazen informality that, oddly, Jason found he did not mind. "At least you can take comfort in the fact that this tea is lukewarm at best."

"Yes, the lack of proper refreshments seems to be my saving grace," Jason said as she looked up from her work and met his eyes. And they both smiled.

"Miss Forrester, lovely to see you again," he said, surprised to find he truly meant it. They'd exchanged pleasant hellos only yesterday at a mediocre but proper musicale. He bowed, ridiculous since up until a second ago, she had her hand on his neck, and therefore made her laugh.

"And you, Your Grace," she replied, ducking into a curtsy.

"How are you enjoying the card party?"

"Well," she said, disposing of the wet napkin on the tray of a nearby servant, "I'm losing."

"Oh dear," Jason drawled, watching her face as she sighed and nodded with mock pity. A lovely face, with a smile that could only be answered in kind. "What are the stakes at your table?"

"I had hoped to play for a ha'penny a hand," she explained, "but my mother is my partner and she will not stand for such missish wagers."

Jason's brow furrowed. Was Lady Forrester a closet gambler? Did she play so high that her daughter was to worry for it? And what of Lord Forrester-did he learn his penchant for outlandish wagers from his wife?