It was a tactical mistake. This was Olivia, after all. Telling her what not to do was tantamount to inviting her to do it.

Colin realized this too late. Her brothers, after exchanging another rather fatalistic glance, stepped aside with grim resignation.

She all but burst inside.

Then paused as she took in the s.p.a.ce with a swift, sweeping glance.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything seemed splendidly as it should be. She inhaled deeply. Ah, but she loved Ackermann's the way she loved Tingle's Bookshop-for the gentle rustling of fine paper, the pungent scent of fine paper and ink. It was cheerful and airy and brilliantly illuminated by a band of large high windows that poured flattering light down on all the art and art lovers alike.

Her brothers remained silent.

She shot them a triumphant glance.

She gravitated to a wall where a new, dazzlingly colorful print hung in a place of honor.

"Oh, I believe it's meant to be Le Chat." Olivia said this to Landsdowne, who was trailing her protectively and planted himself at her side. "Funny, but I was just discussing him with my modiste."

They paused to admire it.

The infamous pirate was standing triumphantly on the deck of a ship, one booted foot on the chest of a man who appeared to be weeping with fear. His hair waved like a black flag in an apparent breeze, and his penetrating blue gaze was apparent even through his black mask. He was holding a sword to his victim's throat with his left hand. These were the only three things the whole of Europe could agree about with regards to Le Chat: that he had blue eyes ("the very color of evil!" one survivor had declared, which had always struck Olivia as funny, as her own were blue), so vivid they could even be seen in the dark, which was the only time Le Chat attacked; that he spoke like a gentleman when he spoke at all; and that he was left-handed. Or at least used his left hand when he wielded a sword. One merchant claimed to have shot him, but since Le Chat had gone on to attack again, he clearly hadn't managed to kill him.

"That's a handsome print," Landsdowne allowed. "But he's a scourge."

"Yes, but a scourge who has all but eliminated the illegal Triangle Trade, from what I understand."

"I suppose even vermin have their uses," Landsdowne said, and she shot him a wry glance. "He hasn't been heard from in a while. Perhaps someone finally aimed into his black little heart when they shot him."

"Seems an inevitable fate for a pirate," she allowed, echoing what she'd told Mademoiselle Lilette. She frowned faintly at the masked pirate.

It was amusingly lurid, but she could see nothing alarming in it, so clearly this wasn't what was troubling her brothers.

"Shall we go now, Olivia?" Colin suggested brightly from behind her.

She turned to scowl at him, and then continued in a slow, suspicious pivot.

She saw nothing but other well-dressed shoppers and couples murmuring to each other as they leafed through merchandise.

And then her questing gaze snagged on a row of vivid prints arrayed side by side along the top of a shelf. The artist was obvious even from where she stood.

"Oh! A new set of Rowlandson prints!"

New Rowlandson work was always a delightful surprise. He had a gift for capturing London's microcosm with scathing wit and acuity.

That was when her brothers went absolutely motionless and silent. Rather as if they were about to witness an execution.

She understood why when she was close enough to read the t.i.tles.

The Ill.u.s.trated Legend of Lyon Redmond Which rather leaped out at her from the bottom of the prints.

It seemed Mr. Pickles had already been more enterprising than she'd ever suspected, if Rowlandson had been commissioned to do such work.

She drew closer, helpless not to. Landsdowne followed.

In the first print, a man, who she expected was meant to be Lyon-he had a dashing swoop of dark hair over one brow and snapping black eyes, and his outrageously muscular, nankeen-clad thighs gripped a saddled and rearing crocodile, whose tiny legs flailed the air like a stallion. One knew it was the Nile because the artist had thoughtfully drawn little pyramids off in the distance.

Lyon was wielding a riding crop and wearing a beaver hat and a very determined expression.

The funny part was that the expression was really rather similar to Lyon's when he was determined. Which was all the time. Or had been all the time.

"Olivia . . ." Landsdowne's voice was next to her. It was a plea.

She held up a hand. Slowly, as if she had no choice, as though nudged up the gallows stairs, she moved on to the next one.

In blues and pinks and reds, Lyon was depicted lolling-which was indeed a rather lyrical word-on a heap of ta.s.seled pillows, surrounded by voluptuous-the cartoonist had spared no ink and had truly unleashed his imagination-and scantily clad women. Lyon appeared to be smoking a hookah and his boots were tossed carelessly aside.

They all stared at it in helpless, horrified thrall.

"He looks comfortable, doesn't he?"

Her voice was a sort of ironic, distant hush that had the three men exchanging looks of grave concern.

Lyon would never smoke a hookah. Or be so very careless with his boots.

He'd been so extraordinarily disciplined.

"Olivia . . ."

Likely one of her brothers had said her name. She heard it distantly, as if it were merely noise drifting in from the street.

The truth was she was cleaved in three distinct emotions.

Hilarity.

Horror.

Fury.

Rather like the elm tree she used to meet Lyon by, which had been split by lightning but had gone on growing as if hadn't noticed.

The emotions circulated through her like three different drugs, and she felt strangely very separate from her body, rather the way one did when one took laudanum.

But the fury was mostly because no one would have enjoyed these more than Lyon, and he wasn't here to b.l.o.o.d.y enjoy them.

Fury was always the safest emotion when it came to Lyon.

She moved on to the next print.

The next must be the Garden of Eden, because in the center was a lush tree with an apple and a snake in it, and Adam and Eve, both clad in modesty-protecting fig leaves, were flanking Lyon below it. Oddly, he was wearing a full set of clothes, as if he'd just stepped out of White's, and his hands were saucily planted on his hips. They were all beaming at each other, even the snake, as if they were celebrating a birthday.

In the center of the next panel a great bulbous black kettle was perched atop a roaring fire, which was rendered in satanic swoops of orange. Lyon was sitting in the kettle, his arms strapped to his sides with vines, and, quite understandably, his mouth was open in a little "O" of distress. What was clearly meant to be a cannibal was sprinkling salt on his head. Another cannibal sat nearby holding a knife and fork, which struck her as incongruous, because surely cannibals ate with their hands?

"And now he looks rather uncomfortable," she murmured.

Which, ironically, perfectly described all the appalled, silent men behind her.

Ian cleared his throat. "Olivia, we-"

She abruptly held up a quelling hand without turning around.

The next panel featured Lyon standing on the deck of a ship, and he was shading his eyes with a hand, leaning forward, both shirt and the sails of the ship billowing in what appeared to be gale force winds. It was an ironic echo of the Le Chat print. And it was the only scenario of any of them Olivia could imagine being true.

One panel remained. She drew in a surrept.i.tious bracing breath, exhaled softly, and moved on to it.

It featured a lone figure of a woman.

Dread suffused her, but curiosity compelled her. She leaned forward gingerly, as if the print were a wild boar she'd shot but was unsure she'd actually killed.

She was relieved to discover the woman was really rather pretty. Her hair poured in a dramatic black river down her back and she was wearing a fine blue dress, as if the artist had somehow known it was Olivia's best color. Her bosom, unsurprisingly, given the artist's predilections, greatly taxed the dress's bodice.

Something lacy appeared to be trailing from her head to the ground.

"Oh, am I wearing a . . ."

She was about to say "veil."

And then she realized it was cobwebs.

"Mother of G.o.d," Landsdowne muttered viciously. "These are abominations. I insist that we leave."

"Oh, they're just cartoons," she said almost gently, her voice still rather drifty. Like someone lying in state of grace on her deathbed, beyond caring about earthly things.

The rapt attention four well-dressed visitors were aiming at the prints drew the notice of Ackermann's clerk. He bustled cheerily over.

"Aren't they charming?" he said brightly. "'The Legend of Lyon Redmond' is an ill.u.s.trated ballad about a famous young heir who disappeared after a woman broke his heart, and now she's moldering away. I imagine every home in London will have one soon at the rate they're selling. The artist is the eminently gifted Thomas Rowlandson." He pointed at the signature at the bottom.

All four of them turned blackly incredulous gazes on him.

"His eyes are wrong," Olivia said finally, faintly, absurdly. "They ought to be blue."

IT WAS BLISSFULLY quiet in Twining's tearoom. Just the soul-soothing music of teacups clinking against saucers, the c.h.i.n.k c.h.i.n.k of spoons dissolving sugar cubes and stirring in cream, the soft gurgle of brew poured from pots. No flash ballads drifting in from the street through the windows. No decorative prints on the walls making a mockery of her history.

She hoped Landsdowne hadn't noticed the irony of the reclining lion that had always presided over Twining's entrance.

"So," Olivia finally said brightly. "Colin and Ian were right. I didn't want to go into Ackermann's."

He snorted a soft, humorless laugh.

The two of them were subdued and dazed. As though they'd barely escaped a trauma with their lives.

Colin and Ian had departed to leave Olivia and Landsdowne to recover from Ackermann's.

"I'm sorry about today," she added. "I suppose London is forever in need of a spectacle. I never antic.i.p.ated anything quite like this, however."

He smiled faintly at her. "What do you suppose will be next? An operetta?"

She hadn't considered the possibility of an operetta.

"Oh G.o.d," she said faintly.

"I suppose you could consider it a tribute. If you were homely, you'd likely be less of an industry."

She quirked her mouth.

Another little silence ensued.

"Olivia, you've been rotating your cup like a roulette wheel. Drink your tea. You need color in your cheeks."

She had, in fact, been fidgeting, and she stopped. The tea in her cup eventually sloshed to a stop, too.

A little silence fell.

"Are you certain you aren't bothered, my dear?" Landsdowne tried.

"Oh, I'm bowed, but unbroken." She managed this with an insouciant sweep of her hand. She felt anything but insouciant, but then she'd been pretending not to feel things for so long it had become second nature.

"It's just . . . when you read that man's . . . shall we say, opus . . . outside of Madame Marceau's, you went a shade or two paler than you already are. And I thought I might need to produce smelling salts in Ackermann's. It was . . . quite concerning."

She hadn't known she'd changed colors.

But speaking of pale things, Landsdowne's knuckles were white on his teacup.

She looked into his face, which was unremarkable if one sought the customary significators of beauty in it-aquiline noses and Byronic curls and the like. But it was compelling in its strength and confidence, and she liked it very much. His gaze was direct and intelligent, his shoulders imposing. One knew instantly he could be trusted with important things. He genuinely cared for her. One knew he would likely never press her for more than she was willing to say or do. He would never test her.

She wondered if this quality was why he, of all the suitors over the years, had won. Because she could go on as she was, sharing only a part of herself with him, and he would never know it.

Lyon had done nothing but test her.

"John." She laid a hand gently on his arm.

His face softened immediately and his grip on his teacup eased.

It seemed unfair to be able to transform him with just a touch and a single word. He admired her so much; he asked so little from her. She likely didn't deserve him, but "deserve" was quite the subjective word. It made her doubly resolved to be a perfect wife.

Wife. She was going to be a wife.

She leaned back and squared her shoulders, much like Mrs. Sneath did when she was preparing to do something dutiful. "I feel we should discuss 'The Legend of Lyon Redmond.'"

Saying those two words aloud to him as though they were as mundane as "fork" or "biscuit" was one of the bravest things she'd yet done in her life.