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Champtois.”
    “Yes, you will, Champtois,” Miss Trent said in very competent French. “There is no need to regard my little brother. He has no authority over me whatsoever.” She obligingly translated for her brother, whose face turned a vivid red.
    “I ain’t little! And I’m head of the curst family. And I—”
    “Go play with the drummer boy, Bertie,” she said. “Or better yet, why don’t you take your charming friend out for a drink?”
    “Jess.” Bertie’s tones took on a pleading desperation. “You know she’ll show it to people and—and I’ll be mortified .”
    “Lud, what a prig you’ve got to be since you left England.”
    Bertie’s eyes threatened to burst from their sockets. “A what?”
    “A prig, dear. A prig and a prude. A regular Methodist.”
    Bertie uttered several inarticulate sounds, then turned to Dain, who had by this time given up all thoughts of leaving. He was leaning upon the jewel case, observing Bertie Trent’s sister with a brooding fascination.
    “Did you hear that, Dain?” Bertie demanded. “Did you hear what the beastly girl said?”
    “I could not fail to hear,” said Dain. “I was listening attentively.”
    “ Me! ” Bertie jammed his thumb into his chest. “A prig .”
    “Indeed, it’s thoroughly shocking. I shall be obliged to cut your acquaintance. I cannot allow myself to be corrupted by virtuous companions.”
    “But, Dain, I—”
    “Your friend is right, dear,” said Miss Trent. “If word of this gets out, he cannot risk being seen with you. His reputation will be ruined.”
    “Ah, you are familiar with my reputation, are you, Miss Trent?” Dain enquired.
    “Oh, yes. You are the wickedest man who ever lived. And you eat small children for breakfast, their nannies tell them, if they are naughty.”
    “But you are not in the least alarmed.”
    “It is not breakfast time, and I am hardly a small child. Though I can see how, given your lofty vantage point, you might mistake me for one.”
    Lord Dain eyed her up and down. “No, I don’t think I should make that mistake.”
    “I should say not, after listening to her scold and insult a chap,” said Bertie.
    “On the other hand, Miss Trent,” Dain went on just as though Bertie did not exist—which, in a properly regulated world, he wouldn’t—“if you are naughty, I might be tempted to—”
    “ Qu’est-ce que c’est, Champtois? ” Miss Trent asked. She moved down the counter to the tray of goods Dain had been looking over when the pair had entered.
    “ Rien, rien .” Champtois set his hand protectively over the tray. He glanced nervously at Dain. “ Pas intéressante .”
    She looked in the same direction. “Your purchase, my lord?”
    “Not a bit of it,” said Dain. “I was, for a moment, intrigued by the silver inkstand, which, as you will ascertain, is about the only item there worth a second glance.”
    It was not the inkstand she took up and applied her magnifying glass to, however, but the small dirt-encrusted picture with the thick, mildewed frame.
    “A portrait of a woman, it seems to be,” she said.
    Dain came away from the jewel case and joined her at the counter. “Ah, yes, Champtois claimed it was human. You will soil your gloves, Miss Trent.”
    Bertie, too, approached, sulking. “Smells like I don’t know what.” He made a face.
    “Because it’s rotting,” said Dain.
    “That’s because it’s rather old,” said Miss Trent.
    “Rather been lying in a gutter for about a decade,” said Dain.
    “She has an interesting expression,” Miss Trent told Champtois in French. “I cannot decide whether it’s sad or happy. What do you want for it?”
    “ Quarante sous .”
    She put it down.
    “ Trente-et-cinq ,” he said.
    She laughed.
    Champtois told her he’d paid thirty sous for it himself. He could not sell it for less.
    She gave him a pitying look.
    Tears filled his eyes. “ Trente, mademoiselle .”
    In that case, she told him, she would have only