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a profitable line of investment; too much time expended for too little profit, he claimed. Given his way, he would have rejected any antique or artwork that did not arrive ready for sale.
    Before, his attitude had baffled her. If he resented so bitterly being in trade, she had told him, he might try to behave less like a shopkeeper and more like a patron of the arts. But now she understood him better. He wasdone with being a tradesman. He wanted to sell the auction rooms and live like a rich man.
    She would not allow it. She would rather marry Pilcher. Or Batten! A pity his wife remained in such good health.
    She bit her lip, remorse assailing her as she carried the candle back to the table. Mr. Batten’s wife was a dear and friendly creature who did not deserve such ill wishes.
    She held the candle steady at an angle that highlighted Saint Teresa’s striking expression. Batten rubbed his chin. “Well, you know I don’t like to give up,” he said. “It’s a very rare work . . . or was, once upon a time. But that damage in the upper left quadrant . . .” He sighed. “One almost wishes her face hadn’t been spared. Such a taunt, to glimpse what it once was!”
    The canvas had undergone some very rough handling. She could not argue that. Nor could she give up on it. “What of Mr. von Pettenkofer’s method? Might that work?”
    â€œIt might,” Batten said hesitantly. “But your brother was very clear, miss. Not above a week on any particular piece. What you’re proposing would take much longer.”
    She grimaced. What a ridiculous policy to impose wholesale! A few of their richest sales had come from items restored by Mr. Batten—and, increasingly, her. She had a talent for spotting the value in damaged things, and thanks to Mr. Batten’s tutelage, she sometimes understood how to fix them, too. It gave her a fierce satisfaction to pull beauty from rubbish; to restore the imperfect to its original, unblemished state.
    Mr. Batten was gazing at her very sympathetically. “Are you all right?”
    She bit her lip. My brother has gone mad, Batten. He is threatening to sell the place. And I don’t know how to stop him.
    But she did know. Marriage was the way. She only needed the right husband. A pity they were not sold at auction!
    She managed a thin smile. “I’m fine.” As a girl, she had spilled her heart over this worktable with regularity. But a woman could not speak so carelessly of her family. It would put Mr. Batten in a very tenuous position, for Peter was his employer, too. “I simply can’t give up on this painting. Go ahead with Mr. von Pettenkofer’s method. If my brother complains, tell him that I left you no choice.” Not that Peter would. He never bothered to visit the workshop.
    She gathered her agenda and made her way back upstairs toward the public rooms. It was half three, but six items remained on her list. She’d not leave Everleigh’s till ten o’clock.
    The thought made her smile slightly. Her father had rarely made it home for supper, either—though not for want of trying. She, on the other hand, had every reason to linger here. For all she knew, Mr. Pilcher would be at table tonight. Peter made a habit lately of bringing him around.
    She emerged into the lobby to discover a group of hostesses—she deplored the common nickname given to them of Everleigh Girls—clustered around a trio of fashionably dressed gentlemen, one of whom she recognized as the heir to a dukedom. The social aspects of the business were Peter’s calling, not hers, but she saw no sign of her brother.
    Reluctantly, she waved over one of the hostesses, afox-faced brunette. “Has someone told Mr. Everleigh of our guests?”
    â€œOh, he saw them,” Miss Snow said breathlessly. Her color was high; like most of the hostesses, she was an incorrigible flirt, and thrived on the