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Sophie found her gaze pulled back down to Mr. Balfour’s. “Going about one of your secret deliveries, I presume?”

“Ah—” He paused in his inspection of the art, and his eyes were so near to her, the trace green against licorice black so ripe for study, that Sophie quit breathing. “Something like that.”

He pointed up again and she swallowed, following his fingertip to an ethereal, white-clad woman. “Look,” he said. “We’ve got Diana, Goddess of the Moon, and look—look here, at the realism of the fruit in Cybele’s hands. Simply unbelievable.”

A woman, with help from a perfectly cherubic child, supported a basket of fruit over their heads. Sophie could all but feel the velvet texture of the peaches, the plumpness of the grapes, the sharp points of the leaves billowing down. “How in heaven did the man make it look so real?”

“Sir James Thornhill was a magnificent artist.” Mr. Balfour straightened. “He’s included a self-portrait in the Upper Hall, if you should like to see.”

She nodded, and they started forward.

“One of his main techniques was trompe l’oeil. French for ‘fool the eye.’ Did you happen to notice the shadow, on the cherub beneath the fruit?”

“No.”

He smiled. A real, actual smile, which crinkled the corners of his eyes. “That’s the mastery in it. Our eyes, you see”—he pointed to a lady of prominence, resting above King William and Queen Mary—“prefer to be foiled.”

“What do you mean?”

“See the mirror in Prudence’s hand?”

They stopped again so that she could study the reflection of the gold-rimmed looking glass. “Yes.”

“It’s easier to be deceived. Our minds prefer it, actually. It takes staring, really looking, to notice the light on that glass is merely white paint.”

Sophie squinted, staring until the brushstroke illusion revealed itself to her eye. She blew out a breath of amazement.

“Or Prudence’s face. Upon first glance, you only think how real she looks. You don’t notice the precision of Thornhill’s shadows on one half of her face, the way he slowly built up brighter colors on her right side.”

She shook her head, her brows knitting together. “It’s positively unreal.”

“That is tromp l’oeil,” he said, meeting her eye with a boyish grin. “It’s his use of color and sharpness, cool shadows, and warm details. Most of us are moving too quickly to question it. Our eyes want to be deceived, and Thornhill plays expertly into their hand.”

She could only stare at him for a moment. “Mr. Balfour, how do you know all of this? Are you an artist?”

Some of the vibrant animation dimmed from his features, and his pale skin took on a faint flush. “No. I’m not.”

“Perhaps you ought to be. This is all fascinating by itself, but hearing you speak of it …” She looked down at the patterned floor. “Well, it’s something else.”

“I assure you I’m owed no credit.” They resumed their walk. “I’ve simply seen a fair bit of art. My father’s fond of exhibitions when they suit him, like the Royal Academy’s at Somerset House. He talks business, and I, inevitably, study the walls.”

That must have been what he had planned the night she intercepted him outside of The British Institution. She felt suddenly guilty—no doubt she had ruined that night for him. Perhaps she had even ruined it for herself. She might have enjoyed his commentary on Sir Reynolds’s works, itched to discover what hidden secrets those portraits held which Mr. Rafe Balfour could divine.

No. She was absurd. Theirs was a transactional, temporary arrangement that had everything to do with personal necessity and precisely nothing to do with mutual enjoyment.

“Tell me about where we are now,” Sophie said, a touch louder than she’d intended. She gestured at the gilt arch towering over their heads.

“They call it the Proscenium Arch. It’s quite a reverent place; Lord Nelson laid in state here, after Trafalgar.”

Edmund’s hero, the Lord Nelson? Sophie looked down, but the faint dizziness didn’t dissipate this time. The black-and-white tiles skipped in her vision. What Edmund would have given to stand where she did now! That she couldn’t return with him, or regale him every detail the instant she returned home …

The tell-tale stinging started at the back of her eyes. Please not here. She looked away. Against the far wall, a discreet staircase led down to a door. Beyond looked to be some inner courtyard, far less decorative than the one she had toured. Perhaps if she cataloged the brick by shade, or counted them one by one, the dampness would recede from the corners of her eyes.

She had only gotten to three when a flicker of movement disrupted her count. A pair of small, running legs, and—oh God—Edmund’s marble. She continued to watch, even as her brain protested, and little Barnard bent to retrieve the glass treasure. He polished it on his coat before rolling it again.

No wonder she had been compelled to speak to the child. He bore a resemblance to her brother, it just wasn’t in features or coloring. It was in the way Barnard carried himself, the minute expressions he made, his loping gait and knobby knees.

“Miss St. Quinton?” There was an anxious thread to Mr. Balfour’s voice, as if it wasn’t the first time he had called her name.