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Reeve didn’t deny it. His hand brushed his jacket pocket. “I try not to shoot company. But if you’re making a recommendation . . .”

“Jack.” Nina tried again.

“There’s more company coming,” Alan said softly. His hip screamed. Before setting out, he’d written a note to the inspectors in the Criminal Investigation Department who’d taken his statement on the forgeries in the South Kensington Museum. He doubted they’d caught the same train he and Nina had. The next one more likely.

“How’s that for sporting?” Reeve had gone still, his smile fixed.

“The police.” Nina’s voice throbbed. She cut Alan an agonized look. The dead feeling in his knee—where the burning nerve endings grounded out—spread through his body. What had she expected?

“Are they already here?” Reeve glanced toward the gate.

“Seems not.” Alan shrugged. “Soon enough.”

“Birdie, see if they need a hand in the kitchen.” Reeve said it flatly. Alan waited for Nina to refuse just as flatly. Her eyes darted between them. Then she whirled and strode for the cottage.

Alan couldn’t help it. He watched her go. Her chignon had collapsed its pins, the soft locks of hair trailing down to her midback. She’d picked up her skirts, exposing her ankles, the curve of her calves.

“Remember yourself.” Reeve spoke near his ear. “That’s my sister you’re dogging.”

Alan wheeled, braced for the exchange of blows. “I’m not forgetful of anything about her.”

Reeve didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lunge either. He studied Alan for a moment, then drew away and dropped into a chair.

“You understand, then, that she’s never been involved in any wrongdoing. She’s a good lass, a bit naive. Lawful as a parson.”

Alan expelled a breath. He’d gambled on this outcome, with near total certainty. But his muscles eased at the confirmation.

“I understand perfectly.”

“Your seat.” Reeve pointed with his chin. Alan sat. Reeve flashed him a thin smile and removed a small cigarette case from his trouser pocket, flipping it open. He fumbled to extract a cigarette. Alan stared at his fingers, the crooked phalanges and inflated joints. They registered the damage of chronic affliction.

“Handsome, ain’t they?” Reeve caught the direction of his gaze and winked.

Alan frowned. He’d gawked at the deformity like a fairgoer. It was behavior he despised in others. He stretched out his legs, diverting a chicken from her course.

“Alan De’Ath.” Reeve shook his head, a facsimile of admiration. “The top-loftiest toff ever paid to prate.” He used the pad of his index finger to stand a cigarette, which he rotated into his mouth. “I’ll break your fingers if I hear you laid them where they don’t belong.”

“You hear what you want to hear.” Alan sneered. “Have you ever listened to Nina? No, why would you have? Easier to play the protector when you can pretend it’s what she wants. When you can justify using her for your benefit.”

“Well, well.” Reeve’s eyes had narrowed. “Seems I will be breaking your bloody fingers.”

“Try,” Alan suggested. His pulse pounded in his temples. The moment Reeve so much as twitched he’d slam him to the ground. He forced mildness.

“She can make her own decisions,” he said.

Reeve struck a match with surprising grace and puffed his cigarette.

“They still get the job done.” He regarded his hands. “Pentonville mitts, I call them.” He stuck the cigarette on his lip, then fisted and flexed his right hand. “Some days I need the brush tied on.”

“That happened at Pentonville.” Alan said it levelly, but his stomach turned over. Prison meant hard bed, hard board, hard labor. It was supposed to be punishment, not torture.

“Oh aye.” Reeve tilted back his head and produced a perfect ring of smoke. It warped as it rose. “That and more.”

Their silence filled with country noise. Chickens, cockchafers, rustling leaves.

Alan asked without thinking, “Did you steal Reynolds’s inkstand?”

Reeve lowered his chin and barked a laugh. He sneered. “The Royal Academy was stealing. It’s a bad thing to hoard riches as wee girls go hungry. Did you learn nothing in church?”