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“Christ,” muttered Jack, glancing with surprise from Nina to Fritz.

“Fake!” Nina’s voice rose with Fritz’s. “I dropped the first tray in shock. Alan De’Ath not three feet away from me calling your picture a sham masterpiece! He followed me into the garden, and I thought the game was up. He’s that keen.” Nina swallowed, a silvery shiver moving through her. She had to blink.

“But it wasn’t up.”

“No thanks to you,” she muttered, focusing. “He offered me a job. As his amanuensis. I nearly choked! Then he all but swore he’d bring England’s art forgers to justice. I’d say we’re bloody well in for it! And it’s not my doing, it’s—”

“You said no.”

“What?” Nina heaved a breath. Strange reversal. She was yelling, and Jack . . . Jack was regarding her calmly. His eyes, emptied of emotion, held pure calculation.

“To De’Ath’s offer. You said no.”

“Of course I said no!” She tried to lower her voice. “If he finds me out, he’ll drag me to Scotland Yard. I’m not going to take his dictation.”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. You’re going to note down every word. We need to know what he knows. What he discovers.”

“Ha.” She stared at him. He had to be joking. Fritz began to shriek, as though in disbelief.

“I’ll warn Chips.” Jack’s smile was grim. “He’s the weak link. Can’t trust him not to squawk if he stands to save his own skin. You stop squawking.” He looked irritably toward Fritz. “My ears are bleeding.”

Nina opened her mouth to protest, but no sound emerged.

“Shutter the showroom,” Jack continued, half to himself. “Shove off to France, Holland, somewhere. Give it a few weeks to blow over. De’Ath will get some other bee in his bonnet before long.”

“Let’s all shove off.” Nina hugged herself. “For good. You and I can go to Hensthorpe. Mr. Craddock’s getting old, Jack. Summer’s too hot for him by the ovens. He might sell now, if I ask.”

“Capital.” Jack barked a laugh. “You’ll be a baker, and I’ll be a farmer. I’ll get myself some pigs and a plow.” He made a disdaining gesture. The gold rings on his fingers clasped real gemstones. Jack would go to hell before he’d go to Hensthorpe. She knew that. He wanted to leave the Knack for a custom-built castle, to live large in society’s shadow, a counterfeit lord.

Her fantasy was simpler. A village pastry shop, brick and flint, with a bright new sign. nina’s sweets. Her canvases, cake tops. Her paints, buttercreams.

Jack knew that.

“I will bake,” she said stubbornly. Jack often mocked her aspirations, made it clear he preferred she put their partnership first—if not forever, at least for the foreseeable future. Focus on scones in your dotage, he’d say. He didn’t want her to be the Mozart of gooseberry tarts.

She felt a prickle. The way De’Ath had looked at her . . .

Ridiculous. The Mozart of gooseberry tarts. She could never pronounce that phrase to Jack. Princess of Counterfeits was more to his liking.

But he’d come around eventually. She wouldn’t give him the choice.

“I’ll bake,” she repeated, then coughed. “And not pictures, either.”

“Hell.” Jack started, diving for the oven, from which thin black smoke was seeping. Nina tensed. Once she’d left a painting too long in the oven, one of Jack’s. She’d gotten lost in daydreams as she’d rearranged her small store of spices, and the next thing she knew her eyes were stinging, her lungs bucking in her chest, resisting the caustic air. The painting had burst into flames. On that memorable afternoon, Jack’s hollering could have raised the dead.

Luckily, the Titian emerged relatively unscathed. Disaster averted, Jack swung back to face her. Fritz had quieted down. In the front parlor, a clock was chiming.

“We’re not turning tail,” he said. “Not because one critic took issue with one painting. De’Ath wants to play detective? Like he did in the National Gallery, with that bogus Botticelli? Righto. You’ll be there to put him off the scent.”

“How?” Nina hugged herself tighter. Dear Lord, was she really entertaining the notion? Alan De’Ath’s amanuensis! By this time tomorrow, she might be doffing his hat.

“You’ll think of something.” Jack shrugged. “At the very least, he won’t be able to surprise us. We’ll stay one step ahead of him. Don’t forget, we’ve got the king of the smellfunguses in our pocket, that blowhard Oxford don. What’s his name?” He drummed a sooty forefinger on his temple. “Syme. Lloyd Syme bought a half dozen of our pictures from Chips. If Chips gets caught out selling fakes, then Syme looks a fool. Ergo, King Smellfungus will defend Chips to the death.” He gave a snort. “And they say we’re the fraudsters.”

Nina felt a gentle impact. Fritz had leapt to her. He climbed her shoulder and she reached up to stroke him, gratefully.

“No more nonsense about Hensthorpe.” Jack shook his head. “You’re not going, not at present.”

Why? She tamped down on the question. Of late, they’d been making money hand over fist. Jack doled out a weekly pittance, but she knew the full amounts, what was his, what was hers. They both had enough, surely. To start over.