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“Because it pains a stubborn man to admit himself in error.”

Now her brow creased. “You said he won’t admit any error.” Lord love him.

“Not at the moment. But after tomorrow . . .”

“Tomorrow?” She lost her grip on the notebook.

She knelt, but De’Ath was quicker.

“He’s making the trip to Norwich,” he said, rising, notebook in hand. “Berney’s granddaughter lives there, she who discovered the paintings. In an old pigsty, or so goes her story.” He shrugged. “Broughton will question her. The story will fall apart. And that will be that.”

“Will it be?” The blood drained from Nina’s face. Jack had sent a letter to Mrs. Beechey. But what if she’d been sick with drink and hadn’t opened it? What if the promise of money wasn’t enough to buy her silence? Mr. Broughton would scare her silly, all gentlemanly, with his fine suit and his fine voice. She’d buckle, unless Jack appeared in the flesh to charm and cajole her and press coins into her hand.

“That will be that when it comes to Broughton’s stubbornness,” said De’Ath. “There’s work yet to be done, to find Sleaford. And to catch the forger. Why, Miss Finch.” His voice changed. He’d given the notebook an idle flip, and now he stared down at it. “How incredible.” He held it up, open.

She looked with horror. Beneath a column of addresses, there it was, her sketch. It was slight and unfinished. But the lines were sure.

The mouth it rendered was surely De’Ath’s mouth.

She forced herself to shift her gaze back to him.

He wore an expression of intense interest. “You did this.”

She couldn’t deny it.

He turned the notebook around and studied it. “You’ve been withholding. This required skill. When did you study drawing? With whom?”

“It didn’t require skill.” She shook her head, heart stuttering. “It felt intuitive.”

“I inspired you? Or more precisely, my mouth inspired you?” That mouth shifted into a crooked smile. It seemed to hook something inside her.

“Yes,” she whispered. His eyes widened, infinitesimally.

But it was enough.

The space between them shivered, or she was shivering. She held still. She held her very breath.

He took off his spectacles and dropped them into his pocket. His gaze seemed to fly at her, a silver arrow fletched with long black lashes.

“And are you in want of further inspiration?” It was a soft drawl, perfectly ironic. But his eyes drilled into her. Heat surged through her veins. She scarcely realized she was pressing through her feet, rising up on her toes.

He dipped his head. His lips hovered over hers. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a new way of understanding his mouth, in relationship to her mouth.

Her eyelids drifted down. Her palms settled on his hard chest.

“Does this help?” His breath was hot.

She didn’t move. She was flush against him, plunged in velvety darkness. She sighed her next words. “Now I could draw your mouth with my eyes closed.”

“Just my mouth?” His lips were on hers now. “With your natural talent, you could widen your scope.”

She could taste the brandy on his skin. Were they going to stay like so? His heart pounded against her hand, furiously fast, and yet he remained immobile, controlled, body solid as rock.

Was this the more she’d wanted from their conversations, the two of them mouth to mouth?

Breathing.

Tasting.