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“To the factory.” He looked up at her with a strange smile. “I ran into a spot of trouble.”

“What factory?” She felt an incipient horror, as though she teetered at the edge of an abyss. “What trouble? What are you talking about?”

He leaned forward. “I bark too much, Birdie. I’m easily huffed, God knows. I’m not proud of myself. Proud of you, though. All the good I ever did, right here.”

The way he was looking at her . . .

“Are you tight?” She leaned in and sniffed. He smelled of cologne and sweat, only mildly beery. “Jack, what factory?”

“I’ve been planning too. You think this is what I want for us? Holed up like rats in Laddie’s attic. So much varnish in our lungs we crackle when we breathe.” He laughed and spoke even more rapidly. “No, we’ll have a fine house. A carriage for rolling around town. We’ll do what we like, when we like it. Infinite French bonbons. Shrimp for Prince Fritz. If you fancy a bloke, you’ll marry him and live happily ever after.” His smile was brilliant, then his lips curled. “Unless he’s an eejit or a bounder,” he added. “Then he’ll feel my boot on his arse, and you’ll have to pick another one.”

Her horror intensified. He was tight. Had to be. “I’m not looking for a bloke.”

“I know. Much comfort in cats, little in men.” He did a fair, musical imitation of their mother’s lilt. “Grow up hearing that, and seeing the proof of it, and why would you be, if not for necessity? But that’s what I’m trying to say.” He sounded gruff suddenly, as though the delicacy of the subject made him too conscious of his own clumsiness. “It won’t go like that for you. If you do fancy a bloke, you won’t be at his mercy. You’ll have money of your own.”

She couldn’t make sense of his words.

“I already have money of my own.” She whirled and returned to the paint box, picked up her other account book. “Nearly four hundred pounds. Shall I work the sums for you? I have it all written down. Every painting, every drawing, what you told me it fetched, my percentage of the profit—”

“Are you such a fool as that?” Jack came to his feet. As soon as he reached her, he wrenched away the book. “This is the first thing you pitch in the fire. Do you mean to tie a bow around yourself for the bobbies? Christ!” He raised a fist. She flinched, and he pressed the fist to his mouth, sneering at her, furious and hurt. As though her flinch accused him, and falsely.

He’d bumped her, shaken her by the shoulders, dragged her by the wrist, thrown her palette across the room, knocked over her easel, punched through her canvas, countless times. But he’d never aimed a blow at her. Most often, he rampaged around her, his fury a cyclone, and herself the eye, frozen, waiting for it to pass.

“I could be arrested tomorrow.” He began in a softer voice that rose in volume as he spoke. “And you could walk free. But not if you leave a blasted catalogue crediting yourself with the crimes!”

She stood, frozen, staring. Her sweet-faced bullying brother. Easily huffed. Forever yelling in her face, out of abiding love and concern. The years stacked up, pressing her stomach into her throat. She couldn’t endure another minute.

“That’s mine.” She sprang to life, grabbing for her account book, but Jack thrust his arm behind his back. Fritz started to chirp out alarmed sounds.

“Don’t trust me? I keep my own accounts here.” He tapped his forehead. “You’ll get every penny.” His face darkened as he thrust the account book inside his jacket. “But not now.”

“Yes, now.” She followed close on his heels as he stalked to his chair. He didn’t sit but lifted Ruby’s unused cup and splashed it with tea.

“Can’t do it, Birdie.” His color was up, bloodshot eyes glassy. “Funds aren’t currently available. De’Ath has cost us. Ruined our auction. Diverted our capital to Mrs. Beechey.”

She blinked. “He hasn’t cost us to the tune of four hundred pounds. You’re holding my entire savings.”

“Your savings went into the factory.” He rotated the teacup in his hand. “Bought it last year, the building at least. Takes longer to put the rest in place. You’re a co-owner, entitled to half the profit.”

“What factory? You never . . .” Her lips had gone numb. “You never told me.”

“Yes, well, I thought I’d surprise you. A new venture, one that requires my oversight but not my hands, and not yours either. It’s a very small works, but we’ll end up cracking a tidy crust. I’ve good lads to work for us, potters and painters. They’ll make reproductions of Sèvres porcelain, Worcester, the best brands. It’s not difficult if you understand the process, know the right marks. American tourists will pay through the nose.”

Her voice shrilled. “That’s where my money went?”

“Your money, my money. Our money.” He shrugged. “The factory frees both of us. From this.” He took a large step and kicked a heap of canvas. “From everything. Baking is hot, hard work. You might not like it any more than you do painting, once it’s day in and day out. Have you thought of that? With income from the factory, you’ll never feel the pinch. Open your bakery every other Tuesday if you choose. Sell only thimble-sized cakes to the wee folk holding fairy banquets in the hills.”

“My bakery? Ha!” Rage gave her strength, swept away the doubt that had shot to the surface at his words. “I can’t buy the bakery without money.”

“You can’t buy it because it’s not for sale.” He looked at her narrowly. “Not last I heard. Steady, now. No need for dramatics.”

Rich, coming from him. She crossed her arms, trapped her hands beneath them, glaring.

“Once we start production, we’ll start getting paid, handsomely.” He took a sip of tea and grimaced. “But at the moment, we’re strapped. Worse than strapped. The factory’s on a street run by a gang of roughs. So long as I fork over money for protection, they don’t smash it up. That’s how it goes. But the scum just upped the price. And let’s just say, they’re bloody unhappy that I don’t have the blunt. Which means I need that paper.” He pointed to the pile, to the stack of ruined books. “I can manage a few drawings, followers of Rembrandt. And we have your young man in green to sell, the Titian. I’ve got us a new dealer, sharper than Sleaford, country squires for clients. And you can turn over that fine wage De’Ath promised you, and keep an eye on him. I’ll clear out if he gets too close.” His voice flattened. “You’re safer with De’Ath, anyway. The Whitechapel gents aren’t what I’d call friendly.”

“You’ve always protected me.” She only breathed it. “From everyone but yourself.”

He brought his hand down, a swift motion that sent the cup flying. It exploded against the table. Nina gasped at the sound. Fritz charged for the door with a long, shrill screech.