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“I used to read books,” he grumbled. “Before Papa died.”

“There’s an entire library in my study. Feel free to borrow any book you like.”

When James’s face lit up, Noel realized he might have found the perfect way to tempt James away from stealing. “Words we refrain from using near ladies, Master Archer?” he prompted again.

“Um …” James screwed up his face in thought. “We don’t say ‘damned,’ ‘blasted,’ ‘curst,’ ‘deuced,’ or … or …”

“The one you called the queen.”

“Bloody!” James cried.

Noel sighed. James certainly enjoyed cursing. So did Noel, in certain circumstances. But James mustn’t curse in polite society. Best to emphasize that rule before the queen’s affair. “There are many more such bad words, but these are the ones I’ve actually heard you use, in the presence of your mother, your sister, and my mother.”

James pouted.

“Let’s go on. What do you never call a young lady?”

“‘Gentry mort,’ ‘doxy,’ ‘trull,’ ‘harlot’ …”

The lad went on in that vein for a while. There certainly were a great many vile words for ladies, of the evening and otherwise, more than Noel had even realized.

At last, James finished with “‘low-heel,’ ‘cat,’ and ‘whore.’ ”

“That reminds me. No ‘whore’ words at all. No ‘whoreson’ or ‘whoremonger’ or ‘whoremaster’ or any other word of that ilk.”

James scowled. “It’s a lot to remember.”

“Not once you get used to it.”

“They’re just words,” James protested.

“What would you do if I called you a ‘dunghill’?” Noel asked, using the cant for “coward.”

“I’d punch you in the face,” James said, frowning.

“Exactly. Words matter, lad. Remember that.” Still, Noel fought the urge to laugh at the image of James climbing atop a chair to punch him in the face.

Noel wandered over to the window. “Now write down every word you use for constables and watchmen, and we’ll take a look at those. We don’t want anyone thinking there’s a particular reason you use cant terms for officers.”

Pulling aside the curtain, he stared out to see the same young man strolling the mews who, according to his footman, had followed the Cokesbury carriage to Hatton Garden and back yesterday and the day before. He wished the footman had pointed the fellow out to him sooner, but his servant had said he couldn’t be sure it was intentional until after it happened two days in a row.

Today, the chap was pretending to be waiting for someone in the mews, but that seemed unlikely. Noel knew everyone who used their mews, and it was all families with small children, not the sort a young fellow like that would be waiting around for.

Noel glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s almost time for luncheon, James. Go on down to the dining room, and I’ll be along in a bit. Then we’ll work on your behavior at meals.”

James groaned as he walked out.

Noel left the window. He must tell Eve about the man, if only to warn her she was being watched and thus must be careful not to let James off his leash, so to speak.

You’re merely taking any excuse to see her.

Nonsense. This was practical. Nothing more.

He found her in the garden room down the hall. Alone, fortunately. He didn’t want his mother hearing this conversation. She might worry.

Pausing in the doorway, he took the chance to watch his frustrating obsession while she didn’t notice him there. Between her and Mother, they’d decided that she should submit the slippers. At the moment, her attention to her work seemed all-consuming, her needle moving with the speed of a clerk copying documents. He had to admit he admired her dedication to her craft.

A tendril of hair had slipped free of her chignon to droop down, and he fought the urge to walk over and tuck it back in. He knew he merely wanted a reason to touch that beautiful red hair of hers, but that would show how deeply he’d begun to feel for her, and she must not guess that when he still refused to act on it.