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Torie took pity on the viscount and intervened. “Does your character have fangs? Because I have the inkling that this man would have fangs overhanging his lower lip. They could shine in the moonlight. Or—be bathed in moonlight.”

“I like that!” Florence exclaimed, scribbling on her foolscap.

“Where’s your nanny?” Kelbourne asked, ignoring the moonlit fangs.

“Downstairs with the housekeeper,” Valentine said. “Nanny Bracknell finds us very tiresome, and we feel the same about her.”

His sister elbowed him. “Don’t be such a frightful snob, Val.”

“Snob?” Torie asked.

“Valentine thinks that he’s smarter than everyone he meets,” his sister disclosed.

“That’s not true,” Valentine protested. “You are smarter than I am.”

“He walks around making judgments about people based on the last book they read. Nanny likes to read the Bible, and even then, only the New Testament. Beware: if you admit to not having read Plutarch, my brother will dismiss you as an idiot.”

“I might as well be frank with you, Valentine,” Torie said. “I haven’t read a single book.”

The children’s eyes widened. “Whyever not?” Florence gasped.

“I am unable to read or write.”

“Read?” Valentine was seemingly too appalled to be snobbish. “You can’t read?”

“Shall we teach you?” Florence asked, leaning forward, eyes shining. “I began reading at three years old, and after that, I taught my brother and the milkman. So I could teach you.”

“It won’t work,” Valentine said flatly. “It’s not like when you taught Puffer to read. If she doesn’t know by now, there’s likely something wrong with her brain, Flo. Pulling out a slate board won’t help.”

Kelbourne cleared his throat. “A gentleman should not be so blunt. You might hurt Miss Victoria’s feelings.”

The twins’ eyes moved from him to Torie. “Did I?” Valentine asked.

“No,” Torie replied. “I’m used to being the dunce in the room.”

“It would be interesting to dissect your brain,” Valentine observed. “Do you know about dissection?”

Torie shook her head. “My ignorance knows no bounds. What is it?”

“Cutting up a dead body to see what it’s like inside,” Valentine said. “When I’m old enough, I mean to cut up many people. I expect your brain looks differently than mine.”

Torie almost said “smaller,” but caught back the word. She was trying not to disparage herself, given that the world so often did it for her.

“This is not a proper subject for conversation. Ladies are horrified by the mention of dead bodies,” Kelbourne announced. If he was thinking of Leonora, he wasn’t wrong. Torie’s sister would expire from shock if she heard about Florence’s story.

The twins glanced at him, unimpressed. Torie had the feeling that any number of people had tried to steer them into being more conventional.

And failed.

“Ladies prefer more delicate subjects,” Kelbourne continued, an edge in his voice. “For example, Miss Victoria is an excellent watercolorist. We could discuss her paintings of kittens and flowers.”

“I paint in oil. And you have no idea if I’m excellent,” Torie said, wrinkling her nose at him.

“Well, are you?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Except for the rear ends of rabbits,” the viscount qualified, the faintest glimmer of laughter in his eyes.