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smile that of course they could not possibly mind her taking theliberty. “He has expressed an interest in the view from your hill for quite some time.”
    “But, Lady FitzCameron,” exclaimed Mrs. Ellsworth, “you had only to tell us. Mr. Vincent would have been welcome at any time. You only need let your wishes be known. We are too, too happy to oblige.”
    “So kind,” Lady FitzCameron murmured, already losing interest in the conversation.
    Mr. Vincent made a short bow and took up a station by the wall of the drawing room, looking as stiff and uncomfortable as it was possible for a man to be. Jane occupied herself on the far side of the room, leaving Mrs. Ellsworth to sweep over to him and try to engage him in conversation. His answers were short, almost to the point of rudeness, so much so that Jane almost mustered some empathy for her mother from where she conversed with Miss FitzCameron and Miss Dunkirk. Mrs. Ellsworth had attempted to ascertain something of Mr. Vincent’s family—specifically, which of the Vincents he was associated with—by asking where he was from, and only received the most cursory of answers: that he was from London.
    As Mrs. Ellsworth remarked later to Mr. Ellsworth, there was no way to tell if he was related to Vincent the haberdasher or Vincent the M.P. She was quite vexed, and resolved to appeal to Lady FitzCameron for more intelligence at the first opportunity.
    She next turned to the subject of art. “Have you seen our landscapes? Our eldest daughter did these.”
    Jane wanted to sink through the floor. Instead, she kept her attention outwardly fixed on Miss Dunkirk, who was describing the delicate pearls of clouds she had seen on her ride.
    Mr. Vincent turned to the nearest, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Indeed.”
    Neither compliment nor condemnation, but simply a recognition of fact. Jane supposed she should be grateful for that.
    Failing in her attempts to draw him out, Mrs. Ellsworth was relieved beyond expression when her especial friends Mr. and Mrs. Marchand arrived, sparing her the necessity of further conversation with Mr. Vincent. Jane was, if possible, more relieved than her mother.
    With the party thus assembled, bonnets were donned and baskets picked up so that a sizable collection of wicker paraded through the drawing room and out to the shrubbery. Mr. Ellsworth was justly proud of the shrubbery on the south side of Long Parkmead and so led the party through there, though it was not the fastest route to the strawberry patch. Jane walked with Miss Dunkirk, which of necessity meant conversation with Mr. Dunkirk, an effect that Jane did not in the least regret. Melody walked with Captain Livingston and Miss FitzCameron, the three of them laughing and trying to outdo one another with wit.
    Ahead of them strode Mr. Vincent, with his folding easel slung over his back. He soon left the party, disappearing around the bend of the shrubbery. By the time the largerparty rounded the bend at their more sedate pace, he was halfway across the lawn between the shrubbery and a copse of trees, on the opposite side of which stood the strawberry patch, in a spot best situated to take advantage of the sun. His carriage was easy, and the stiffness which he had displayed in the drawing room had relaxed into the long stride of a man most comfortable out-of-doors.
    “Mr. Vincent seems anxious to reach the strawberries,” Jane remarked.
    “He is often ill at ease in the drawing rooms, which is not a surprize considering his history,” Mr. Dunkirk said.
    “Oh. Do you know his history then? Do not let my mother know, or she will be quizzing you for half an hour or more. She is overcome with curiosity about him.”
    “Thank you for the warning.” He affected a grave countenance, but his lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “I do. I researched his history before engaging him.”
    “Edmund! You said you wouldn’t tell.”
    He arched an eyebrow at his sister. “Nor have I, Beth.