Lord Bedlow nodded. “There are over a hundred paintings. You ought to come out for a few days and look it over. They’re all over the house, and I think there are some boxes of sketches and things in the attic that no one’s looked at in years.”

Penelope grinned outright at the expression on her mother’s face-the face of a woman trying to remain honest when offered an overwhelming bribe.

Mrs. Brown returned to a safer subject. “So Venice really looks like it does in the paintings?”

“Exactly like. It is just as Childe Harold says, you know: ‘I saw from out the wave her structures rise / As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand…’”

Penelope was torn between laughing and gaping in astonishment. The Midas Touch indeed-her mother adored that passage.

“Really?” Mrs. Brown breathed.

“Oh, yes. I only wish the fourth canto had been published when Percy and Thirkell and I went, so that we might have read it to each other in St. Mark’s Square.”

“Will you read it to me?” Mrs. Brown asked. “Poetry isn’t the same unless you can hear it aloud, I find. But Mr. Brown doesn’t care for poetry, and Penny turns up her nose at Byron-”

Lord Bedlow shot a nervous glance at Penelope.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Naturally I don’t insist that we agree on everything. If I did, it would only be an incentive to falsehood.”

He didn’t answer that; instead he said to Mrs. Brown, “Sometimes I read poetry aloud to myself, if there’s nobody about. But it does somewhat puzzle the servants, I find.” He gave her a smile that was like candlelight-bright yet somehow soft and friendly-and Penelope, for one insane moment, was jealous of her mother.

Mrs. Brown was clearly charmed-how could she help it? “I do that too. But you know-I haven’t got the voice for it, not really.”

“What do you mean?” Lord Bedlow sounded genuinely puzzled, and if Penelope hadn’t already been thinking of kissing him, she would have for that. “You have a perfectly pleasant voice.”

“Well,” Mrs. Brown said, nonplussed, “thank you, but what I mean is, it don’t sound quite like Lord Byron intended it, do it? With my accent, I mean. It doesn’t flow all crisp consonants and perfect vowels like yours.”

Lord Bedlow looked self-conscious. “All right. I’ll read you the fourth canto, but only if you promise to read me something by Mr. Keats.”

Penelope considered Keats a radical hothead. And she doubted the poet would be flattered by the notion that his verse might be best appreciated by hearing it read in Mrs. Brown’s motherly Cockney voice. But Mrs. Brown was flattered, so Penelope could not help being pleased.

Mrs. Brown fetched out the volume of Lord Byron, and Penelope prepared to feign interest; but she found herself rapidly enthralled. Lord Bedlow was a sensitive and engaging reader, and, what made him all the more dangerously appealing, it was evident that he read so well because he loved to do it-because he loved the poetry and wanted to share it. She was reminded disloyally of Edward, who was a charming conversationalist but could not read aloud at all. He had no gift for mimicry; he read everything as if it were a treatise on philosophy. Penelope had always thought it rather sweet. But she heard the music in Lord Bedlow’s voice, and something inside her echoed it.

No sooner had he finished than she impulsively asked, “Do you sing?” She was sure he must.

“What about Keats?”

She was impressed that he remembered and ashamed that she had forgotten. “Oh, of course, Mama-”

Mrs. Brown’s knowing smile made Penelope blush. “No, no, you children sing. I would love to hear that. Lord Bedlow can listen to me butcher the English language another time.”

Nev thought he had been doing all right; the Browns were less intimidating than he had expected and less different from himself. But Miss Brown had barely spoken all evening, and it worried him. So he was inordinately relieved when she asked if he sang-and asked with real interest. And he was, he admitted to himself, very eager to hear her sing.

She rose and went to the piano. She looked perfectly composed, but her movements were a little clumsy. She glanced at him while she was getting out the music and blushed when their eyes met. He smiled and went to her side.

She was leafing through Arne’s settings of Shakespearean songs and stopped at “Under the Greenwood Tree,” glancing up at him for approval. He nodded, though the choice was an awkward one; it was a song he had sung often with Amy. She played the opening notes and began to sing in a clear, sweet contralto. After a few bars he joined in.

She was no opera singer, of course-neither was he. But, Nev realized, their voices fit together somehow. They seemed instinctively to know when to rise and when to fall in harmony, when to soften and when to strengthen. When the duet was over, he found himself wanting to sing another, and another. Instead he shook himself and turned to her parents. “I don’t wish to overstay my welcome. I thank you for a very pleasant evening.”

Mrs. Brown smiled at him and opened her mouth, but she was forestalled by Mr. Brown, who cleared his throat. “If you’d wait in the other room for a moment, my lord, I’d be much obliged to you.”

He was taken aback, and Miss Brown said, “Papa, you can’t mean to ask the earl-”

But it was Nev’s role tonight to be obliging, so he said, “It’s no bother, honestly,” and let a servant show him into a room across the hall, where half a dozen fine wax candles were already lit. Nev looked at that sign of wealth and plenty, and prayed he had been charming and obliging enough. Or had he been too charming and obliging? What if they all thought him an even more inconsequential fellow than before?

He had begun to fidget when Miss Brown came in, sooner than he expected. He stood at once, waiting for her parents to follow her, but instead she was accompanied by a maid who took up a seat in the far corner of the room. Miss Brown came up to him, looking very awkward and pressing her hands together.

“If it’s a no,” he said, “just tell me straight out.”

She glanced up at him. “It isn’t a no.” He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased. “You have my father’s leave to purchase a license.”

He knew he should thank her and go before any of them could change their minds. “Are you quite sure? If you wish, I can wait a few days before I send the notice to the Gazette.”

She hesitated, but she shook her head. “I’m sure. Besides, the sooner you announce our engagement the better. Once the word is out, your creditors will stop hounding you.”

That would be nice for his family. “Thank you.”

She tried to smile. “You were very kind to my parents-thank you.”

“I like them.” It would horrify his mother, but it was the truth. He wasn’t sure she believed him, but her smile was real this time.

An hour after Nev announced his engagement to his family, his mother was still crying in her room. At last Louisa came soberly down the stairs.

“Has she turned off the waterworks yet?”

Louisa shook her head. “She blames herself, Nate. She thinks if she had been able to control Papa, you wouldn’t have to make this tragic sacrifice.” She looked at him sorrowfully. “You should have let me do it, Nate. I was prepared.”

“Louisa, don’t be a goose. We aren’t living in a Minerva Press novel. I’m just glad you gave me the idea. I might not have thought of Miss Brown otherwise.”

Her eyes flew wide. “I gave you the idea? Oh, my wretched, wretched tongue! Oh, poor Nate!” She flung herself on him.

“Don’t take on so.” He tried to fend her off. “I daresay you’ll like Miss Brown.”

“Never!” Louisa said fiercely. “I shall detest her eternally!”

“You won’t. Wait till you meet her. She likes music.”

“Oh, Nate, you’re so brave!”

He threw up his hands and left the house.

Nev would have preferred to take a few days to screw his courage to the sticking point before going to see Amy. But he had sent the notice to the Gazette, and a gentleman did not let a woman find out a thing like that from the Gazette.