Lily thought she must have misunderstood him, but then Meredith appeared at her side. “What do you mean, for gentlemen only?”

“The paintings there are of a … shall we say, earthy nature. Not suitable for ladies.”

“What’s all this?” Amelia joined them.

“He means to protect our delicate female natures from scandalous paintings,” Meredith informed her. To the shopkeeper, she said, “We are all married women, sir.”

“Nevertheless.” The man tugged at his cravat. “Your husbands are not present. Without their express permission, I am sure I cannot—”

Meredith laughed. “Must we send for notes with their signatures?”

“Ridiculous,” Amelia said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. “My husband, His Grace, the Duke of Morland, would be displeased indeed to be troubled on such a trifling matter. Do your worst, sir. We shall ready our vinaigrettes.”

Lily laughed. She thought they stood a decent chance of deviling him into capitulation. But in the end, it wasn’t necessary. Amelia and Meredith suddenly wheeled to face the door, clapping with excitement. Lily followed their gaze.

Ah. Julian had finally arrived. He’d promised to meet her here after his day’s business was done.

All three ladies rushed to greet him at the door. Lily, however, was the only one to claim the pleasure of a kiss on the cheek.

“What’s this? I haven’t known such a rousing female welcome since—”

“Since the last time you entered a room full of women,” Lily said. She cut a playful glance at her friends. “Your timing couldn’t be better. There’s another gallery—a naughty gallery, apparently—and the owner won’t let us view it without our husbands present.”

“Hm.” Julian surveyed the hopeful trio. “I don’t suppose I can pose as a sheik with my harem of wives, can I?”

“Why not?” Amelia asked slyly. “You do have a certain reputation.”

Meredith linked her hand through Julian’s free arm. “Let’s have a go.”

“Why, Lady Ashworth,” he said, pretending shock.

Or perhaps not pretending. On closer inspection, Lily thought he might actually be blushing. How very sweet.

With good-natured charm, he extricated himself from Meredith’s grasp. “I’m a confirmed monogamist now, I’m afraid. And even if I weren’t, both your husbands are confirmed barbarians, whom I know better than to cross. I’ve just come from meeting with them. We made plans to go out early tomorrow for a ride in open country. Shouldn’t like to make it a daybreak duel.”

“You’re going riding?” Lily asked. It had been ages since she’d been out riding. “Where to? May I join you?”

“No, you may not. It’s a gentlemen’s excursion.” He paused. “And I’m not precisely sure where to. Down the Thames a bit, I think.”

“Down the Thames? Whyever—”

“Morland’s looking at property down that way.”

“He is?” Amelia asked. “First I’ve heard of it.”

“Yes, well.” Julian’s smile was strained. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”

Lily could tell he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with the entire outing, most likely. Julian’s horsemanship was nowhere near the level of Morland’s and Ashworth’s, and he was probably a bit worried about being shown up by them. But he was going to ride out with them anyway, and that pleased Lily no end. She was so gratified to see the three of them becoming close friends. Leo would have been happy, too.

Meredith spoke. “Well, if you’ve just come from meeting with Rhys and the duke, where are they? We can all view the naughty paintings together.”

“I’m afraid they stayed at Morland House.”

Amelia rested one hand atop her pregnant belly and rubbed her lower back with the other. “Then I should go home, too.” She looked to Meredith. “Care to join me in the carriage? You and Lord Ashworth are welcome to stay for dinner.”

Out of habit, she extended the invitation to Julian and Lily as well, and they politely declined.

Once they’d left, Lily and Julian were the only remaining customers in the gallery.

“I bought a desk,” Lily said.

“Did you?” But he didn’t ask about it. He simply offered her his arm and walked her straight back to the gallery owner, whose buttoned pink waistcoat scalloped like the edge of a seashell as he bent to arrange some books.

When he noticed Julian, the man stood and bowed. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”

“My wife would like to see the nudes.” Her impossible husband grinned down at her, daring her to contradict.

Scoundrel. Lily introduced the sharp point of her elbow to his ribs.

Although she was certain her cheeks were twin banners of crimson, she faced the owner and hoisted them high. She wasn’t about to demur. She wanted to be able to crow about this to Amelia and Meredith tomorrow.

And atop that, she did want to see the nudes.

The gallery owner tugged on his waistcoat. “As you wish, sir.”

With all the élan of a carnival barker, he swept aside the heavy velvet drape. Feeling a tingle of excitement, Lily nestled closer to her husband.

Together, they entered the forbidden room.

The “secret” gallery was rather a disappointment, as forbidden things all too often turned out to be. Julian was well-acquainted with the phenomenon.

But it did serve as a welcome diversion.

He carefully watched Lily’s expression as they entered the narrow room. She seemed to have no care for anything but the pictures on the walls, which put him somewhat at ease, after their conversation about tomorrow’s ride. He hated lying to her. Despised it with a dark, unwavering passion. After today, never again.

Tomorrow morning, he, Morland, and Ashworth would ride some ways out of Town, down to Woolwich, where Stone and Macleod were due to be released. The brutes would never even be freed of their chains. Once the men were hauled back to Newgate, Julian and Morland would bring Faraday to identify them. Charges would be pressed. The courts would carry the matter from there.

It would all be over tomorrow.

Calming at the thought, Julian began to take some notice of the art. On either side, the walls were lined with framed paintings. High clerestory windows lit the space, sending down trapezoids of watery light to frame the works at odd angles, making them look askew. There were a few of the expected boudoir portraits, naked women lolling about on unmade beds, their nipples blazing unrealistic shades of cherry and plum. But the quality works outnumbered these.

The owner followed them down the row, rattling off information about each work. Artist, provenance, and such. The way he nattered on so industriously, Julian deduced the man had no idea of Lily’s deafness. Lily paid him no attention, of course, but shopkeepers were accustomed to being ignored.

She wandered thoughtfully from one picture to the next, then paused before a nude study of a man. Her foot slid back, as she retreated a pace to better take it in. Julian briefly considered teasing her, but decided against it. He loved the seriousness with which she approached the art. No missish giggles or blushing.

“The model was a laborer,” he said, when she turned to him.

“How do you know?”

“Look at the tan on his forearms and face, the roughness of his hands.”

“I suppose it must be difficult to find gentlemen of leisure willing to pose for such studies.” As though it were a connected thought, she added, “I was thinking of commissioning your portrait.”

He laughed, startled.

And now she blushed. “Not like that, of course. Fully clothed. But we should have a large one, for the house. And I would like a miniature for my dressing table.”

Ah. Sweet thought, that.

They moved on to a lovely painting of a mother bathing her young child. Julian wondered at its placement in this “gentleman’s” gallery, as there was nothing at all erotic or prurient about the composition. It was a domestic, maternal scene. The two stood before a roaring fire, the child with his feet in a basin and the woman crouched beside. The woman’s plaited hair dangled as she bent to sponge her naked cherub. She herself was dressed in a thin shift, the linen wet and clinging to her rounded breasts and hips. The artist had done a remarkably fine job of rendering the damp, translucent fabric stretched over pink skin.

“Who is the artist?” Lily asked, turning to the gallery owner.

“A Mr. Conrad Marley,” the man answered.

Lily frowned as she turned back to the painting.

Julian touched her arm, raised his eyebrows in question.

She hesitated, throwing an apprehensive glance toward the owner. Then she signed, “Spell it for me.”

Julian smiled. He reached for his wife’s hand and brought it to his lips, ignoring the curious stare of the gallery owner. The man would never understand the small victory he’d just witnessed.

He and Lily had been practicing signing in private for weeks, but this was the first time she’d used signs with him in the company of someone else. Julian understood why she hadn’t until now, and he never would have pressed. To begin with, excluding anyone from a conversation offended her natural sense of etiquette. She would no sooner sign with him in friendly company than she would converse with him in Hindustani, for the sole reason that it alienated their companions from the discussion. But in front of servants and hackney drivers and shopkeepers, he knew she had an entirely different reason for hesitating. By signing, she openly declared herself to be deaf. She made herself vulnerable to the curiosity and even cruelty of strangers.

Julian knew better than most the courage that required. He’d grown up watching his mother make this calculation in so many interactions—at what point would she break down and sign to Julian, asking him to explain? When did her need to understand trump the perpetual cause of caution?

Thankfully, Lily would never know the sort of treatment his mother had endured. She was wealthy and highborn, and no shopkeeper with sense would slam a door in her face. No street urchins would throw bits of refuse at her back. Still, she faced subtler forms of prejudice and disdain. And always, that backhanded “concern” from the imbecilic, self-righteous Aunt Beatrices of the world, who to preserve the fragile peace of their feeble minds would insist the defect resided not only in Lily’s ears, but in her very soul. If you cannot be like the rest of us, their subtle shaming implied, at least do not call attention to your differences.

Just now, Lily might as well have signed, “Bollocks to that.” With her question, she’d asserted her right to receive information on her own, understandable terms. Even if it made those around her suspicious or uncomfortable.

Julian wanted to catch her in a tremendous hug. Instead, he carefully spelled the artist’s name and waited for her reply.

“Mister?” she spelled back.

He confirmed with a nod.

She looked at the painting again, then signed, “No. A woman painted this. I can tell.”

“How?”

She pointed to the babe’s plump arm. “Perfect. Men always paint babies too fat or too thin.”

He considered. He’d never spent much time thinking about the relative corpulence of infants, in life or art—which, he supposed, was rather Lily’s point. “Perhaps you’re right.” Though gently-bred ladies were encouraged to draw and paint, a female artist would have to assume a man’s name if she wished to be taken seriously. Or to earn any decent money for her work.

Lily stared at the painting for a minute longer, tilting her head. Julian stared at Lily, because lovely as the picture was, his wife was lovelier. Besides, he was obviously going to buy the thing, and he’d have plenty of time to gaze upon it later. The only question was whether to purchase it now or come back in secret, to make it a surprise. Perhaps a Christmas gift.