“Flirtation?” Lord Verbury chuckled.
Jane turned on the sofa to face the gentlemen. Zachary pushed Lord Verbury’s chair into the room. Vincent entered slightly behind them. His chin was buried in his cravat and his hands clasped so tightly behind him that she could see the strain in his shoulders. He met her gaze and held it as a drowning man holds a rope.
“Flirtation is an art that belongs to both sexes.” Jane’s pulse thundered in the joints of her hands.
“Then perhaps we should turn to an art that is yours exclusively?” Lord Verbury raised a brow. “We were promised a tableau vivant.”
Jane could not hear Vincent’s thin keen of protest. Nor, with the armour of his coat, could she see him hold his breath, but both must have happened in the face of such a request, delivered in such a manner. Verbury’s ability to turn any comment into a blade was staggering. With the knowledge that continuing the conversation would do nothing to promote their cause, Jane could find no reason to remain.
“I do hate to break up the evening early, but I am afraid fatigue has been getting the better of me these last few weeks.”
Lord Verbury frowned. “Do not let us keep you, then. Although I will ask you to indulge me and let me retain my son for a while. You do not mind, do you, Vincent?”
“I am your servant, as always.”
“Of course.” Absolutely not. Jane would not leave her husband with that man any longer. But she could do nothing obvious without betraying Miss Sarah’s confidence. “Do not keep him too late, though—we have a glamural to work on tomorrow.”
The feminine arts contained many permutations, and Jane found this moment an ideal time to exercise one of her mother’s favourites. She stood, took a step away from the couch and the small table and into a clear area on the dense carpet, and let herself tumble to the ground in a faint.
The response was immediate.
Vincent shouted her name and sprang across the room. As he knelt beside her, Jane forced herself to stay limp, while wishing she could signal to him that it was entirely feigned. Miss Sarah called for Frank, but Jane suspected that she recognised the ruse.
In moments, Vincent had lifted her. “Send for Dr. Jones, please.”
Jane fluttered her eyes open. “No … it was only a faint.” She kept her voice weak but pressed her hand against his chest as firmly as she could. He looked down sharply and she thought, but was not certain, that he understood. “You know how easily I have fainted since … since I was bled. I only stood too quickly, as I did in Murano.”
“It is common with expectant mothers.” Miss Sarah stood behind them. “It happened frequently when I was with Zeus.”
Lord Verbury grunted in response, no doubt studying Vincent and Jane closely.
Vincent’s frown deepened as he studied her. “I will insist on staying with you.”
“I want nothing else.” She leaned her head against his chest and took comfort in his warmth and solidity.
Without another word, Vincent carried her towards their rooms. Frank met them in the passage, appearing from a hidden panel in one wall. He held the door for Vincent, face tight with concern, though Jane thought it was about what he had overheard more than her state.
Only when they were safely in the room with the door shut behind them did Jane lift her head. “You may set me down. It was entirely feigned.”
“When you mentioned Murano, I hoped as much.” In spite of that, Vincent set her down on the bed, not on her feet. “Since you never fainted there.”
In fact, she had fainted in Murano, but this was perhaps not the best time to enlighten him on that front. “I am sorry I could not alert you ahead of time.”
“Understandable.” He brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “Now … why?”
Jane sat up and met Frank’s eyes. “You heard?”
He nodded and pulled out a chair at the table. He rested his hands on the back of it and regarded Vincent. “Will you sit?”
Looking very grave, Vincent sat at the table across from him. As Frank explained what his mother had said, Jane rose from the bed slowly and kept her hand on the bedpost as she did. The last thing she needed to do was faint in earnest. She crossed the room and sank into the chair next to Vincent. Frank’s account was quick and methodical. As he spoke, Vincent’s face grew more grave, and new lines appeared around the edges of his mouth.
When Frank finished, Vincent bent forward and rested his head on his hands. “We should not have freed Zachary.”
Jane was at a loss to see how he could have reached that conclusion from Frank’s recital. “But it puts him, at least, beyond Pridmore’s reach.”