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He grinned. “I was hardly squeezing. Besides, I couldn’t risk you throttling Bartholomew. Although I’m sure Gable was just as odious.”

“Was it that obvious?” she asked.

“Only if someone were looking directly at you. What on earth were they talking about and how did you get roped into it?” he asked, helping himself to two glasses of wine that sat on a sideboard. He handed one to her and tipped the other in a little mock toast.

“I walked by as they were talking about how women can’t produce great art,” she said.

“I’m shocked you didn’t suddenly acquire the ability to shoot lightning bolts from your eyes.”

Gavin was one of the few people outside of her household who knew just how deeply those horrid men’s comments would have cut her. Sculpture was her passion, even if most brushed her art off as the amusing eccentricity of an overindulged young lady.

“One of these days I’m going to tell those men exactly what they can do with their opinions,” she muttered into her claret.

He leaned in. “Does it involve coarse language?”

“The coarsest.”

“That’s hardly ladylike,” he said.

“Neither is teaching me to swear with such variety in French, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek, but that didn’t stop you.”

A rich laugh bubbled up from Gavin’s chest. “I know you have a reputation as an original, but we’ve been friends long enough that I know there are two times you might make a bit too much trouble even by your standards: when you’re bored and when you’re angry.”

“I’m not a child who needs to be managed,” said Ina, crossing her arms over her chest before realizing it was a rather childlike gesture. She quickly uncrossed them and fiddled with the stem of her glass.

“Oh no,” he said. “I’ll not be goaded into an argument with you just because those men made you angry.”

“You’re no fun,” she said.

“Ah, but I am. Who else will teach you to throw a proper punch or go tearing through Holyrood Park with you at eight o’clock in the morning?”

She shrugged. She had to give him that. When it came to indulging the frantic energy that sometimes consumed her when she didn’t have a project, Gavin was always by her side.

He’d been her father’s friend first, one of the rare few writers Arthur Duncan respected enough to summon to his study to discuss some aspect of his sprawling book that never seemed to be done. But over the years Gavin had become her friend, as well.

She’d never forget the day he’d walked uninvited into the poky little room she called a studio, sat down, and begun chatting as though it was completely normal for a young lady to be going at a block of stone with a set of tools. For some inexplicable reason, having him in her space didn’t bother her, and she found that he was one of the few people around whom she could work.

He kept coming back—at first every week, and then every other day, and finally every day—bringing her sandwiches when she forgot to eat and talking to her about everything from the novel he was working on to the latest lecture he’d been to at one of the city’s art societies. Soon she found herself debating him between chisel taps, reaching into her own knowledge as an artist to hurl counterpoints at him. It was on this mutual love of art that their friendship had been born.

“Did you know that Mrs. Sullivan is in possession of a Carriera?” Gavin asked suddenly.

Ina’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“It’s one of her lesser works and small, but it’s undoubtedly a Carriera hanging in the library,” he said.

Rosalba Carriera had painted for the kings of Europe more than one hundred years ago. Carriera had achieved such acclaim that no one could deny the vivacity and brilliance of her work. Her paintings were treasures, rarer than colorless diamonds.

“How did she acquire one? And when?” Ina had only ever seen Carrieras reproduced as lithographs in her father’s huge art books.

“No one is entirely sure, but some say Mrs. Sullivan was given the painting by a groom as a thank-you for smoothing the way for his marriage to the woman he loved, despite opposition from the parents on both sides. Speaking of our hostess, I’m to understand she has some connection to Mr. Dunne and his new journal. He’s looking for works to serialize.”

Gavin had published his first and only book five years ago to modest success—enough to encourage him to write another. But then a year had turned into two years and then three. When he'd finally delivered the manuscript to his publisher, he was told it wasn’t quite up to snuff. Ina had watched him swallow that disappointment and close in on himself. If he wanted to write again, surely that was a good sign.

“Go speak to Mrs. Sullivan. Everyone should know how brilliant you are,” she said.

His eyes crinkled with his smile. “You’re sure you’ll be all right? Bartholomew and Gable are still roaming free.”

“If I see them advancing in this direction, I’ll run,” she said.