“Capet is not the only person in Europe capable of quoting Greek,” Colin said.

“Of course not,” I said. “But you must agree the manner of the theft sounds just like him. Stealing a painting to give it to someone who would appreciate it?” I slipped a lacy dressing gown over my shoulders and pulled it close.

“How does that bear any similarity to a man who was obsessed with owning things that belonged to Marie Antoinette?”

“It’s the spirit of it! They both reveal…” I paused, looking for the right word. “There’s a sense of humor there, a clever focus.”

“Heaven help me. You’re taken with another burglar.” He splashed water on his face and scrubbed it clean.

“There is no other burglar. I recognize Sebastian’s tone.”

“And you remain on a first-name basis with the charming man. Admit it—for you, my dear, there will never be another burglar.”

“You’re jealous!” I said.

“Hardly,” Colin said. “In fact, I don’t object in the least to you investigating the matter further. It might prove an excellent distraction.”

“Did you really have the impression that Inspector Gaudet is competent?”

“He seemed perfectly adequate.” He drew his eyebrows together. “Has he done something to lose your confidence?”

“George wasn’t pleased with the way he handled the issue of their intruder.”

“Which is why I suggest you spend as much time as you’d like investigating the matter,” he said.

“And the murdered girl?”

“Sadly, Emily, she is none of our concern.”

5 July 1892

I’m trying my best to tolerate my son’s child bride, but the effort would be taxing for a woman of twice my stamina. I realize she’s not so young as I imply, but youth, I’ve always believed, is less about age than experience, and this unfortunate girl has a dearth of it.