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"I'm not inclined to ask nicely." He jammed a cigarette into the corner of his lips and struck a match on the arm of Uncle Archie's chair. "Nor do I want his money, for it always comes with strings."

"The expectation that you behave like a respectable human being, you mean?"

He blew out a long line of smoke as he stepped clear of the desk. There were flecks of white paint on his trousers and a few splatters of it on his work boots. "I did my time in this cursed house, and I'm done with it. Some people may not mind being puppetized and paraded about, but I happen to mind tremendously."

Louisa had been doing her best to keep the conversation at a whisper, but now she heard a noise in the hall and cracked the door, wondering if Uncle Archie was already returning from the garden. But no, it was only the butler on his way up the stairs with his master's dress shoes, which had been freshly shined for the party that evening.

They were running out of time. Any minute now, Uncle Archie would return and find them both in his study. As such, Louisa wanted to be done with the conversation as soon as possible, but she also didn't want to lose the argument at hand.

"They can't exactly help it that they have money," she said. "It's been kind of them to look after us all these years, especially now that they don't have to. They may not always be right or perfect, but if they have certain expectations of me, then so be it. They've been good to me—to both of us—and there's nothing wrong with being the slightest bit thankful for it."

Paul's laugh released another cloud of smoke as he moved to leave the room. He reached for the door handle, and Louisa was now close enough to him that she could smell the stale alcohol on his breath. Despite her irritation, she began to worry.

"Where are you going?"

"Nowhere that is likely to result in my marrying a rich fool." He met her eyes. Here, at least, was one of the only noticeable differences in their features, for his were gray while hers were blue. "Tell me. Do you really think David Ashworth will look at you in that gown tonight and propose on the spot? Aunt Agatha certainly thinks so. But of course, all those rich men, they wouldn't look twice at you if she and Uncle Archie weren't so benevolent, trussing you up and promising a financial windfall to the richest bloke who will have you. I suppose it is lucky that they so enjoy showing you off—their niece, the lowly vicar's daughter, and orphaned no less! The wealthy love their charities, don't they?"

Louisa's face flushed, whether from anger or from mortification she couldn't decide, for she was feeling both in equal measure. "You're horribly mean."

"If I wanted to be mean, I wouldn't try to warn you, would I?"

"Warn me about what?"

"You're always saying I'm up to no good, and I suppose you're right. I've never pretended to hide my vices, and so you know exactly what they are. But there are truly terrible people all around you, Louisa. You can't see them because they have stacks of money or lofty positions to hide behind, but they're there, and I mean to prove it."

Louisa couldn't help but roll her eyes. It was hard to give credence to anything her brother said on this topic, for she'd heard many such rantings, especially in recent years. "I think you're drunk."

"Think whatever you'd like." He flicked his cigarette stub into the fireplace. "I'd hate for you to be distressed when you have to be looking your best at the party tonight. Aunt Agatha would never forgive me for hurting your chances with David Ashworth."

Now Louisa was seething. When their parents had died, she and Paul had promised to look after each other. But then they'd moved into Everly Hall and begun growing apart like a tree split at the root. It wasn't only that Paul had run off and started a whole new life without her as soon as he was old enough to do so. He was an adult and could make his own decisions. But he'd left that first night without so much as leaving word—without asking her to come with him—and now he kept reappearing, time and again, to quarrel with her.

Louisa knew better than to voice any of this out loud, for Paul loved to fling her words back on her, and so she struck him with a question: "Would you have been happier if I'd run off like you, homeless and penniless those first few months, to sleep in the street and see what might have become of me?"

He didn't answer. Beneath the unbuttoned top of his collar, Louisa spotted a thin silver chain. She didn't have to see the icon beneath his shirtfront to know it bore St. Jude's likeness—the patron saint of lost and desperate causes. It had been given to him by a Catholic priest who had attended their father's funeral. She and Paul had been only fourteen years old at the time, and she'd never seen her brother without it.

"I may be a snob," she said at last, "but you're a hypocrite."

"Louisa—"