“Yes, though we’ll need additional funds for the youngest family. They have four children, all under ten.” Patrick’s expression hardened with memories of his own hasty escape. “The Russian authorities are watching the borders more closely.”
“Take what’s needed from the Eastern Account,” Hereford said without hesitation. “And add this month’s profits from Snowflake’s Grecian tales.”
“That’s generous,” Patrick said, making a notation. “Her stories alone have made us a small fortune.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To our causes and the most ruthlessly impractical businessmen in London.”
“To business, then,” Hereford conceded with a wry smile, clinking his glass against his friend’s. “And to our Snowflake, who seems determined to scandalize all of London with her imagination.”
“To Snowflake,” Patrick agreed. “May she never discover that her scandalous literature is being published by the very aristocrats she seems to enjoy debauching on paper.”
Their laughter mingled with the cigar smoke as they returned to their clandestine business.
As they sorted through the final manuscripts of the evening, Patrick commented, “Carlisle’s soiree is in a week’s time. No doubt his wife’s friend, Thornton’s sister, will be there. The one who keeps writing editorials about the moral bankruptcy of peers.”
“Miss Amelia Thornton,” Hereford supplied. “I suppose I should make an appearance, if only to provide her with fresh material for hernext character assassination.”
“She certainly seems to have formed a strong opinion of you,” Patrick observed. “One might almost think she’s studied you carefully.”
“Yes,” Hereford murmured, shuffling through another manuscript. “One might indeed.”
He carefully refolded the pages, his mind already turning to their next encounter. Perhaps Miss Thornton would provide him with some fresh insight into women’s secret desires, albeit unintentionally. The thought made him smile as he locked Snowflake’s scandalous creation safely away until their next clandestine meeting.
*
The Reform Club’slibrary smelled of leather and secrets. Amelia sat surrounded by stacks of reports and correspondence, her leg aching from hours of research. She’d nearly given up finding concrete evidence of systematic negligence when Lord Norwich appeared beside her table.
“Miss Thornton.” His voice was quiet, mindful of the library’s silence. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Amelia looked up, caught off guard by his presence. “Lord Norwich. I wouldn’t have expected to find you here.”
“I make it a point to stay informed about social concerns.” His smile held calculated charm as he gestured to the chair across from her. “May I?”
She nodded, watching as he settled into the seat. There was something compelling about his presence—a steady dignity that contrasted sharply with Hereford’s restless energy.
“You’re researching factory conditions.” His eyes flickered over her notes. “A worthy cause.”
“Do you really think so?” She studied his face. “Most men of yourposition seem to find such investigations… inconvenient.”
“Progress requires change, Miss Thornton. And change requires brave souls willing to speak uncomfortable truths.” His voice held just the right note of conviction. “Though I imagine such work can be rather exhausting.”
She shifted in her chair, her wooden leg protesting the long hours. Norwich noticed immediately, moving to assist her with smooth courtesy.
“Allow me to fetch you a footstool.” His hand brushed her arm as he stood. “No need to overtax yourself.”
The gesture was kind, but something in his tone made her skin prickle.
“You’re very solicitous, my lord.”
“Not at all.” He returned with the footstool, helping her arrange it. “I simply believe in supporting worthy endeavors.”
Their faces were close as he adjusted the footstool. She caught the scent of expensive cologne. When their eyes met, his gaze pierced hers. The intensity she saw there gave her gooseflesh, which was not entirely pleasant.
His gloved hand covered hers where it rested on the table. The touch was possessive. “I’ve long advocated for reform. Among other interests we might share.”
“My lord…” Her voice emerged softly.
“Robert,” he corrected, leaning closer. “Please.” The library’s hush seemed to deepen around them. His voice dropped lower. “Miss Thornton, I find myself thinking of you far more than is proper.”
The library door opened, and they both righted their postures.
