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It had become their habit to meet once a week for lunch, sometimes at Westbrook House, but more often in William’s private dining room at his bank’s main office on Lombard Street. William’s daily lunch was catered by a French chef whose exquisite offerings were far superior to this plate of plain roast, potatoes, and peas.

“You’re right, of course,” Reina conceded, “but the surroundings are lovely. And now I won’t have to be curious about restaurants anymore.”

Virtually all public dining establishments in London were exclusively for men. On more than one occasion, Reina had been the only woman at a business meeting and was excluded afterward when the group went out for dinner.

In her wild curiosity to see the inside of a restaurant, she’d come up with a variety of schemes. Disguising herself in a gentleman’s suit and a fake beard, for example, or bribing the head waiter to set up a folding screen around a corner table. She’d even designed a personal periscope made from wood tubing and pocket mirrors, for gazing around doorjambs or window frames. Amused and exasperated by her persistence, William had finally offered to escort her to a restaurant.

Now, to Reina’s immense satisfaction, she was seated in the spacious main room, with its lofty ceilings, acres of gleaming paneled woodwork, and oil paintings in heavy gold frames. The only blot on the landscape was the reaction of the other diners to her presence. Entire tables of men had turned to stare pointedly at the lone female who had dared to invade their domain.

Were they going to do this for the entire meal? Well, let them stare. She wasn’t going to be chased off.

“This is doing your reputation no good,” William said, disgruntled.

Reina smiled. “My dear man, I never had a good reputation to ruin in the first place.”

He didn’t respond, too occupied with glaring coldly at the gawkers. Some of them lowered their gazes; he wasn’t a man anyone wanted as an enemy.

“Asses,” he muttered, before asking Reina abruptly, “Shall we leave?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I insist on staying, especially if it annoys these gentlemen all through lunch.”

William laughed reluctantly, as she’d known he would.

As the only woman of William’s acquaintance who could hold her own with him, Reina freely challenged his opinions. In return, William talked to her the way she’d always imagined men talked to each other, with a respect that didn’t have to be earned over and over. A respect that allowed for honesty, disagreements, and unguarded remarks.

Under William’s mentorship, Reina’s investments had multiplied in an astonishingly short time. Her economic knowledge had been mostly academic, but William was from the world of finance, in which all that counted were results. He’d taught her to approach investing with a hunter’s discipline and patience, pouncing on opportunities that others overlooked.

Her trading style, however, was all her own. It had emerged from a unique perspective on Lombard Street: a woman’s view. In a culture where the average man didn’t sew or cook his own meals, male traders didn’t always appreciate the growth potential of companies that produced bottled gravy or mechanical eggbeaters or ready-made clothing. For the first time in Reina’s life, being female had become an advantage instead of a drawback. It was why she’d dared to invest as an early backer of the Edison Electric Light Company, when others had refrained out of caution. Women were accustomed to taking unconventional paths to success.

Friendship with William had benefited her in other ways as well. As the nephew of a viscount, William wasn’t an aristocrat in the strict sense, but he’d been raised with the thousands of intricate rules that governed how they behaved, spoke, thought, dressed, and ate. Not only had he helped Reina acquire social polish, he’d also developed her taste in music and art.

One day he had taken her to visit a Bond Street dealer, Monsieur Paul Durand-Ruel, who was known for his cultivation of French artists. While browsing through the gallery’s treasures, Reina noticed an unframed canvas that had been stored at the back of the gallery in a vertical rack.

The image had been painted in the new Impressionistic style, the canvas cobbled with loose brushwork applied in thick impasto. But instead of the landscapes usually favored by Impressionist artists, this had portrayed a mother sitting outside with a rambunctious child on her lap. It was about the world of a girl and a woman, and their relationship to each other. Even before she’d read the signature in the corner . . . Mary Cassatt . . . Reina had known the artist was female.

William had come to look down at the canvas. “A bit sentimental for my taste,” he remarked. “It lacks something that might elevate it to a level of importance.”

Reina had twisted to glance up at him with a quizzical smile. “Motherhood is important. Children are important.”

William had reached down to pull her to a standing position. She’d ended up facing him, their bodies unexpectedly close.

His blue eyes had stared down into hers with a degree of interest that revealed she had surprised him somehow. “Important to you?” he’d asked casually, his gaze not moving from hers.

The question had lingered like a piano note: simple and yet formed of complex resonance.

Now, as they sat together in a public restaurant, Reina felt a rush of fondness for this man, who had influenced her in so many ways over the past three years.

He was still shooting ominous glances at other diners, who persisted in staring.

“William,” she said sotto voce, “pay them no mind. They’ll tire of it soon.”

“They had better, by God. I’m committing every one of them to memory.”

Reina sought a way to divert his attention. “Perhaps this is a good time to mention a small matter I’ve been meaning to take up with you.”

William looked at her then.

“This latest issue of the bank gazette,” she continued, “the ladies’ page, specifically—”