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“Only yesterday your solicitor informed me that you had agreed to my offer,” the American continued.

Cleo thought about sitting down and watching the encounter like a scene in a play. But she might need to intervene at any moment. She stayed where she was, edging to the side so she could see the financier’s face. His chin was absurdly strong, suggesting an obstinate temperament.

She loathed stubborn men: they were so often underqualified and overpresumptuous.

“I did agree,” Martha replied. “Before I changed my mind.”

“She did!” Gussie confirmed.

“I broke off negotiations with Winch’s Costume Emporium when I was told you had agreed to my offer,” he barked. “You can’t just change your mind. This is a matter of business, Mrs. Quimby. We had an agreement.”

“No, we didn’t,” Martha retorted, folding her hands at her waist. “You may have had several conversations with my solicitor, but I signed no papers.”

“Martha didn’t sign a paper,” Gussie cried. “You can’t carry out your Machiavellian machinations, you villainous scoundrel!”

Cleo found herself smiling again. Gussie’s voice had abruptly taken on the intonation of a proper young lady because she was quoting from one of her favorite plays, Love’s Dominion.

In contrast, the American’s voice seemed intrinsically part of him. He would never change its intonation to play the part of a king or seduce someone of lower rank. It was all of a piece: the scruff on his chin, the broad shoulders, the gravelly voice, the . . . the rest of him.

“Why didn’t you sign the contract?” he demanded. “If you’re angling for more money, I have to tell you that your current debts reduced the value of my offer considerably. I can assure you that once I expand this enterprise, you will become a very wealthy woman.”

“I don’t want more money,” Martha said. “I’ve made other plans. I found another investor.”

“No one will give you the support that I offered,” the American stated. “Did you read the section where—”

“I didn’t have time to read your offer,” Martha said, cutting him off.

His eyes went from frustrated to forbidding. “Am I to understand that you refused my offer without even reading it? Am I to be given no chance to bid against whoever stepped in?”

“Yes, I did. I am,” Martha told the American, displaying a near manly gift for obstinacy.

Cleo didn’t feel a bit of guilt at the idea of thwarting this brash man. The American rebellion had happened before she was born, but she knew the facts of it. They were a wild and undisciplined people who wouldn’t agree to pay taxes, even for tea. They’d rather drink coffee, simply to avoid taxes.

Which said about everything that needed to be said, given that coffee was a vile drink that tasted like fusty beans.

No wonder the American had been tricked by a solicitor who hid information for personal gain. Trying to abscond with unsuspecting people and take them to New York City, wherever that was.

Geography was not Cleo’s strong suit. Governesses had periodically joined her parents’ household, but they invariably left within the week, not caring for their mistress’s fascination with the stage—particularly her extramarital relationships with handsome actors. Her kindly, retiring father had given his wife her freedom, and spent his time in his offices.

Not your business, darling, her mother observed.

Pushing away that unhelpful comment, Cleo waited to see what happened next between Martha and the American. It felt as if it had been months, perhaps a year, since something so interesting came her way. Lately, the world had been flat and gray, but now her blood was fizzing with something close to excitement.

“I am refusing your offer,” Martha said firmly.

“Why?”

“Because she had no idea that you intended to move her business interests to New York City,” Cleo put in, moving to stand next to Martha, across from Gussie.

He glanced at her, his brows drawing together. Anger was flickering in his eyes, but he seemed to have himself under control. Cleo’s lips started to curl into a smile, but she stopped herself. No matter how enjoyable she found his offended look, it would only enrage him if she laughed.

In her experience, men were incapable of accepting that they might—sometimes—be a figure of fun.

“Are you Mrs. Quimby’s daughter?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then what the devil have you to say about it?” His impatient gaze slid away, and he turned back to Martha.