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Cleo was struck by the irrelevant thought that, accent or no, he would have made a remarkable stage actor. Thanks to her mother, she had met many leading men, and none of them could dominate a room the way he did now.

For that matter, he could be a nobleman, stalking the floor of the House of Lords.

The good news was that she wasn’t her mother or a theatrical director, and didn’t give a damn what this American devil thought of her.

Even better: she suddenly thought of an idea that might save Quimby’s.

“Thank you for the counsel,” she said, ladling gratitude into her tone. “So many men try to keep their crumbs of business advice from women, afraid that they will be outdone, I suppose. You don’t understand me, however: I propose that Martha outfit young ladies and their mothers who are attempting to join the peerage. Those women who desperately need the appearance of ladies to match their ambitions.”

Martha didn’t blink an eye at Cleo’s announcement. “There’s no one better than me at taking a young woman from the country and outfitting her so that every man in the audience thinks she’s a princess. What’s more, I can do it in a week, and modistes require well over a month.”

The American scowled. “Where’s the profit? You are describing a quixotic, foolish act of charity. You will lose money on each gown, just as you will lose money on those bishop’s robes.”

“The young ladies whom Quimby’s will serve can afford very expensive garments,” Cleo told him, making her voice kindly, as befitted his ignorance. He was an American. What did he know of the English elite? “London is full of industrialists like yourself, sir. Men whose fortune stems from business, rather than inheritance. Last year, the lord mayor’s daughter married a viscount—and the lord mayor is a fishmonger. A very, very wealthy fishmonger.”

His eyes sharpened, and Cleo felt a pleasing jolt of energy. He grasped her proposal.

“As more and more successful entrepreneurs bring their daughters to the marriage mart known as the Season,” she elaborated, “their family members will need to be outfitted, from head to toe. We will make their daughters look like ladies since they—perhaps foolishly—wish to marry gentlemen.”

One side of his mouth hitched up. “That foolishness may be the first thing we agree upon.”

“Quimby’s will give the ladies a fighting chance to achieve that dream,” Cleo said, throwing him a dark look. “Their looks and dowry must do the rest.”

The American had a thoughtful expression as he registered the force of her argument. Which was very pleasing, since Cleo had only thought it up in the last five minutes, driven by the wish to best him.

“Martha made me look like a proper lady when I played the lead in My Last Duchess,” Gussie said. “I was a fair treat.” She nodded at the American. “You’d have to imagine me, just a slip of a girl from the East End, and Martha no more than one of her da’s junior seamstresses. I was the talk of London. I could have married a duke, iffen I wished!”

Cleo didn’t care if the American was affronted. He was just the sort of man whom she felt inimical to. To whom she felt inimical? She was never quite sure of her grammar.

Who she despised, in plainer English.

No, whom she despised.

A muscle pulsed in his jaw. “A pipe dream,” he said, turning to Martha. “You’ll end up even more embroiled in debt, trying to outfit ladies as well as actors. You should come to America and do what you do so well, Mrs. Quimby: make costumes for the very best theaters.”

A pleasant thought occurred to Cleo. She could make certain that her American agents never sold him any commodes. He would be very sorry for his rudeness when he was unable to befit his water closets with the newest piping.

In his theaters or his own house.

“What is your name?” she inquired.

The man gave her a searching look, his brow twitching when he reached her turban. “My name is Jacob Astor Addison.”

“We have nothing more to discuss,” Martha said. “Even if I hadn’t agreed to new financing, you are not a man I care to do business with, given that you concealed your intention to move Quimby’s to a foreign country—and offered me three thousand pounds that you’re now claiming was four thousand.”

Mr. Addison’s brows drew together . . . again. At this rate he was going to have a crevice between his brows by the age of forty. “Any chicanery belongs at the feet of your solicitor, Mrs. Quimby. I was very clear about the move, and I offered four thousand pounds.”

“That’s as may be,” Martha said tartly. “Mr. Worting is no longer my solicitor, just as you are not my investor.”

“In that case, would you be so kind as to formally introduce me to your new investor, Mrs. Quimby? I’d like to make her acquaintance.”

His words were calm enough, but his eyes were dark and furious. Gussie might even label his gaze “piercing,” but given Gussie’s frown, her maid had suddenly realized that reality wasn’t romantic.

Far from being a hero, this man was a growling despot, shocked to find that the world hadn’t fallen into place at his feet.

“Unfortunately, life is full of disappointments,” Cleo told him. There was something—well, powerful—about him, for all his attire, and she almost dropped a curtsy but kept herself upright. “My name is irrelevant as I have no intention of letting Quimby’s out of my hands.”

“You bought this establishment in order to thwart me, didn’t you?” he demanded.