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Education deserves emphatically to be termed cultivation of mind, which teaches young people how to begin to think.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

While some young ladies lived for the chance to settle down with a husband, I did not. I wasn’t interested in balls and ball gowns or being on display for the marriage mart. Truth was I’d grown accustomed to the simplicity of a pair of breeches, boots, a soft shirt, and a fitted coat while I’d been in Berkshire at my father’s ancestral seat. Boys didn’t know how good they had it. They were free to act as they liked.

Ever hear of a grand tour for ladies? The exciting, adventurous continental jaunt most young aristocratic gents enjoyed? No? Me neither.

My stomach rolled. Marriage in the aristocracy was centered around three things: shoring up fortunes, gaining a title, or building alliances.

Or, in my case, all three.

Two of the gentlemen who had offered their hands were wealthy but twice my age. Horrid! Another was an earl from a neighboring estate who could not stop sniffing and sneezing. Every time we met, I had the urge to give him my handkerchief and bring a spare. Another was a duke, which meant I would be elevated to duchess. If only he didn’t smell like old cheese and sweaty stockings.

Most of the gentlemen I had met during my first season were interested in my dowry, though several of them were wealthy in their own rights. But the sole thing they had in common was how much they loved to talk about themselves. Not one of them ever asked about me, about my interests or my hopes and dreams for the future. There was not a gentleman in London I could envision myself with.

Well, maybe one…

I blinked, shoving away the image of my most recent quarry in his coach, like a prince on a throne with his thick dark brown hair and mocking gray eyes. I bit my lip hard. Rafi Nasser was the last gentleman I should be thinking about. Not only had we just robbed him of his belongings; he was also an arrogant cad.

And the worst kind of rake!

Like most of my brother’s set, Rafi was wealthy and eligible, and he knew it. Heir to his uncle’s viscountcy, he was also the stepson of a powerful Qājār shah and had more money than Midas. His mother, a striking Persian widow who had remarried and returned to the place of her birth, made sure her son’s personal coffers were always brimming.

It didn’t help matters that Rafi was as gorgeous as his mother, was charming to a fault, and had a flirtatious, wicked smile that made my heart flutter, even when it wasn’t directed at me.

Which was never.

Though he’d crushed my fledgling infatuation, there was a tiny part of me that would always wonder whether we might have had any future together. But that was a useless fantasy because Rafi Nasser was a heartless rake who’d made his withering opinion about my affections quite clear. Huffing an irritated breath and pushing the unwelcome rumination from my brain, I turned my attention to Greer, who announced we were nearly back to Mayfair.

When we arrived at the mews attached to my family’s ducal residence in Grosvenor Square, Nori deftly detached the horses and led them back into the stables while we went into the small carriage house. As capable as any groom, she would take her time seeing to their needs.

After greeting Gemma, my lady’s maid, whose displeasure was obvious in her pinched expression, I made sure the curtains were drawn. Gemma was not fond of my escapades, but by now she’d become a reluctant accomplice, at least for the children’s sake. We would both be in huge trouble if my nighttime adventures came to light. “You can go to bed, Gemma. We will be fine, I promise.”

Her sidelong glance was skeptical, but she bobbed. “Very well, my lady.”

She took her leave, and I lit a lamp in the cottage that we had redecorated to be a comfortable and welcoming refuge. It had originally been meant for me to use as a musical studio for practice since the music room in the main house was too close to my father’s study. In the country, at our ducal seat, I had an entire wing to myself. Here, my beloved Viennese fortepiano stood neglected in the corner, and I felt a twang of guilt. I hadn’t been practicing of late, more interested in the activities of our secret society.

We had all divested ourselves of our exterior trappings when Nori came in flushed and smelling of horsehair and leather. “Well, that was a bit of an adventure,” she pronounced, running a hand through her short mop of pin-straight black hair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t venture so far into that dodgy area of Hounslow Heath. We’re lucky we didn’t run into more trouble or that the horses didn’t get hurt. That coaching stop is notorious for bandits.”

“We’re quite safe and sound,” I pointed out. “And we’re so very nearly to our goal of raising the three hundred pounds we need for Sister Mary.”

Her midnight gaze narrowed. “Barely. Were those Runners I saw on your heels?”

“Yes,” I said, wrinkling my brow. “They can’t have known who we were, however. We could have been anyone. It was just bad timing.” I retrieved the pouch from my coat pocket and hefted it before passing it to Greer. “Rin was there in the carriage tonight,” I told Nori.

She looked surprised. “My Rin? As in my brother who is supposed to be on his grand tour?” I nodded, squashing my burst of envy as Nori rolled her eyes. “He must be back. Hope you fleeced him good.”

“I did. He was in his cups, but it looked like they’d all done well at the tables.”

“That was too close,” Lalita said.

“How much did we get?” I asked Greer as she rifled through the contents of the bag.

“One ring, three pocket watches, one snuff tin, a gold cross, and about twenty-two quid.”

Two rings, if one counted the one stashed securely in my pocket.

“See? Worth it,” I maintained.

Nori nodded. “I’ll get the jewelry and tin to the pawnbroker’s.”

When I’d first suggested the idea for us to help the church and orphanage in distress à la Robin Hood, the other three girls had been aghast, until I’d explained that we wouldn’t be in any real danger, considering our targets would be my brother’s friends. And it would save Beth. That had been the clincher. Beth was a seven-year-old orphan whom we all adored, whose mother had died from consumption, and who had been taken in by Sister Mary, a nun at Bellevue Chapel. If the Little Hands orphanage, which adjoined Welton and the church, closed, Beth and the rest of the children would have nowhere to go. While I desperately wanted to safeguard Beth and Little Hands, the Welton House School for Elegant Young Ladies was also part of the same tenement and was sublet from the church by the owners, the three Perkins sisters. Thus, the finishing school would also be at risk of closing.

The owner of the land intended to sell the three attached buildings on the property block to Viscount Hollis, who’d convert Bellevue into one of the largest gaming hells in London. Its location between Mayfair and Covent Garden was prime. Or at least, that was what I’d overheard Sister Mary say. It didn’t help that the struggling chapel had been defaulting on its loans for months and was being chased by creditors.

Swallowing my lingering disquiet, I glanced up, eyeing each of my best friends in turn. “One more score, and we’ll have enough. We’ve come this far, and we can’t stop now. The children, our classmates, even the parishioners—they’re all depending on us. Sister Mary said the church will lose everything if they can’t pay their quarterly lease. We can’t let that happen.”

Greer pinned her lips but gave a terse nod of her blond head. Of our small group of friends, she was always the easiest to convince. After a while, Nori cleared her throat and rubbed her chin with a soft murmur of agreement. Lalita gulped down her biscuit, looking like she was going to swoon again. “Zia…we nearly got arrested. By Runners. ”

“Don’t worry,” I said, and shoved down the feelings of worry and guilt dueling in the pit of my stomach. “I know just who to target next. We won’t get arrested, I promise.”

“Who?” she asked, eyes wary.

“Viscount Hollis.”

Greer let out a low whistle. “Rafi Nasser’s uncle?”

I swallowed, wondering if I was being uncharacteristically foolish. Given our evening, I should stay far away from that particular gentleman or any of his family. Something about the way he’d stared at me had troubled my mind. Then again, that had probably been nerves. Besides, this would have nothing to do with Rafi…. It had to do with his odious uncle, who deserved to be fleeced for such a worthy cause.

It was he, after all, who had designs on Bellevue for his atrocious gaming hell.

Certainly, my friends and I could find other reputable finishing schools to attend. But he was the monster who wanted to oust innocent orphans!

“The viscount goes to the Danforth’s gambling hell every Saturday and spends a fortune. You know he’s behind this plan, so he should have to pay. Next weekend, we’ll do it fast and dirty. He won’t even know what hit him, and no one will be the wiser. Trust me.”

My heart gave a wild thump as if in protest of what, deep down, I secretly hoped.

That despite the risk, I’d cross paths with Rafi again.

The Welton House School for Elegant Young Ladies, a prestigious and exclusive seminary for gifted young women, only had room for twenty students at a time. The girls ranged from fourteen to eighteen in age. I suppose I was the twenty-first, thanks to a very generous donation to the school from the Duke of Harbridge. Not that Papa had been pleased about that in the least— daughters of dukes usually did not attend finishing schools. They had governesses and private tutors, and like my brother, I’d had multiples of both.

However, Nori, whom I’d known since her father worked for mine, attended the school. And then I’d met Greer at a country house party in Reading two years ago, and she’d been so rapt with her arts-and-music teacher that I’d become obsessed with attending. My father had immediately said no, but Mama, who was a little more progressive in her thinking thanks to her own broad West Indian upbringing, had been adamant that instruction with other young ladies from other backgrounds would be good for me. It helped that the school had an excellent music program, considering the youngest Perkins sister was a virtuoso who played six instruments.

I smirked. People in the ton might think that men were in control, but powerful women always had agency in a world that, historically, wasn’t conducive to equality. My mother was the perfect example of that fact. Not only was she beautiful with her lustrous deep bronze skin, immaculate style, and charming elegance, she was as smart as a whip. Growing up, I’d seen her handle Papa’s rigidity and reserve with a clever acuity to be admired.

You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar, love, she’d often said to me. Pick your battles wisely because there isn’t a moment in our lives where we women are not fighting for something. Your choices are the only thing within your control.

And so, Papa had reluctantly conceded to her indisputable logic, and I was allowed to attend as a day student two or three times a week for a few subjects, including musical composition, while we were in town and Parliament was in session. I counted my blessings. There was simply no chance he would have agreed for me to board with the other girls who shared rooms there. I still had my duke-approved governess and tutors, which mollified him somewhat.

Thank goodness Welton House wasn’t terribly far from Mayfair, but it was worth every minute of the cramped carriage ride. When the weather became nicer, perhaps I could ride, accompanied by a groom and my chaperone. But for the moment, being driven back and forth was a condition of my father’s, and one he would not budge on.

Right now, I sat with Lalita, Greer, Nori, and three other girls in the classroom waiting patiently for our favorite language, music, and arts teacher to arrive. Miss Perkins was the youngest of the three sisters who ran the school and part of the whole reason I’d fallen in love with Welton. Apart from her musical genius, her outlook on life was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. She lived fearlessly and unapologetically. She wasn’t demure, and she wasn’t soft-spoken. She wasn’t subservient or invisible.

No, Miss Perkins was vivacious, impetuous, and opinionated.

Despite being the offspring of an impoverished baron and forced to work because of her family’s reduced circumstances, she had chosen to live on her own terms over marrying a man to secure her position. Working as a governess, among other things, she had traveled all over the Continent and to the Far East, following her passions for art, music, and culture. Given her range, particularly with music, when she’d returned to England, her sisters had offered her a place at the seminary.

She taught things that no one else did, at least not to impressionable young ladies. She encouraged us to form our small book club, filled with selections we chose, and she allowed us to read books that weren’t part of the approved curriculum. As required, we read Shakespeare and studied French, Italian, and Latin; played music; and critiqued art. But every term, we also chose a book that high society would not approve of and read that in secret. In fact, the text we read and discussed last was A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Her older sisters would not approve.

Nor would our parents and guardians….

After a few minutes, Miss Perkins entered the room and locked the door. Her auburn hair was barely contained in a haphazard bun, loose pieces flying everywhere, but her green eyes sparkled with humor and knowledge. Freckles more plentiful than mine were scattered over her face, giving her a very gamine appearance, despite her being in her mid-to-late twenties.

These book club sessions were clandestine for good reason, and we were all very careful to be discreet when we met to discuss contemporary literature. In addition to my three best friends, there was Lady Petal Joshi, a slightly older girl of Indian descent and the daughter of a marquess, along with Miss Sarah Peabody, the pale-complexioned, well-heeled daughter of a doctor. The last, Miss Blythe Danforth, was a shy, soft-spoken brunette whose father owned a popular gaming hell. Despite her background and common origins—and the fact that my father would have apoplexy if he knew who her people were—I liked her. Her shyness hid a bright mind and a sly sense of humor.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Miss Perkins greeted us with a wide smile as she propped herself upon her desk without care for propriety.

I grinned as light blue stockings peeped out from the tops of her worn ankle boots. In this room, we were all encouraged to be ourselves. Greer and I were the only ones of the group who had taken to wearing blue stockings beneath our garments like Miss Perkins. It was a nod to the Bluestocking society of old, which had championed literature, arts, education, and intellectual conversation. Supposedly, they had gotten their name when one of the founders invited a new member to come in his everyday blue stockings. A few of the society’s original female founders, like Elizabeth Montagu and Hannah More, had been writers themselves, fighting the patriarchy via the power of thepen.

We had read their works in our clandestine book club, too.

“Good afternoon, Miss Perkins,” everyone replied.

“So here we are, nearly to the end of this rather lengthy and provocative treatise by Wollstonecraft. What are your thoughts thus far? Any new thoughts since our class last week?”

I wrinkled my nose, not wanting to admit that I’d already devoured the whole essay in no time at all. Once I’d started, I hadn’t been able to stop. Mary Wollstonecraft had been ahead of her time and her opinions about women’s rights were eye-opening and empowering.

Greer raised her hand. “I agree with Wollstonecraft’s disdain of the idea that ‘every woman is at heart a rake.’ Choosing a husband isn’t about passion.”

“A witty rake might be exciting, but that won’t last,” Sarah interjected with a nod.

“And how would you know?” Nori said under her breath, though everyone heard.

Sarah canted her strawberry blond head, glaring at Nori. “If a match is based on that alone, there’s nothing for the couple to fall back on as life progresses. Rakes are a trap. As the author says, ‘Common passions are excited by common qualities.’?”

“That’s a sweeping generalization,” I remarked. “Shared interests could develop as well, and not all men considered rakes are lost causes or lacking in character and wit.”

“Says the one of us with the most privilege, who can choose from the crème de la crème of suitors,” she shot back. “Some of us do not have the luxury of love or being able to refuse a half dozen offers. You’re so conceited, Zia.”

I bristled at the unexpected attack. I was well aware of my advantages, and I did not take them lightly, but for her to assume that I had it any easier in this particular matter was vexing. Or to call out the fact that I had said no to the gentlemen offering marriage with whom I hadn’t had a rapport. I wasn’t about to throw the rest of my life away by wedding someone I didn’t at least esteem. That didn’t make me…conceited.

“Ignore her,” Nori whispered, but I still balled my fingers in my lap.

Sarah wasn’t finished. “And besides, what of your brother’s mate Mr. Nasser? He’s a rake through and through who dallies shamelessly with older women, I’ve heard. Are you suggesting that I am mistaken in my opinions and that such a man would make a good husband? If so, perhaps I should ask my father to reconsider his suit.”

At the mere mention of his name, my stomach jolted, then dove to my feet. Rafi had expressed an interest in courting her ? Since when ? An ugly stab of jealousy took me by surprise, and I tried desperately to keep my face blank. I had no claim over him. Beyond the fraught bit of tension the other night, Rafi paid no attention to me. Clearly, however, he had noticed Sarah. That knowledge was gutting.

Miss Perkins clapped her hands, drawing our collective attention. “Ladies, while impassioned discussion is appreciated, let’s keep it to the themes in this work. What are your thoughts on the author’s opinions that early teachings impact later decisions?”

“I suppose that’s accurate,” Nori said loudly, attempting to ease the tension. “If we are taught that a certain way of thinking is natural, then by default, we will gravitate toward certain behaviors. Information leads action. Horses are trained to trot, to canter, and to jump. As awful as the comparison is, women are treated the same by men.” She paused for a moment, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “We are taught how to think and act from infancy. Any choices we make in life will be limited by what we are allowed to know of it.”

Miss Perkins smiled. “Excellent deduction, Miss Kaneko. And that is why we are here. To form our own opinions based on the information at our fingertips. A well-read girl has an army at her disposal.”

“Knowledge is power,” Blythe chimed in softly.

Miss Perkins’s smile widened. “Yes, but not on its own. Action is power. Anyone can glean knowledge. It’s what you do with it, and it’s the choice to act, that makes it explosive. Knowledge is simply tinder; action is the flame. Remember that.”