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“I told you,” Valora said. “He danced with her last night at the ball. Two dances. He danced the second waltz. Have you ever known Wolfarth to dance, let alone a waltz?”

The ladies all started talking at once, until Tiffany clapped her hands. “Please, ladies. I have no idea what his intentions are. Like you, I shall just have to wait and see. But we have investments to discuss and a challenge to organize.” There was no way she was confessing her arrangement with Wolf to her friends.

“Perhaps one of our male relatives has come to their senses,” Courtney said. “Perhaps he realizes what a catch Tiffany would be.” Tiffany wanted to hug her.

“Let’s see how they react when we go to Mrs. Buchanan’s soiree,” Ashleigh added. “I can’t wait to see the look on Wolf’s face when he sees us there.”

Once the ladies had wiped the tears of laughter from their eyes, Ivy said, “We have to go now. The look on their faces will be priceless. The gossip sheets will have a field day but I don’t care. Safety in numbers. We should call ourselves the Sisterhood of Scandal.”

The women began talking over each other in excitement. Claire approached Tiffany. “I’ll get the hats.”

Tiffany stopped her and whispered in her ear, “Leave Valora until last and keep Fane’s name out of the hat until then.” She winked to drive her message home.

“Oh, I intend to, don’t you worry. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“Good. I’m going to run upstairs and get the latest stock sheets. Then we can divide up the companies to research.”

“You do that while we draw our opponents’ names.”

Tiffany caught Claire’s odd smile, but thought nothing of it until she arrived back in the room ten minutes later and learned the man she was to torment was Wolf. She looked at the knowing smiles around the table. It was obvious her secret crush was no secret.

Her face flooded with heat as she sank onto her chair.

“I for one cannot wait to learn how you propose to torment Wolf,” Ivy said. “Ashleigh and I are happy to help. It’s about time my brother met his match.”

Tiffany didn’t know what to say, but at the same time, excitement skittered along her veins. She now had to pit her wits against one of London’s most intelligent, handsome and irritating men. While they privately had their own wager, she wasn’t about to tell him of the DD’s other challenge.

As ideas swarmed through her head, a feeling of euphoria warmed every inch of her body.

She now had a reason to study Wolf, even after she won their month-long wager. Her excitement grew. She had the perfect excuse to purposely bump into him, to talk to him, to seek out his company.

Given Wolf’s agenda, she should not be so excited. But at least this gave her an excuse to find out why he’d offered marriage.

She couldn’t wait.

“Who shall draft the note? If it’s to go to Fane, it needs to be in a script he won’t recognize.”

“I’ll do it,” Courtney volunteered. She readied herself with quill and parchment. “Who’s going to dictate?”

Claire took charge. “How about—My Lords Marlowe, Wolfarth, Vale, Lorne and His Grace the Duke of Blackstone.

“It is said in the clubs that you are skilled investors, the best in all England, and that everything you touch returns you a healthy profit. It is also known that you are men who love—”

“Would men use the word ‘love’?” Ashleigh asked.

“Good point,” Tiffany said. “What about—it is also known that you are men who never refuse a bet, and as such, I issue a challenge. I offer you a wager—”

“No. Men are more direct,” Claire said. “Instead of ‘I offer you a wager’, say instead, “I would like to suggest we each invest one thousand pounds, and in twelve months to this day, we meet at White’s—”

There were loud gasps and they all started talking at once.

“We cannot meet at White’s,” Farah said. “Ladies cannot enter.”

Claire nodded. “Quite right. What about this?” She started over, and ten minutes later Courtney had the full letter transcribed and ready for the ladies to inspect.

My Lords Marlowe, Wolfarth, Vale, Lorne and His Grace the Duke of Blackstone

This day, 1 April, 1808

It is said in the clubs that you are skilled investors, the best in all England, and that everything you touch returns you a healthy profit. It is also known that you are men who never say no to a bet, and as such I issue a challenge.

I would like to suggest we each invest one thousand pounds, and in twelve months to this day, we meet in His Grace’s study with our investment ledgers, where we will determine who has accumulated the largest return from the individual one-thousand-pound investments, and who can claim the title of the most astute investor in all England.

What is the prize, other than the esteemed title? The winner takes the total amount earned, six thousand pounds (one thousand pounds each) plus any capital growth. If you agree to these terms, place the wager in the betting book at White’s. The name of your challenger? Well, that is over to you to find out—if you can.

Yours faithfully

The Most Skilled Investor

“I like it. Especially if we win the esteemed title.” Ashleigh was certainly taking this seriously. “How do we deliver the notes to each of the men?”

Ivy spoke up. “I shall ask one of the street urchins near the orphanage to deliver the missives to each house early in the morning before any of the men arise.”

*

By the time the ladies had departed, their tasks allocated, Tiffany needed a rest before the opera that night. She collected a plate of food and made her way upstairs. Sneaky, early morning trips led to tiredness. But before she reached her bedchamber, the butler, Booth, presented a silver tray with a missive on it. To her surprise it was from Mr. Sprat. She quickly took the note, hoping Fane had not seen it.

When her mother was alive, she would often scold Tiffany’s father for encouraging their daughter to invest. Her mother had taken great pains to inform Tiffany that men did not like a wife who was smarter than they were.

But Tiffany worried more about hurting Fane than offending his male sensibilities. Fane, Dayton, and Claire were the only family she had left. She could not lose them, for then she would truly be alone. Dayton would probably applaud her initiative, but he was in India. Fane might not be so understanding.

How could she explain to Fane why she felt the need to invest? He would never understand her feelings about charity. Or the fact he continually tried to marry her off. She wanted to be able to repay his kindness but gain her independence. She had overheard him one night telling Lady Marlowe that he despaired of ever finding a man who would marry her because her dowry was so small, and she was not a beauty. He said the only way to find her a husband was to offer a huge dowry.

Her pride had withered and died. Fane had thought to pay to get her off his hands. She had politely declined his offer of a larger dowry. That had hurt Fane but he had accepted her refusal.

Never would she allow herself to be married out of pity, or because she was an inconvenience to Fane. Her skills with numbers meant she could marry whom she chose—or, if she chose, no one at all. A good income gave her choices.

She lay on her bed exhausted. Anger at the memory of both Wolf and Fane thinking to manipulate her made her rip Mr. Sprat’s missive open a bit roughly. Inside, there weren’t the normal company papers, but instead, she found a letter and many sheets of parchment detailing purchase notes made on behalf of a Lord Melville. Before she could read the letter, the door opened.

“That went well,” Claire said as she breezed into the room. “Don’t forget the opera tonight. Ivy said Wolf is escorting them. Perhaps he’ll pay us a visit in our box.” Tiffany yawned. “All that dancing will make you tired, you know…” Claire winked.

Last night, after the other men attending the ball had witnessed Wolf’s interest in her, Tiffany’s dance card had filled rapidly. She’d practically danced into the early hours of the morning. “It was fun, but I don’t know how the ton’s diamonds do that almost every night. I’d be exhausted. No wonder they say yes to the first man who proposes—just to be able to rest.”

Claire giggled. “Speaking of proposals, you’ve kept Booth busy answering the door this morning. The foyer is full of flowers. You’d best be presentable come three. I suspect there will be many gentlemen callers.”

Tiffany’s heart sped up. Would Wolf be one of them? Suddenly the idea of letting Wolf court her seemed magical, even if it was all a game. “I hope not. I wanted some sleep before the opera tonight or I’m likely to fall asleep during the second act and snore.”

“Who is your letter from?” Claire asked.

“It’s nothing of importance, just some correspondence from Mr. Sprat.”

“You are sure we can win this wager?” Claire asked. “You’re not having second thoughts.”

“We have just as good a chance as the men.” Tiffany paused. “Of course, if we get caught before the twelve months are up, we will all be in a lot of trouble. We really would become the Sisterhood of Scandal. I’m worried for Ashleigh. She can’t be involved in another impropriety.”

“I wish I understood more of the first, but she won’t say a word.” The clock on the mantle struck two. “It’s best if you freshen up. I suspect it’s going to be a long afternoon. The doorbell will be ringing soon.”

When Claire made to leave, Tiffany asked, “You’ll come downstairs with me, won’t you?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave you to face this mob alone. May I suggest leaving your glasses in your pocket this afternoon? Don’t remind your suitors that you are a bluestocking.”

“I can’t see without my glasses. Although that might be handy, depending on who calls,” Tiffany joked. “Besides, what is wrong with being a bluestocking?”

Claire’s smile died. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll let you rest.”

She could have kissed Claire. Not once had she mentioned Wolf, and Tiffany hadn’t because she was too embarrassed to speak his name. Her cousin was pretty cagey about who she might favor, if anyone, this season. Claire was younger than Tiffany by a year. Yet at two and twenty, she seemed in no hurry to marry. She had received a few offers, but for some reason none of the men appealed to her. Fane seemed unconcerned, and since Lady Marlowe’s death almost two years ago, the girls had mostly been left to themselves.

“I’m going for a walk in the garden to clear a slight headache,” Claire added. “We have the opera this evening and I want to go to support Valora. Lady Vale is pushing her at Lord Dingleby, and I said I’d sit in her box for the second act.”

“Her mother will soon run out of suitors. Can’t we invite Valora to our box? Fane is attending?”

“Good idea. If Wolf is at the opera, Fane will be too. For some of it at least. I’ll dash off a note to Lady Vale inviting them to our box. I shall leave you to your correspondence, then. See you at three in the drawing room. Fane is supposed to be acting as chaperone but most likely he’ll sleep until late, so we shall have to keep the door open and Mrs. Gibbs will have to join us once again. She hates giving up her time when she’s so busy running the house for us.” With that Claire departed.

Tiffany turned to the letter from Mr. Sprat. She picked up a piece of bread with cheese and was just about to pop it in her mouth when she read the first paragraph. The bread dropped from her fingers onto the floor and her heart almost stopped beating in her chest.

The letter told her that the purchase notes detailed on the sheets of parchment—all of them from a Lord Melville—had been reneged on. She could barely breathe. She understood what Mr. Sprat was telling her. All the money she had given him to invest on her behalf—and it was just about all she owned—was now in jeopardy. If he went bankrupt, his assets, including her money, would be seized.

Like all stockjobbers, Mr. Sprat used his own money to buy shares on behalf of a lord via a purchase order. Once the shares were bought, the lord would then make good his money and the shares’ ownership passed to the peer. Most men had enough honor to pay their debts if, between purchase and settlement, the shares decreased in value.

Except Lord Melville, it would seem.

What made this unbearable was that, because she was a woman, Mr. Sprat made her pay upfront, before he purchased the shares. She’d had to agree to that stipulation, but given he’d been her father’s stockjobber and had helped him when he was almost made bankrupt, she trusted Mr. Sprat.

She crumpled his letter in her shaking hand. Who was this Lord Melville, that he held no honor? She could not let him do this to Mr. Sprat, especially as Sprat had been good enough to forgo the remnants of her father’s last purchase order upon hearing of his death and subsequent bankruptcy, leaving her with a few precious hundred pounds. Plus, he allowed her to trade.

Without Mr. Sprat, the DD’s had no way to win or even begin the challenge they were just in the process of issuing. Ivy already had the notes prepared for delivery to the men.

Tiffany unclenched her fist and read the rest of the letter. Mr. Sprat was asking for her help. Her eyes widened. Lord Melville was Lord Wolfarth’s uncle on his mother’s side. Mr. Sprat wanted her to persuade Wolf to intervene in the honoring of the debt. Since he’d seen them together at the Stock Exchange this morning, he presumed they were on familiar terms.

She slumped back on her bed. How on earth was she to get Wolf to do that? She could hardly say, oh, by the way, your uncle is forcing my stockjobber into dun territory and it might mean I lose all my money. And the DD’s money!

She slapped her forehead. If she lost her money, she lost the bet with him.

Poor Mr. Sprat. Poor her. She had to do something. She would have to think of a way to elicit Wolf’s help without revealing her true interest in the matter.

And blow it all, she now had to sit for a couple of hours and prattle inanely with gentlemen about the weather and the latest on-dits when really, she needed time to think.

As her lady’s maid, Milly, helped make her presentable for her callers, she hoped Wolf might be among them so she could talk with him alone.