certainly not of him, and his heart thudded in his chest to be so clearly seen beyond the glossy veneer of his title.
“But I am,” he insisted. “I can remember, for example, what I saw at the Imperial Theatre last February—an excellent burletta, incidentally, written by Lady Marwood—and I can remember that my younger sister’s favorite flower is the harebell. So I have considerable faith in my memory, but,” he went on, holding her gaze with his, “I cannot remember meeting you before the other day on Bond Street.”
“No,” she said, her voice soft. A hint of pink crept into her cheeks, enthralling him. “You wouldn’t.”
Yet she didn’t explain herself or offer a reason why she, a woman of sufficient rank to marry a baronet, would have never crossed Noel’s path until two days earlier. He knew everybody, but he didn’t know her.
Now he did, however. And it didn’t matter so much as to where she’d been, but that she was here with him at this very moment.
“What of you, Your Grace? How did you come to be so invested in the world of investing?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “Perhaps I find it amusing.”
“I see.” A look of disappointment flashed across her face.
It was clear that she had hoped for a more thoughtful response. His usual repartee would not suffice. And, in truth, he’d had too many conversations with too many women—too many people—where all that had been offered were pretty blandishments and shallow observations.
“The world is changing,” he said after a moment. “The country’s changing. It’s not the fixed, unmoving castle on a hill, with England above it all. We have to open our eyes and see that our actions have repercussions.”
Her gaze was bright. It seemed she appreciated the fact that he’d gone beneath the surface, and actually spoke from his heart. “An unusual position.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Your Grace.” A Black man approached, removing the spectacles perched on his nose as he did so. He had gray hair and the look of a man who knew exactly how to get what he wanted out of life. Noel had been introduced to him that day, and recalled that his name was Mr. Victor Walditch. He’d made himself a fortune through supplying materials to the hundreds of building and improvement projects throughout the country. “Is there a particular presenter that you’re looking forward to seeing at the Bazaar?”
“Isabel Catton, of course,” Noel said without hesitation. “Best cakes in London, if not the world. I have a fervent, nay, unseemly amount of hope that we’re to sample her shop’s wares.”
“I must agree,” Mr. Walditch added.
“Intriguing,” Lady Whitfield said, “that she alone is the head of her operation. There’s no male figurehead.”
“Why should that matter?” Mr. Walditch asked. “I should hope that the soundness of a business is entirely dependent on the individual, regardless of their gender.”
Lady Whitfield nodded, and the corners of her mouth lifted, as if Mr. Walditch’s answer pleased her.
Noel turned to the woman beside him. “Lady Whitfield, you’ve met Mr. Walditch?”
“Only this morning,” she said, “and we hadn’t much time to get acquainted. Perhaps later we might discuss McAdam’s road-building proposals.”
Noel learned something every day. Today, for instance, he learned that hearing a woman discussing transit routes aroused him. No, not hearing a woman discussing pavement and transit routes. This woman.
“You’ve a wide range of interests, Lady Whitfield,” Noel said.
“Always.” She added after a moment’s pause, “Not everything, in truth. For example, I know very little about reptiles.”
“I know a woman who would be most eager to illuminate you on the subject.”
“Ah, it’s kind of you to suggest that, but natural philosophy is a subject that will never be my main point of focus.”
“And what might that be?” Noel asked.
“To be candid,” she said, “it’s money. Finance. The world of business.” Her expression brightening, she continued. “All of it is as fascinating as any scientific discipline. Dynamic, too. Never the same from day to day as the world changes so quickly. These concepts such as capital and demand are so abstract, but also grounded in the reality of people’s lives. I cannot help but think—”
She abruptly went silent, and in the quiet, Noel suddenly craved the sound of her voice, and the passion in her words.
“Tell me,” he urged. “What do you think?”
“Yes, do,” Mr. Walditch added.
She shot them both a cautious glance. “You truly want to know?”
“Why shouldn’t we?” Noel demanded.
“Because women aren’t to speak of such things. It’s crass and beneath us, soiling our purity with the