“Yes. Well. That is the part of the plan that I have not quite worked out.” Isabel crossed the room to the door, then turned back, pacing to her desk. She sat there, staring at the papers strewn across the enormous tabletop, where three generations of Reddich earls had sat. After a long silence, she said, “There is only one way to ensure that we’ve the funds to stay afloat.”

“Which is?”

She took a deep breath.

“I will sell the marbles.” There was a roaring in her ears as she spoke the words—as though, if she did not hear them, they had not been said.

“Isabel …” Lara shook her head.

Please don’t fight this, Lara. I do not have the strength. “It’s silly to keep them. No one is enjoying them.”

“You enjoy them.”

“They are a luxury I can no longer afford.”

“No. They are the only luxury you’ve ever had.”

As if she didn’t know that.

“Do you have a better solution?”

“Maybe,” Lara hedged. “Maybe you should consider … maybe you should think about marriage.”

“Are you suggesting that I should have accepted one of the myriad of oafs who has passed through over the years after having won me in a game of chance? ”

Lara’s eyes widened. “Oh, my, no! Not one of them. Never one of them. No one who knew your father. I’m suggesting someone else. Someone … good. And if he is wealthy, well then, all the better.”

Isabel lifted the magazine she had seen earlier. “Are you suggesting I try my hand at landing a lord, cousin? ”

Color flared on Lara’s cheeks. “You cannot deny that a smart match is not the worst thing that could happen to you.”

Isabel shook her head. Marriage was not the answer. She was willing to swallow a bitter pill or two to save this house, and the women in it, but she would not sacrifice her freedom, her sanity, or her person for them. She did not care if it was a solution or not.

Selfish.

The word burned, echoing in her head as though it had been spoken seconds rather than years ago. Isabel knew that if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother, face contorted in anguish, flinging it like a dagger.

You should have let him marry you off, you selfish beast. He would have stayed if you had. And you would have gone.

She shook her head, refusing the image and clearing her throat, suddenly tight and painful.

“Marriage is not the answer, Lara. Do you really think anyone with the means to help us would consider marrying the twenty-four-year-old, never-seen-the-inside-of-a-London-ballroom daughter of the Wastrearl?”

“Of course they would!”

“No. They would not. I’ve no skills, no training, no dowry, nothing but a houseful of women, most of whom are in hiding, a handful of them illegally. How do you propose explaining such a thing to a prospective suitor?” Lara opened her mouth to answer, but Isabel pressed on. “I’ll tell you. It’s impossible. No man in his right mind would marry me and take on the burdens that I carry. And, frankly, I am rather thankful for it. No. We shall just have to try a different tack.”

“He would marry you if you told him the truth, Isabel. If you explained it all.”

Silence fell between them and Isabel allowed herself to consider, fleetingly, what it would be like to have someone with whom she could share all her secrets. Someone to help her protect the girls … and rear James. Someone who would help her to shoulder her burden.

She pushed the thought aside, immediately. Sharing the burden of Minerva House would require sharing its secrets. Trusting someone to keep them.

“Must I remind you of the horrid creatures that Minerva House has shown to us? The ham-fisted husbands? The villainous brothers and uncles? The men so deep in their cups they could not find time to put food on the table for their children? And let us not forget my own father—willing to sell his children for funds enough for another night on the town, unable to support his estate, entirely willing to leave it penniless and without reputation for his child-heir.” She shook her head firmly. “If I have learned one thing in my lifetime, Lara, it is that the lion’s share of men are anything but good. And those who are tend not to be out searching the Yorkshire countryside for spinsters like me.”

“They cannot all be bad …” Lara pointed out. “You must admit, Isabel, the girls who come to Minerva House—well—their tables must be the worst of the lot. Perhaps men like the ones in there”—she indicated the magazine—“perhaps they are different.”

“While I doubt it, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt … but let us at least be honest with ourselves. I am not exactly the type of woman who could land a lord. Let alone a lord deserving of a magazine article to tout his exceptional qualities.”

“Nonsense. You are lovely and smart. And incredibly competent. And the sister to an earl—even better, an earl who hasn’t ruined his name yet,” Lara said emphatically. “I am certain London’s Lords to Land would be quite enamored.”

“Yes, well, I am also two hundred miles north of London. I imagine that these particular lords have already been landed—by a collection of lucky young ladies with subscriptions that do not travel by mail coach.”

It was Lara’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps not these lords. Perhaps the magazine is merely a sign.”

“A sign.”

Lara nodded.

“You think”—she paused to check the name of the magazine—“Pearls and Pelisses … is a sign. Why do we even receive this rubbish? ”