The last thing Dahlia was in the mood for was an evening of husband-hunting, perpetrated by her mother.

However, this, much like many things lately, was not up to Dahlia. She could not afford to pass up any opportunity to raise money for her school—and this time, she had an offer the love-to-be-scandalized ton could not refuse.

“It’s called Circus Minimus,” she explained at the fourth soirée that evening. This one was hosted by Lady Pettibone, although the Old Dragon was fortunately nowhere to be seen. “You’ve all been to Astley’s and seen the professional acrobats and horse-masters. What you haven’t seen is a performance by two dozen schoolgirls whose tumbling feats will cause just as much awe.”

Lady Upchurch raised a skeptical brow. “How can anyone perform tumbling feats in stays and a day dress?”

“They can’t,” Dahlia said simply, delighted at how easily bored society wives continued to walk into her trap. “They’ll be wearing cambric shirts and boys’ trousers, of course.”

“Trousers!” Lady Upchurch gasped, sending a shocked glance over her shoulder at the other fashionable ladies. “I couldn’t possibly condone such a scandalous event.”

“But when is it?” asked Mrs. Epworth with a sparkle in her eyes. “Just in case a few of us feel like…temporarily condoning.”

Dahlia tried to hide her grin. “Circus Minimus will be performed one week from Saturday at the St. Giles School for Girls. Seats are not cheap, and will be first come, first served. Two p.m. sharp, mind you.”

“First come, first served!” Lady Roundtree harrumphed in privileged disdain. “Surely there is some way to reserve one’s place in advance. I know you cannot expect viscounts and earls to queue outside a schoolhouse as if they were back at Eton.”

Lady Roundtree’s husband was neither a viscount nor an earl, but rather a humble baron, just like Dahlia’s father. And as such, Dahlia had been counting on precisely this response.

“Well,” she drew out slowly, as if the idea were only just now occurring to her. “I really oughtn’t to play favorites, as it isn’t at all fair to the other ladies. But I suppose I could reserve the front row for whichever patrons make the highest donation to the school. We could even put plaques in the library bearing those patrons’ names. I do imagine the society pages will be quite lively, come Sunday morning. Especially since the audience will be so exclusive.”

Lady Roundtree snapped open her reticule. “How much?”

“She said highest donation, Mabel, not ‘pin money under your handkerchief,” Lady Upchurch snapped. “If I were to speak to my solicitor, when would the school need to receive the donation?”

“Next Friday, at the latest.” Dahlia widened her eyes innocently. “It would be far too embarrassing to leave it a surprise, and have some poor souls discover they haven’t a seat waiting for them after all.”

“Indeed.” Lady Roundtree shivered. “Can you imagine such horror?”

Pride warmed Dahlia’s chest. Thanks to Faith, she had been able to come up with a brilliant idea to raise funds for the school—and extort the highest amount of donations possible in the process—but it was her girls who would be putting on the actual performance.

They had spent the past month dedicated to their tumbling practice. Some were better than others at turning somersaults, and a few were more suited to playing “horse” than leaping riding-master, but every one of them had spent countless hours drilling acrobatic routines on the ballroom rug until they could perform their roles in their sleep.

She had every reason to be proud of her girls. With luck, a quarterly showing would generate enough funds to keep the school afloat.

Until the performance, however… Dahlia would have to come up with something to keep the creditors at bay. Their knocks had become more insistent. She needed to come up with money soon. Perhaps there would be more charitable ladies at the next soiree.

If not… Dahlia wasn’t sure what she would do.

She excused herself from the group of ladies and headed toward the refreshment table in search of her mother. Grenville ladies never strayed far from the closest ratafia pitcher.

Blocking her way, however, was none other than Lady Pettibone. Almack’s patroness. Sister to a duke. Hostess of tonight’s soirée.

Dahlia pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you for a lovely party.”

The cold fire in Lady Pettibone’s eyes could have smote an entire village.

“Are you blind?” she asked, her voice high and brittle. “Do you not see that I am speaking with my friends?”

“I-I was just asking a question,” Mrs. Kingsley stammered. “We don’t need to keep talking about your library.”

The infamous Pettibone library. Dahlia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Books are for looks was Lady Pettibone’s alleged motto, although no one of Dahlia’s acquaintance could actually corroborate the existence of the famed Pettibone library. Spines that had never been broken. Pages that had never been cut. Words that would never be read, because extensive libraries were for symbolizing one’s social status, not for personal improvement.

“As I was saying,” Lady Pettibone enunciated pointedly. “I have never so much as touched the illustrated etchings. I am morally against such salacious content. Unfortunately, my dear, such a vast collection is simply too expensive to destroy. One must be practical above all things, I always say. Practical and humble.”

The irony…it burned. Books are for boasting might as well have been the motto. Dahlia wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“Is your library here in this townhouse?” Miss Willoughby asked.

“A small selection.” Lady Pettibone sniffed. “It takes up the entire next floor. I must walk up two flights to my retiring quarters, but we all must make sacrifices.”

Dahlia wouldn’t mind showing her what sacrifice truly meant. If she wasn’t going to allow anyone to read her books, she might as well set them on fire.

“Have you any children’s primers?” she found herself asking.

“Oh, have I.” Lady Pettibone laughed. “I have an uncut collection of every set in existence. Two, in some cases. They give one such nostalgic pleasure, wouldn’t you say?”

“Have you gifted any to nieces or nephews?” asked Mrs. Kingsley. “I have loved books since I was a child.”

“My copies are uncut,” Lady Pettibone enunciated pointedly, “and expensive. They would be neither of those things if I allowed children to put their grubby hands on them.”

Dahlia heroically refrained from drowning Lady Pettibone in the ratafia bowl.

She couldn’t afford allowing a smart retort to alienate future donations from the other ladies in attendance. But it sounded like she could afford almost anything if she could get her hands on just one of the picture-perfect books turning to dust in Lady Pettibone’s library.