It was the middle of the morning when Dahlia swept into Faith’s study later that week and collapsed onto the spare chaise longue with a pile of documents and a frustrated sigh.

Faith put down her quill. “What is it?”

Dahlia lifted the papers from one corner as if their contents were toxic to the touch. “Have you seen the state of our accounts?”

Faith motioned towards the open ledgers on her desk. Of course she had seen the accounts. It was her job to balance the unbalanceable.

“I’m still in a dreadful row with my parents.” Faith turned her chair to face her best friend. “If they would just donate my dowry money, all of this would disappear. We could buy new clothes for the girls, new materials for the schoolroom, attend more activities…”

“May luck be with you.” Dahlia fell back against the armrest and gazed up at the ceiling. “I tried my damnedest to gain control of my dowry for the same purpose, and my mother would have nothing to do with the idea.”

“Ah, but your parents believed your work here to be beneath you and their title as baron and baroness.” Faith closed the ledgers. “My parents know perfectly well where we come from. They have no complaint against aid for the poor. They just fear giving away so much money that they risk returning to poverty themselves.” She rubbed her temples. “Or ruining my chances of attracting a prince.”

“Just do that,” Dahlia suggested with a grin. “Gaining a prince’s money might be easier than gaining your dowry.”

“Probably true.” Faith’s shoulders sagged. “My parents now have more money than they are ever likely to spend. But anyone who has ever been unsure that there would be supper on the morrow never becomes completely confident, no matter how secure their station might seem.”

Dahlia propped herself up on one elbow. “How did your father come to own that first factory, by the way? When we met as children, he already managed a sizable chunk of the industry, and it never occurred to me wonder how he got started.”

“That, or your gentle breeding prevented you from broaching a topic as vulgar as textile factories,” Faith teased her best friend. She lifted a shoulder. “He worked in a factory. My mother’s father owned it. Grandfather bequeathed it to Father when he died, and Father set about turning a warehouse full of whirring looms into an empire.”

“He made it happen,” Dahlia said, impressed. “Just like that.”

“Just like twenty years of frustration and famine, risk and reward, setbacks and growth, riches and rejection.” Faith was proud of her parents. Their path had not been easy. “When I met you, my family was wealthier than we had ever been, but of course that was nothing compared to the boom in the textile industry this past decade.” She drummed her fingers with frustration. “There is plenty left over for charity. They aren’t heartless. I just need to find the right argument.”

The banging of a hammer sounded somewhere in the abbey and Faith winced. “Story time is in thirty minutes. Should I reschedule?”

Dahlia frowned. “Perhaps. It must be Simon. He won’t rest until our school shines like a palace. Even if we can’t afford it.”

“There is another option,” Faith said slowly.

“Don’t start,” Dahlia interrupted. Her nostrils flared angrily in warning.

Faith kept talking. “If we opened the school to paying students, not the beau monde, just ordinary paying students—our revenue stream would stabilize considerably.”

“Who would come?” Dahlia asked as if the question had no answer. “Our girls are happy with their lot for the first time in their lives. The last thing they need is an influx of better-than-thou snobs to make them feel unworthy all over again. You of all people know how damaging that can be.”

“Not the beau monde,” Faith repeated. “Listen to yourself. The parents of that kind of student would not allow them anywhere near our school in the first place. I’m talking about girls like me. Children in the position I was. With enough money to do something better but lacking the prestige to be accepted. We could accept them. This is exactly the sort of place where their presence as well as their pocketbooks could do a world of good.”

“Do those students exist?” Dahlia asked, her expression skeptical. “Your family managed to send you to a boarding school. What makes you think parents like yours would send their children to a place like this?”

“How many friends did I make at that school besides you?” Faith asked, rather than reply.

“Bryony,” Dahlia said quickly. “Camellia.”

“Your sisters,” Faith repeated dryly. “In other words, no one else. That’s exactly why parents might choose to send their students here. With enough money, we could rival comparable boarding schools while providing what none of the others can: the chance for such children to make friends.”

Dahlia pushed herself into a sitting position. “Your parents would never have sent you here. The St. Giles School for Girls is not an environment for those seeking to increase their status.”

Faith laughed in surprise. “That’s exactly what it is. You rescued these children from the streets, from brothels, from workhouses. It is an absolutely status-increasing environment. Perhaps children with parents like mine are doomed to societal purgatory, but there are plenty of families whose desire for their children’s happiness would make them consider another option.”

Dahlia’s expression was skeptical at best.

“My parents believed expanding their factory stronghold would raise enough money to make me a contender for a title. As if the factories were a magic wishing stone that would grant me the life of a princess. But I am not my parents.” Faith tightened her fists. “I don’t care if Christina ever lays eyes on a duke. I want her to be safe and smart and happy. We must believe there are many other parents whose outlooks mirror mine.”

Dahlia shook her head. “A pretty speech, but even you will be sending Chris to a finishing school fancier than this one, are you not?”

“Only if she gets in,” Faith answered with bald honesty. “Despite my parents’ money, despite a letter of recommendation from a member of the ton, for people like us there are still no guarantees. But there could be. The St. Giles School for Girls could be exactly the sort of certain bet someone of medium affluence and marginal influence might choose for their child.”

Several long beats of silence stretched out between them.

“Think about it,” Faith insisted. “For all the little girls who cannot gain acceptance into schools like the Fitz-Dwyer Academy, why not make our boarding school the next best choice? We have the experience and the expertise. We just need the resources. Accepting paying students would make an enormous difference for all of our students.”

“Two beds,” Dahlia said in defeat. “That’s all I’m willing to grant.”

Faith clenched her jaw. “Two beds aren’t enough money to make a—”

“Two beds may be more than enough children to change the dynamic amongst our current students,” Dahlia said firmly. “We start with two, and if all goes well I shall concede the point and open as many beds as we have room for. Income from paying students should make us able to provide even more lodging for those who cannot pay.”

“That’s exactly the idea,” Faith agreed in relief. She was still certain her parents would come around, but it might take them months or years to do so, and their school did not have that kind of time. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I’ll tell the girls we’ll have story time later this afternoon.”

Dahlia nodded and threw herself back on to the chaise. “They’re doing art projects right now. That will keep them busy through suppertime if you let them.”

Faith grinned. The watercolor sets had been a donation by her parents, proving they were far more softhearted than they would like Faith to believe.

At least, when it came to their granddaughter’s requests.

She shook her head in amusement. Perhaps she was going about this all wrong, and all she needed was for Christina to ask her grandparents to donate the money.

She rose to her feet. She would unveil a new collection of books during story time on the morrow. With the new watercolors as today’s entertainment, Dahlia was probably right that not a single girl would notice a delay to story time.

Faith still thought it wise to check on them.

As she made her way down the corridor toward the schoolroom, the hammering grew louder. What in the world was going on?

She pushed open the door to the schoolroom and came to an abrupt halt.

Hawkridge stood at the rear of the room nailing brand new shelving to the far walls.

“Almost done,” Simon called from the other side of the schoolroom. “We’ve already reinforced the windows and these are the last of the new shelves.”

“What are you doing?” Faith stammered as if Simon had not just explained precisely what was happening.

She wasn’t looking at Simon. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Hawkridge.

With his jacket unbuttoned and his cravat askew and a damp strand of golden brown hair clinging to his forehead, he should have appeared a fright.

Instead the schoolroom had turned into a mirage.

He appeared almost ethereal bathed in the morning light, with his muscles flexing and his aura of concentration. Hawkridge had always been the most handsome lord Faith had ever seen, but here he was more than that. He was a man. Strong. Sure. Larger than life.

He met her eyes and gave a little crooked smile that melted her heart with its bashfulness. Hawkridge had not intended for her to see him like this. Was likely embarrassed to have been caught in a state of anything less than perfection. But he could not possibly have designed a manner in which he could appear more appealing.

“Thank you for helping,” she said in a desperate attempt to hide the depth of her attraction.

“As our fortune ebbs, I have become increasingly adept at mending and home repair. I am lately far handier with a hammer than I am with a fencing sword.” There was that bashful grin again. “I am indebted to my brother for this opportunity to show off my growing expertise.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked one of the girls in a loud whisper.

“He’s a lord,” returned one of the older students.

The younger girl’s eyes widened. “Lord of what?”

“Lord of nothing much, I’m afraid.” Hawkridge pulled silly faces to make them laugh. “Lord of the Handsaw? Lord of the Hammer?”

No. Lord of Temptation.

Faith fled back out into the corridor lest she betray her emotions.

Out of sight, she leaned against the wainscoting and let out a deep breath to calm her nerves. She took stock of this new perspective on Hawkridge.

So he was hopeful. And altruistic. And kind to children. It changed nothing at all between them.

But she had not fled quite far enough. She was still standing there alone in the corridor when a slender shadow fell out from the open schoolroom. Hawkridge stepped into sight.

Also alone.

Alone with her.

Her pulse fluttered as he slowly and inexorably strode her way.

An abbey like this had innumerable nooks and crannies she could have fled to. Places to catch her breath. To hide her flushed cheeks. To try to regain control of her runaway heart.

Staying anywhere within reach of him for even a moment was a terrible idea. They’d never once succeeded in being alone without touching each other. And if he touched her now…

Faith licked her lips. She should run.

But she stayed.