"Then we find Vane."
Their strongest clue was a series of false receipts bearing the name of Lady Cecily Ashcombe. That evening, at a crowded rout in Grosvenor Square, Penelope maneuvered beside Lady Cecily while Mrs. Hartwell distracted their hostess with an account of Mr. Fane's impending declaration.
Lady Cecily was twenty-nine, elegant, and visibly frightened when Penelope mentioned the society.
"I cannot discuss it," she whispered.
"Did Mr. Vane ask you to sign receipts?"
The lady's fan stopped. "He said my brother's debts would become public. He made me sign blank papers."
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, but I saw him last month in Bond Street. He called himself Mr. Vale and entered Harbre's auction rooms."
Before Penelope could ask more, a gentleman stepped between them. "Miss Hartwell."
Lord Clavering's smile was all polished displeasure. "You seem much occupied by other people's private affairs."
"Only by my own conversation, sir."
"Society has begun to wonder why Wickliffe attends upon you so faithfully."
"Society must be exhausted by its labor."
His eyes cooled. "You may discover that a gentleman with a damaged reputation is eager to shelter behind an innocent lady's name."
Penelope felt anger rise, but Wickliffe appeared before she could reply.
"Clavering," he said. The single word contained a warning.
Lord Clavering bowed. "I was advising Miss Hartwell to consider how matters appear."
"Miss Hartwell is capable of forming her own judgments."
"Precisely what concerns her friends."
When Clavering had gone, Wickliffe turned to Penelope. "You must withdraw from this."
"Because he was rude?"
"Because the rumors are spreading."
"Then we should answer them."
"We cannot without exposing the borrowers."
"So you will allow yourself to be condemned?"
"I recommended Vane. I bear responsibility."
"Responsibility is not guilt."
"London rarely troubles itself with the distinction."
Penelope searched his face. "Did you know what Clavering would say?"
"I expected something of the kind."
"And that is why you have been avoiding me in public?"
He did not deny it.
"You might have trusted me with the choice," she said. "You have had two unsuccessful seasons. I will not make the third a disaster."
"They were not unsuccessful."
"You did not find a husband."
"I found that I would rather remain unmarried than be diminished. That is not failure."
Something fierce and tender entered his eyes. "No," he said. "It is not."
Around them the rout glittered and surged. Penelope heard laughter, fans opening, the relentless music of appearances.
"Lady Cecily saw Vane at Harbre's," she said. "He is using the name Vale."
Wickliffe closed his eyes briefly. "You are impossible."
"Mama says I am discerning."
"Your mother edits reality to suit her affections."
"It is one of her gifts."
The next morning, Wickliffe visited Harbre's alone and learned that Mr. Vale had sold a collection of miniature portraits and several foreign bonds. The address he supplied belonged to an empty lodging in Holborn, but the porter remembered forwarding a parcel to a coaching inn at Hammersmith.
By evening, Wickliffe and a Bow Street officer had found Silas Vane preparing to leave for Bristol. Only £3,000 remained; the rest had been lost in speculation.
Vane's arrest should have cleared Lord Wickliffe. Instead, it sharpened the scandal. An anonymous paragraph appeared in a morning paper suggesting that a noble lord of famously austere manners had entrusted ladies' charitable subscriptions to his former clerk, concealed the losses, and then arranged a quiet arrest when questions became inconvenient.
No names were printed; none were needed.
At breakfast, Mrs. Hartwell crushed the paper in both hands. "Cowards," she said. "If people must be vicious, they should at least possess the courage of a signature."
Penelope read the paragraph twice. "Clavering."
"Can you prove it?"
"No."
"Then we shall merely despise him privately."
A note arrived from Wickliffe before noon: The recovered funds and my contribution will cover all existing loans. Lady Bromwich has agreed that the society may continue under new management. Your father's work is secure. For your own sake, our association must now end.
Penelope folded the page with careful precision.
"What does he say?" her mother asked.
"That he has decided my life for me."
"Ah." Mrs. Hartwell reached for the list.
"Mama."
She turned to the page where Wickliffe's name had been crossed out. From a drawer, she took a small knife and began scraping at the ink. "I may have pressed too firmly," she muttered.
Penelope laughed despite herself, then felt dangerously near tears.
That afternoon, Lady Bromwich called. The society's committee would meet the following day at her house. Several patrons, frightened by the scandal, intended to withdraw. If they did, the loans could be paid, but the society would close.
"Alexander will not defend himself," Lady Bromwich said. "He believes the women named in the records would bear the cost."
"Then someone must defend the society without naming them."
Lady Bromwich looked at Penelope. "Yes."
The committee meeting filled the largest drawing room in Bromwich House. Thirty ladies attended along with several husbands who considered female finance dangerous unless supervised from a comfortable chair. Lord Wickliffe stood near the fireplace, grave and remote. He had not expected Penelope. When she entered with Mrs. Hartwell, anger and relief crossed his face in equal measure.