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we took something the duke wanted badly enough that he’d be willing, even eager, to trade—”
    “Yes!” Trenton slammed a fist into his hand and looked excitedly at Nathaniel. “That could work. What about the cargo from his last ship?”
    Nathaniel shook his head. “He’s too rich and too angry to give Richard up for money. It has to be something else… something he simply can’t refuse.”
    “Wait.” A gleam entered Trenton’s eye. “Your father has a daughter, doesn’t he?”
    “Aye.” Nathaniel watched Trenton’s face split into a smile as his friend’s thoughts became obvious. Then a grin tempted the corners of his own mouth. “Aye,” he repeated softly, “that he does.”
     
    * * *
     
    Manchester was famous for its spinning mills. More than seventy sprawled off its wide streets, kingpins amid the pubs, pawnbrokers, rambling warehouses, and surrounding slums. Some were four or even five stories high and housed as many as a thousand workers. All were ugly, irregularly shaped giants that hummed and whirred and belched soot into the air through long snouts that turned everything a dismal gray.
    Alexandra hardly noticed. She was too accustomed to the factories and the soot they produced to condemn their existence. And she could think of little besides her goal. Would Fobart’s manager give her the money? What could she say to convince him?
    She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. Willy had been deeply asleep on the couch when she left, his stubble-covered jaw slack, snores and grunts resounding. But her fear of her stepfather was strong enough to make her believe he would catch her no matter what, and only by taking a firm hold of such emotion was she able to remain committed to her plan.
    Readjusting the small bundle of belongings she had quickly gathered and hidden beneath her skirts, she swung Madame Fobart’s skirts over her shoulder and strode from the muddy little court where she lived and worked past Piccadilly Street and into the heart of the city. As she entered the crush of the noon hour, mill workers elbowed past, eager to use the brief respite from work to meet a comrade or get a bite to eat. Merchants hustled about as well, soliciting what business they could. Even a few masters, those who owned or ran the factories, could be seen on the street that day. Their carriages rumbled through town, pulled by fine horses and driven by liveried servants.
    Hurrying west, Alexandra forced a smile at the many tired faces she passed as grimy buildings and crowded streets finally gave way to patches of green grass here and there. Small, neatly manicured gardens lay beneath patches of snow, adorning houses that grew steadily larger until Alexandra spotted Madame Fobart’s.
    The dressmaker’s was painted in shades of pink and green and trimmed in white. A rosebush, devoid of blooms, scaled the turned posts of a wide verandah. Stairs led to a massive oak door with a heavy brass knocker. Nothing indicated that the building was anything more than the mansion of an aristocrat or merchant, except for a lace vest hanging on a brass rod outside one of its three plate-glass windows. Anything more obvious would seem vulgar to the genteel class. Madame Fobart’s catered to Manchester’s elite. The women of the ton came to her for their most exquisite gowns of rich silk or velvet.
    And the bonnets! Madame’s milliners were some of the most skilled Alexandra had ever seen.
    Though Madame Fobart employed a veritable army of seamstresses, skirts were hired out. Alexandra highly doubted Madame’s patrons ever faced the fact that impoverished hands stitched part of their gowns. The rich certainly paid enough for their apparel. Alexandra guessed that many of that noble class would faint if they acknowledged the truth, and she cringed at the memory of the tales that had recently circulated. One story told of the death of a great lady made ill by some poor needlewoman who had used the garments she sewed as