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with you. Are you brave enough, or should you like to check with your brother first?”
    That had the desired result. She threw back her shoulders, determined to prove she was one of the modern, independent women who answered to no one. Emmett could only imagine the conversations in the Sloane household. She must drive her brother daft. Yet another reason to like her.
    â€œFine. Which Delmonico’s?”
    â€œTwenty-Sixth Street, of course,” he replied smoothly.
    â€œOf course,” she repeated, her tone sardonic. He knew why she would be unhappy. The location ensured that all of New York society would see them together. The news would race to Sloane’s ears before dessert had been cleared. “In the main dining room, I assume.”
    He inclined his head. “Indeed. Shall I write the bank check? Do we have a deal?”
    She swallowed, her eyes uncertain, and he was filled with a sudden desperation for her to say yes. Clearly from a desire to bedevil Sloane—not the anticipation of watching her full, delectable mouth as she ate.
    Finally, she jerked her head. “We have a deal.”
    * * *
    Elation and relief bubbled inside Lizzie as she left the Cavanaugh mansion. She had actually done it. A signed bank check now rested in her small bag, the first step to her new future. She hadn’t convinced him to fund her company outright, of course, but it was a start.
    She had no doubt in her ability to win the bet, even if he’d cut the time of the wager to almost nothing. She could do this—no, she must do this. Not because of the Sloane name or legacy, or even for her and Will’s comfort, but for the hundreds of servants and Northeast Railroad employees who depended on the Sloanes for their livelihoods. Two members of their household staff had already been let go, and Lizzie would do all in her power to prevent any more dismissals—even if it meant sharing dinner with Emmett Cavanaugh.
    Her brougham remained where she had left it, on Seventy-Fifth Street where prying eyes might be less likely to see it. At her approach, her driver, Brookfield, moved to open the door. “You’ve got guests, miss.”
    â€œGuests?”
    Brookfield colored slightly. “I apologize. I didn’t see them sneak in, miss, and by the time I noticed, they wouldn’t leave.” He opened the door, and two young girls stared out from the carriage depths. They both had pretty, dark hair done up in ringlets and wore matching yellow dresses. The two almost looked like twins, but Lizzie could tell that one girl was slightly older. She guessed they were no more than twelve or thirteen.
    â€œHello,” she said, climbing inside and sliding onto the empty bench.
    Both girls grinned. “You’re pretty,” one of them said.
    â€œVery pretty. I love your dress,” the other girl said, gesturing to Lizzie’s outfit. It was one of Lizzie’s favorite day dresses, a French silk of blue stripes paired with a pointed basque trimmed with lace. The skirt had two deep ruffles and pannier drapery. She had wanted to look her best when meeting Cavanaugh.
    â€œThank you. I am curious who you are, though.”
    â€œWe’re Emmett’s half sisters. I’m Kathleen,” the older-looking one said. “But everyone calls me Katie.”
    â€œI’m Claire. May I touch your hat?”
    Cavanaugh’s . . . half sisters? Lizzie quickly recovered from her shock and leaned forward, bending her head toward the girl. “Yes, of course. That’s an ostrich feather. What do you think?”
    â€œIt’s so soft,” the girl whispered. “Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. I like it, too.” Lizzie straightened. “So how old are you, Katie and Claire?”
    â€œI’m thirteen. Claire’s fourteen months younger than me.”
    â€œOh,” Lizzie said. “That must be nice, having a sister so close to your own