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difficult to uncover. Unless he was much mistaken, this newspaper directed at the women of Mayfair was as subversive in its intended influence as any publication he'd seen. It would definitely be in the government's interest to draw its teeth. There were a variety of ways of doing that once its editors and writers were identified. And how difficult could it be to uncover them?
    Max Ensor went out into the muggy afternoon, whistling thoughtfully between his teeth as he made his way to Westminster.

Chapter 2

    S o what was this plan of yours, Con?” Prudence poured sherry from the cut-glass decanter on her dressing table into three glasses and handed two of them to her sisters before sitting down in front of the mirror. Her bedroom windows stood open to let in a slight breeze that refreshed the damp air of the long summer evening, and the shouts of children and the thud of cricket ball on bat drifted up from the square garden.
    Constance was repairing the torn lace edging to her evening gloves, setting tiny stitches into the cream silk. She didn't reply until she'd tied the end of the thread and bitten it off. “That'll have to do,” she observed, holding the glove up to the light. “I'm afraid these have seen better days.”
    “You could borrow my spare pair,” Chastity offered from her perch on the worn velvet cushion of a window seat. “They were Mother's, so they really belong to all of us.”
    Constance shook her head. “No, these have a few more evenings left in them.” She laid them down beside her on the bed coverlet. “Do you remember, I was talking about those cards you see in newsagents' windows? People advertising things to sell, puppies or chests of drawers . . . those kinds of thing.”
    Prudence swiveled on the dresser stool, a powder puff in her hand. “And?” she prompted.
    “Well, I went into two newsagents on Baker Street this morning and they each had cards on their doors. Not the usual advertisements but people wanting people.”
    Chastity wrinkled her forehead. “I don't follow.”
    “The first one had a card from a man wanting to find a woman. A widow preferably, he said, around forty with or without children, who wanted to find companionship and security in her later years and would be willing to keep house and see to his creature comforts in exchange . . . I'm not quite sure what the latter would embrace,” she added with a grin.
    “Anyway,” she continued, seeing her sisters' continued puzzlement, “the second one, in the next newsagent's, was—”
    “Oh, I see it!” Chastity interrupted. “A woman who fit the bill, asking for her own companion.”
    “Precisely.” Constance sipped her sherry. “Well, I couldn't resist, of course. There were these two separate cards in two separate windows and never the twain would meet unless someone did something about it.”
    “What
did
you do?” Prudence dabbed the powder puff on the bridge of her nose where her glasses had pinched the skin.
    “Copied each one of them and paired 'em up, so both newsagents now carry both cards. When the advertisers go to check on their cards, that's what they'll see.” She chuckled. “They can take it from there, I think.”
    “I agree you've done your good deed for the day,” Prudence said. “But I don't see the relevance to our own somewhat dismal affairs.”
    “Don't you think people might pay for a service that puts them in touch with the right mate?” Constance's dark green eyes darted between her sisters, assessing their reactions.
    “You mean like a
matchmaker
?” Chastity crossed and uncrossed her neat ankles, a habit she had when she was thinking.
    Constance shrugged. “I suppose so. But I thought more like a go-between. Someone who facilitates meetings, carries messages, that sort of thing. Like what I did this morning.”
    “And we'd charge for this service?” Prudence caught up her long russet hair and twisted it into a knot on top of her head.
    “Yes. I thought we could advertise