Page 6

The attendant stopped and turned to face her. “You need a man for that.”

“No, I don’t.”

He gave her a long-suffering glance. “I’ll show you to the manager. This way, please.”

Reina followed him past the lines of gentlemen at the cashiers’ counters, all turning to stare like a flock of crows noticing a lone pigeon in their midst.

The attendant led her to a massive mahogany desk set on pedestals of graduating drawers, where the assistant manager sat. He stood as they approached.

Reina knew at a glance that any attempt to open an account was already doomed. He was a pleasant-looking man, aged forty or thereabouts, and meticulously dressed in an old-fashioned, high-buttoned morning coat of black wool. The trousers were patterned in a small-scale dogtooth check. All of it was accessorized with silver spectacles and a fat silver watch chain. It was the uniform of bureaucratic orthodoxy.

Even if this man were sympathetic to her situation, precedent and procedure would be adhered to. He would be as reliable a gatekeeper as the mythological Heimdall standing guard over Asgard.

And Reina was exactly the kind of customer the rules were intended to keep out.

Still, that wouldn’t stop her from trying.

Her gaze flicked to the engraved nameplate on the desk. “Mr. Brimblecombe, how do you do? I’m Miss Reina Martin.”

“A pleasure, Miss Martin. How may I be of service?”

After settling in a chair beside his desk, Reina reached into her leather document wallet. “I’ve come to apply for a new account,” she said, handing him a stack of pages. “Would you be so kind as to see that my information is in order?”

“Of course.” He polished his silver-rimmed spectacles before beginning to read.

“The first two pages are letters of introduction from two of your account holders,” Reina said, “both acquaintances of mine.”

“A deputy editor at The Money Market Review,” Brimblecombe remarked, turning the first page. “And a professor of jurisprudence at the University of London. Accomplished gentlemen, indeed.” As he continued to read, his brows ascended to the top rims of his spectacles. “You’re . . . an economist?”

“Yes.”

“. . . a female . . .”

Reina smiled. “That too.”

His gaze lifted to view her with owlish intensity, as if he suspected her of trying to play a trick on him. “You work in some professional capacity?”

“Yes. I write articles for Bankers’ Magazine and The Economist, and I recently published a book of financial advice for women.”

He leafed through a few more pages. “It appears you’re a depositor of good standing at a respectable savings bank. Why apply for an account here?”

“The savings bank only allows a customer to deposit thirty pounds per year in any one account. Now that I’ve received a very nice royalty payment for my book, I need to maintain a larger balance. Preferably at a credit bank with more services, where I can manage it properly.”

“Farlow’s would be pleased to open an account for you, Miss Martin—as soon as you bring a husband or male relation to sign with you.”

“No husband, I’m afraid,” Reina said.

“What about your father, then?”

“Deceased.”

“Brother . . . uncle . . . cousin?”

“None.”

Brimblecombe stroked an invisible beard on his chin as he pondered the situation. “If you research your family ancestry, you might be able to locate a male relation—a half uncle, even a stepsibling of a distant cousin . . .”

Reina gave him a blank look. “You’re suggesting that I attach a complete stranger to my bank account?”