Page 7

“A male relation,” he protested a bit sheepishly, “for a bit of oversight.”

“Forgive me, but I’d prefer not to have my money ‘overseen’ by someone who did nothing to help me earn it and has no vested interest in letting me keep it. Regardless, the point is moot: I have no family.”

The manager set down the papers, appearing baffled.

“I was born a bastard,” Reina said simply. “Nullius filius. In the view of English law, I have no parents, no ancestors, nor kin of any kind. I am alone. What do you recommend in my case?”

Brimblecombe’s forehead puckered like the surface of a cake baked with too much leavening. “This is rather a conundrum,” he admitted. “It’s illegal for a woman to open an account by herself.”

A lie, Reina thought with a sting of outrage, but she smoothed a quick layer of composure over it. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Brimblecombe. It’s not illegal for a single woman to open her own account, it’s only that no law has been passed to establish it as a woman’s right. Therefore, it’s up to the bank’s discretion.”

“Miss Martin, if we made an exception for you, we would have to do the same for other ladies.”

“And the harm in that would be . . . ?”

“Ladies tend to be more bother than their accounts are worth. They create extra work for our banking staff. For example, not long ago one of our female customers became quite indignant upon learning she’d overdrawn her account, and she—”

“Stop,” Reina said quietly. “Please.”

Surprised into silence, Brimblecombe gave her a questioning glance.

“You’re about to insult my intelligence,” Reina continued, “by telling me a joke that ends with a woman saying, ‘But Mr. Bank Manager, my account can’t be overdrawn—my checkbook is still half full of checks!’ ”

“You’ve heard the story before, it seems.”

“A joke,” she repeated with gentle emphasis, “that I first read in the humor column of Bankers’ Magazine about ten years ago. Since then, it’s been repeated to me at economic lectures and business meetings, and I always smile politely. But I’ve grown tired of hearing that women aren’t smart enough to follow simple banking practices using basic arithmetic. It’s simply not true.” She stopped as she saw that his face had turned into a mask of politeness. He wasn’t listening, only waiting for her to finish.

Frustration thrashed inside her like a wild creature shut in a trunk.

“I seem to have run out of polite smiles today,” she said, and rose to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Brimblecombe.”

Seeming flustered, he stood as well. “Miss Martin, I certainly intended no offense.”

Now it was her turn to lie. “None taken.” Reacting any other way would only justify every bad thing people said about women’s behavior in banks. Women can’t be businesslike. Women are too emotional.

As she gathered her papers from the desk, she saw someone approach in her peripheral vision. Probably the attendant.

“No escort needed,” she said briskly, tucking the papers into the document wallet. “I see the way out over there. I believe I may be able to reach it all by myself.”

“Miss Martin,” the manager said in the excessively reasonable tone he might have used on someone in hysterics, even though Reina was perfectly calm. “Perhaps you should return to your savings bank and ask them to open additional accounts for you. That would allow you to skirt around the thirty-pound limit. If you have a check for a hundred pounds, for example, you could deposit it in three accounts and take the remaining ten pounds in cash.”

Apparently a hundred pounds was the greatest sum he could imagine for any check she might have in her possession. Reina felt the last of her patience slipping away like loose change through a street drain.

“Thank you for the suggestion, Mr. Brimblecombe. However, since the check I brought to deposit is for three thousand five hundred and forty-three pounds, I would have to ask the savings bank to let me open”—a brief pause to do the calculation in her head—“one hundred and eighteen new accounts to put it in.”

She glanced at Brimblecombe to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking at someone who’d approached the desk. An older man, lean and elegant in a business suit of blue-gray wool.

Clearly the man was someone of importance. He wore a sheen of wealth and good breeding. And he was rather handsome in the bargain, with bright blue eyes and a full head of amber hair that was silvered at the temples.

“Sir,” Brimblecombe said uncomfortably, “I was just—”

The man silenced him with a brief, subtle motion of his hand, brushing away the words like crumbs from the table. His gaze hadn’t strayed from Reina’s face.

“May I help?” the stranger asked.

“That depends,” she said in weary exasperation. “Are you employed by the bank?”

“In a manner of speaking.”