“Yes.”

Lord Rayleigh paced the floor in front of the other Lords. “A woman may be counted on to do certain things in a business. It is quite obvious that she has been meticulous in her paperwork. But are we willing to grant permission to build a line—a process that could take years—to someone in such an uncertain position as this Miss Barton is in?” He glanced at someone in the balcony to his left. Diana craned her neck to see the benches on the other side of the hall. There, sitting with a smile on his face, was a man whose mustache she couldn’t mistake.

Mr. Broadcreek.

Of course he would be here. “Who knows what could become of her?” Lord Rayleigh continued. “If, however, there were some way to ensure she married a responsible citizen—one who knew at least as much about the railroad industry as she did—I would happily vote to pass this act.”

Whisperings rose throughout the room. An addendum that she would have to marry with an additional requirement that her husband be an established railroad businessman? Adding the addendum alone could take weeks, possibly months. There would be a huge delay on building, and her investors might seek to invest elsewhere rather than wait. Mr. Broadcreek sat back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. He thought she would have to marry him . . . impossible. She would bankrupt Richardson Rail first.

But she couldn’t. Not with Charlotte counting on her to sell the company for a much higher profit.

A commotion on the floor caused the assembled Lords to turn toward the doorway. Diana reached for Nate’s elbow and squeezed it.

Everton strode toward the middle of the room. He was here. Every eye followed him from the balcony and from the floor below. The hall around her suddenly turned brighter. The reds that adorned so much of the chamber no longer felt oppressive; instead, they were cheery. Sunshine from the windows reflected off every surface, and especially off Everton. She couldn’t see his eyes from this vantage point, but she knew what expression they would hold. They would be alive with light.

“Lord Rayleigh,” Everton called out, “your proposed amendment has no merit. Are we to meet each time Miss Barton begins courting someone? Are we to weigh in the balance whether or not her suitor is trustworthy enough to finish this proposed line? Is there anyone here who would like to take on that responsibility? When did it become the duty of the House of Lords to oversee a woman’s personal life?”

Murmurs of assent carried through the room.

Lord Rayleigh stepped closer to Lord Bryant, his stout belly puffed out. “If you had been here for deliberations, perhaps you would understand. How can we, in good faith, give such a responsibility to a woman? More particularly, to an unmarried woman who lacks the guidance of a husband in her affairs?”

Lord Bryant scoffed. “Have you met Miss Barton?”