“I’m so sorry. Randolph warned me not to make a speech, but I fear I have let my enthusiasm get the better of me.”

“It’s certainly not like any appeal for funds I’ve ever heard.” Mr. Gordon Bennett pulled out his gold watch, frowning. “I have to get back to Fifth Avenue. My wife is expecting me.”

Her heart sank. “You’re not staying to see the end of the race?”

“I don’t share my son’s passion for sailing. Now, to practicalities. Have you a location in mind? Have you estimated the building cost, the upkeep? How many places—”

“Wait!” Margaret involuntarily clutched his hand, then immediately let him go. “I beg your pardon. You mean you’re going to help me?”

“I like the cut of your jib, to use an apposite nautical phrase. I’ll tell you something, Lady Margaret. When I first dreamed of launching my own newspaper, I made all sorts of rookie mistakes. I lost a lot of money, even after I launched the Herald. I nearly went out of business, but I kept my dream alive, and I fought for it, doing everything save actually turning the presses, and eventually I made it. Listening to you, I don’t doubt your enthusiasm or your commitment. Randolph told me you’re writing a book. . . .”

“Tales of the City is what it will be called. It is to be published in September, and all the proceeds will go towards the sanctuary.”

“Are they likely to be significant?”

“Every dollar counts.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do to provide you with the rest. You’re well in, as they say, with the Astors and the like; I’m wondering why you haven’t gone to them.”

“I tried, and failed miserably. My cause isn’t considered worthy enough.”

“Maybe they don’t understand, as I do, what it’s like to have to scrabble up the greasy pole.” Mr. Gordon Bennett held out his hand, shaking hers warmly before getting to his feet. “Now here is Randolph come to rescue you. I’ll be in touch, Lady Margaret. I’m very glad to have met you.”

“Well?” Randolph said a few moments later, having seen the old man down to the pier.

“He’s agreed to help me, and it’s all thanks to you.” Margaret threw her arms around him.

Laughing, he disentangled himself. “Like I said, I opened the door, but you walked through it.”

“I can’t believe it. Oh, Randolph, thank you!”

“It’s what friends are for, isn’t it. Now why don’t we— Hey, who’s that over there?”

“Who?” Margaret looked in the direction Randolph was pointing. “The man is—”

“No, not the man, the woman. My lord, isn’t she striking?”

“It’s Geraldine Haight. Her father owns the St. Nicholas Hotel on Broadway.”

“You know her! Please tell me she’s not married.”