Someone? A man? A woman? Could it be Lady Penelope? She’d certainly perked up when she’d learned the library was maintained with donations. Or was it someone else? “Why would this person be so incredibly generous?”

“A believer in your cause.” He picked up his hat and satchel. “Have a good day, Miss Trewlove.”

“Wait. I . . . I’m having a difficult time absorbing this. You can tell me something about this generous soul, surely. Have we met? How did he—or she—learn of my cause?”

“I’ve done what I’ve been hired to do. Simply make good use of the funds.” He gave a short bow before walking out.

She sat there in silence for several long minutes before getting up, closing the door, and placing the money in her safe. Then she headed out into the shop. “I’m going to see my brother, Marianne. I shan’t be long.”

“Very good, Miss Trewlove.”

Once she entered the hotel, she charged up the stairs until she reached the top floor where Mick had his offices. She opened the glass door that had Trewlove etched in it and smiled as Mr. Tittlefitz came to his feet behind his desk while she stepped over the threshold. “Miss Trewlove, how may I be of service?”

“Is my brother available?”

“For you, miss, I’m certain he is.” He hurried over to the door that led into Mick’s inner sanctum, gave a brisk knock, shoved it open, and peered inside. “Your sister wishes an audience.”

An audience? Good Lord, he acted as though her brother were a king. She couldn’t make out the words but heard the rumble of his voice. His secretary opened the door farther ajar and stepped back. After passing through the portal, she heard the door echo a quiet snick as it was closed in her wake.

Mick was already standing. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I don’t think.” She approached the massive desk. “A solicitor just visited me. An anonymous person has donated five hundred pounds to my cause. I’m unsure what precisely to do with it.”

With a loud and unflattering scoff, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble figuring out what to do with the money I gave you.”

“That’s different. Your money comes in manageable increments and doesn’t make me feel guilty. But this—I don’t know who sent it. Did you mention my endeavors to anyone?”

“Only in passing to an investor or two.”

“Do you think it could have come from one of them?”

He lifted a broad shoulder. “Possibly. What does it matter, Fancy? Besides, once you marry, you’ll be asking all sorts for contributions. You’ll have more donations than you’ll know what to do with. I’m certain some will be anonymous.”

“Why? Why would he not want his contribution acknowledged?”