That made him pause. Because underneath all Alva’s firmness and strength and matter-of-factness, he heard the ten-year-old girl who was looking out her window and wishing.

“I don’t want a scene,” she pleaded. “Please.”

He looked down at her and saw her distress and realized his fury, no matter how righteous, would only hurt her more. He closed his eyes, unused to what to do with so much anger, but rigidly drawing it back inside. “Your father is Thomas Rensselaer,” he said, opening his eyes. “He’s part of the Rensselaer Johnson De Vries investment consortium.”

Alva’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “How on earth do you know that?”

“Research. And sometimes I listen to Henry more than he thinks I do. The Rensselaer Johnson De Vries investment consortium wants very much to invest in several of our new municipal lighting projects.”

“Sam…”

He nodded to himself. It wasn’t as good as yelling at someone, but it was better than nothing. It was the sort of thing Henry would do, and Henry was as vicious as a ferret when provoked. Sam turned to the maid.

“My name is Professor Samuel Moore,” he said, and judging by the girl’s startled expression, she knew who he was. “Please convey my greetings to Mr. and Mrs. Rensselaer, and say that until I witnessed their appalling behavior towards their only daughter I was inclined to favor Mr. Rensselaer’s interest in my latest project. Not because I care one way or another about their proposal, mind, but because I have a great respect for Mrs. Webster. Now, however, I have decided to reject their offer, and all others that follow.” He paused and thought some more. “For that matter, they probably shouldn’t bother trying with any of my family. Or my family’s friends in the scientific community. And we have a lot of friends.” He frowned. “That’s rather a lot; do you think you can remember it all?”

The maid gave a tiny, tiny smile, so small he wouldn’t have been able to see it if he hadn’t been within a few feet of her. “Oh yes,” she said. “I have a very good memory.” She turned to walk away.

Alva stared at him. “Wait!” she said, still watching him.

“Now who’s yelling wait?” he murmured.

The maid turned around.

“What’s your name?” Alva asked.

“Ingrid,” she said, giving a small bob.

“Ingrid, do you like working for my mother?” When the girl hesitated, Alva’s lips curled into a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t worry about me tattling to her,” she said.

Ingrid nodded. “No,” she said. “She’s difficult to please, she refuses our half days, and when she’s mad she’s cruel. But I have a younger sister and our parents are dead, so…”

“Any job is better than an almshouse or worse,” Alva finished.

“Yes.”

“How old is your sister?

“Nine years old, ma’am.”