The gleam was what she’d counted on when she’d sent the letter proposing her book, that the publisher would realize exactly how many people were likely to buy a book—any book, even one on the tasteful decoration of houses—written by the infamous Mrs. Webster. She just had to hope that once they had the book, some of them would keep reading even after they realized it was unlikely to contain any titillating revelations. After that … if even a handful liked what she had to say, respected the content of the book, if not its author, she thought she’d be content.

She decided to give him a little extra push. “And, as you know, my recent … exposure in the press … will ensure the book receives more than the usual amount of attention.”

“Exposure” was a faint word to describe the two years she’d spent being pilloried in the newspapers, but “crucifixion” seemed a touch dramatic.

Smithson’s eyes narrowed. “Not particularly positive attention,” he said. “Boycotts, protests, maybe even some burnings. We have the other books on our title list to consider.”

Alva took a deep breath. He wanted to publish it; she just had to get him over this last hill. “There will probably be some fuss, yes,” she said. “But the more people are outraged, the more they’ll talk about it, and the more people will want to buy a copy to see what the fuss is about. After all, think how many books it takes to make a bonfire.”

His lips twitched, just a little, and she knew she almost had him. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully while the waiter laid the first course—molded fish pâté—in front of them. She took a small bite and let him think.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said abruptly. “I hope I don’t offend you if I tell you that I mostly agreed to this meeting out of curiosity. But now … now I think I’m very glad I did.”

There. Her smile widened, and she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “I’m glad you did, too, Mr. Smithson. I think we’ll make a great deal of money together.”

“My favorite amount,” he said, lifting his glass. “To Mrs. Webster’s Guide to Home Decoration.”

“Oh,” she said as he touched his glass to hers. “I was thinking—I had proposed—the book be called A Ladies’ Guide—”

Fully in his element now, he took a large forkful of the pâté. “Too restrained,” he said. “If we’re going to trade on your notoriety, there’s no reason to be tactful about it. We should be slapping your name on every surface we can.”

Of course, it was Alain’s name, not really hers. Perhaps—

“Could it be Alva Webster’s Guide?” she asked.