A Lady's Guide to Passion and Property

by Kate Moore

  “I see Lucy, Adam,” Harry reassured the old man. “She’s saying farewell to her lady friends. She’ll return soon.” He kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

  The footman appeared with the ladies’ coats and cloaks, and when these were put on, Lucy steered her guests out through the inn door over their protests. Her friends might be interfering, but they offered escape. In Harry’s experience it was the moment to run. He could see no advantage to the girl in staying to manage the Tooth and Nail, a form of drudgery in which she must soon grow old and coarse. He could imagine her friends urging her to take a husband. A husband, even one of her neighbors, would make a better partner than the old man.

  In Lucy’s absence Adam grew restless, his arms and legs twitching, until at last he leaned forward and laid his head and arms on the table. His mouth fell open, and he slept. Just when Harry thought her lofty friends must have snatched Lucy up in their carriage, she returned and stopped on the landing, looking lost and uncertain. When she caught his glance, she straightened and descended. He admired the effort to show no weakness.

  “He’s asleep.” Harry stood and moved to cut her off before she reached the bench. He wanted to ask her about Adam without disturbing the man.

  “What happened to him?” From his vantage point he could look down on the neat part at the top of her pale golden head. There was a simplicity to her dress and person that he preferred to the feathers and lace of her visitors. He wondered if she would lose that if her friends had their way.

  “I used to ask Papa about Adam. I realize now that he told me very little. Only that Adam was in service in a great house before he came to us.”

  “A blind man in service?”

  She shook her head. “I think he was attacked and blinded on the road and wandered to the inn. It was after the attack that my father cared for him.” She shrugged. “And kept him with us.”

  The girl’s explanation told him that she had little notion of the old man’s past. Her father had told her a story that made sense of the old man’s outbursts. But Harry guessed that the attack had been aimed at someone who mattered in England’s wars, someone whose loss made the spymaster Goldsworthy put Harry on the case. The greater mystery was Tom Holbrook’s part in the story. Why did a man with an inn and a family take on a burden like Adam? Most men would have offered alms and sent a stranger on his way. Harry was far from understanding why Tom Holbrook, by all accounts a practical man, had done something so unlikely.

  “I have business to attend to this evening. Will you be able to manage him on your own?”

  “As I have done most of my life?” She spoke defiantly, but she looked drawn, her eyes dark smudges in her pale face. “Pardon me. You’ve been helpful. Adam isn’t very often so...agitated. It’s only...that he doesn’t like change.”

  “Sit down. You look burnt to cinders.” His voice sounded harsh in his own ears. The thought of meeting with Richard had him on edge.

  Her gray eyes flashed briefly. “Do you expect civilians to salute and obey, Captain?”

  He smiled. He would like life outside the army better if he could give a few orders now and then and have them obeyed. “I expect a rational woman to behave with sense.”

  “Very well.” She took a seat beside Adam, setting a little book on the bench beside her. The orange cat appeared and leapt into her lap, circled, and settled facedown against the girl’s leg. Harry turned and strode away. He could count on the girl to keep the old man safe for the moment.

  * * * *

  Harry found his brother, Richard, Earl of Mountjoy, sunk in a chair in the subscription room of Richard’s club, a glass of brandy in his hand. Harry supposed he should be shocked at Richard’s appearance, the white hair and sallow skin tight on the bone, the watery eyes and thin frame. Richard had always been considered the handsomer of the two brothers. At forty-one he looked more like their father than the brother Harry had once followed on youthful adventures.

  The hush of the club subscription room was nothing like the din of the Tooth and Nail. Every gentleman sat in an island of silence with his paper or his magazine. No one shouted for another round. Waiters came and went across the vast carpet, alert to a man’s glance or his beckoning finger.

  Richard looked up at Harry’s approach, but did not stir, a man being careful not to jar his head. “Do you have it?”

  “Hello, Dick.”

  “Don’t ‘hello’ me, Harry. Do you have the blunt?”

  “No.”

  Richard glared at him. “We had an agreement, Harry. Did you think I was jesting?”

  “I didn’t know you could jest.” He had not heard his brother laugh in twelve years.

  “I gave you a year to raise the money.”

  And Harry had been so close. One last assignment and he would have been paid for his year and a day of spy service to king and country. “Do you have another offer?”

  Richard waved the brandy glass, sloshing its contents. “When I say the word, Finchley will get me all the offers I want.”

  Harry had no doubt it was true. Finchley, their dead father’s man of business, must be eager to sell Mountjoy and see creditors paid and mortgages cleared.

  “You’re willing to let Mountjoy go, then?”

  Richard snapped the fingers of his slack left hand. “Like that. Don’t tell me that you are sentimental about soggy acres and that moldering ancestral pile you were so eager to leave?”

  Harry looked away. No one in the subscription room seemed to note their conversation. “You know me better than that.”

  “Do I?” Richard started to shake his head, but winced at the movement. “I don’t think I know you at all. Who are you? The bluff, hearty captain? The hero of Waterloo?”

  “I’m a survivor, Dick. That’s all.”

  Richard took a swallow of his brandy and wagged a finger at Harry. Apparently, he could still move his extremities, if not his head. “I know who you are. You’re the spare who aspires to be the heir. You fancy being the next Earl of Mountjoy after I’m gone. You’ll get yourself an heiress, sire some brats on her, and restore the noble line of the Clares. Duty and honor and all that rot, while me and my father will be a dead branch on the old family tree.”

  Harry did not answer. He had chosen years earlier to save himself. With an instinct for self-preservation, he had recognized his own danger, but he had apparently failed to see the danger to his older brother.

  Richard stared into his glass. “I really shouldn’t let you do it. The house is in shocking disorder. Tenants have fled. Rents are abysmal. Restoring the place is a pipe dream. Have you ever tried the pipe, Harry? Of course not. Father introduced me to it after you left.”

  “You could have stood up to him.”

  Richard brought his glass down on the arm of the chair, spilling more brandy. “Hah! You didn’t stand up to him any more than I did. You ran away, remember.”

  It was an old accusation, and it should not sting, but Harry’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t follow him in every vice and folly.”

  Richard’s eyes abruptly filled, and tears spilled over down the ruined cheeks. “Damn you, Harry. Remember, one offer is all I need, so if you’re buying the Mountjoy mortgages, you’d better get your blunt together.”

  * * * *

  When Harry returned hours later from his bitter meeting with Richard, he found the common room deserted, quieter than any camp the army ever made. He shook his head. He did not miss the bench sitters’ boisterous camaraderie. He had regarded them as part of the furnishings, but now that they had vanished like the guests of an enchanted castle, he felt the life had gone out of the place.

  Adam’s bench, too, was nearly empty. The cat had taken Lucy’s place, and the fire had sunk to a red glow in the grate. The girl’s little book lay abandoned on the floor. He scooped it up, flipped it over, and read the title. The Husband Hunter’s
Guide to London. Perhaps it was a sign, the book that had helped Hazelwood crack their last case. Harry laughed at the idea, but another thought followed immediately. It was possible that he could use the book to his advantage. He dropped it in his pocket.

  The cat lifted its head, arched its back, and mewed loudly for his attention.

  As a woman of property is likely to receive several offers of marriage, it is necessary to consider the mode of a gentleman’s declaration. There are gentlemen who, carried away by ardor or avarice, will rush to declare themselves without any regard for a woman’s readiness to hear those addresses. There are other gentlemen of a more cunning and strategic disposition who will contrive the time and place, often public, of a declaration so as to ensure that a woman will have the utmost difficulty in refusing their proposals. And, there will be those men who from a spontaneous excess of feeling find themselves unable to offer a polished and coherent address, but only to press a woman’s hand and gaze into her eyes. A woman may note these differences in the manner of a man’s declaration, but of greater importance for her happiness is to note her suitor’s words. She is advised to refuse any man who, in making his addresses, speaks principally of his happiness rather than hers.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 3

  Lucy woke in Papa’s chair, her feet curled under her, one of his old jackets over her. Adam snored peacefully in his bed. In sleep he looked untroubled, but she knew his past lay waiting for him.

  Memory was a land Adam never traveled to except for those times when some word set off one of his frenzies. Then he became trapped in the past surrounded by things and people only he could see. The summer when she was twelve his spells had been alarmingly frequent. Lucy had written down all his odd pronouncements. She had taken the list to Papa to see whether together they might make a story of the disjointed fragments, but Papa had looked solemn and told her not to trouble herself to understand Adam, just to go on caring for him. He had taken the list from her and tucked it in the drawer where he kept Adam’s things. Her gaze settled on that drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe. Now that she was solely responsible for Adam, she supposed that she should know more about him.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thinking. Hannah called, and Lucy swung her feet to the floor. It was time to start her day. First, she would take care of Adam, then herself. Later, she would ask Captain Clare exactly what had disturbed Adam so deeply.

  Once she had Adam settled on his bench, she dashed upstairs to her own room to put herself to rights for the day. She did not miss the book her friends had given her until she went to tie her ring of keys to the plain muslin pinny she wore over her mourning clothes. With her keys at her waist, she had looked up at the portrait over her small hearth.

  The portrait, which was rather large for her room, had been a gift from her father when she started school. She had been reluctant to part from him, and he had presented her with the painting to remind her of the goal of becoming a lady. In the portrait, a true lady sat on a Turkey carpet spread on a vast lawn stretching up to a grand stone house. A little red book lay open against the lady’s pale blue skirts. White lace at her sleeves and bodice caught the sunlight. The day must have been breezy, because the laughing lady held her hand to a straw bonnet with a fluttering blue ribbon that appeared ready to take flight.

  Lucy had daydreamed of that picnic. But always she woke from those reveries to ask her lady questions. The lady only laughed and held onto her hat, so Lucy was none the wiser from her counsel. Lucy did not mean to be unjust to her lady, but she wished to know more of a lady’s life than picnicking on the grass suggested. She wanted to know who baked the bread and packed the basket, who carried the blanket and heavy hamper out onto the lawn, what army of under-gardeners scythed the lawn, and who would wash the grass stains from the lady’s white gown at the end of the day? She wanted to know how a lady mourned a father or bathed a frightened old man or stood up to the persuasion of friends.

  As the familiar questions came, she missed the little book. Dimly she remembered putting it aside on Adam’s bench. She had no use for The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London now that Papa had died, but she would put it on her shelf and treasure it like the painting as a gift from those who loved her. Managing the inn and caring for Adam—those were her duties now and for the future.

  By midmorning she and Hannah and Ariel had aired the sheets in three rooms, empty since the death of her father. She had conferred with Frank about the supplies of ale and spirits. And Mrs. Vell had informed her that no funds were available to purchase beef for the day’s ordinary. She stopped on her way to the cashbox to look for her book under Adam’s bench. It was his day to black boots. A row of scuffed footwear lined the bench beside him, while Queenie curled up in his basket of rags. There was no sign of the missing book under the bench or under Queenie. She stood trying to recall the moment it might have fallen, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  When she turned, she found herself face-to-face with Will Wittering in his Sunday best, or rather face to black-and-gold-striped waistcoat, for Will was a head taller than most men.

  His thick golden hair curled over his ears. His beard was trimmed and combed. His ruddy face radiated confidence, and his large person blocked her view of the common room though she could hear the familiar murmur of male voices. “Miss Holbrook, a word,” he said.

  “Of course.” She stopped where she was, conscious of his height and his size and a sense of some urgency compelling him.

  Unexpectedly, he seized her hand in one of his own large ones and clung to it as a man washed overboard might cling to a line being dragged through rough seas. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath like a bellows filling, and before she could stop him, a flow of words huffed out. “Miss Holbrook, the forge doing well this year puts me in a position to marry. I thought of you at once as just the woman for me, for yer not brought up too high and ye know the value of a pound. Ye could keep the inn, as I would keep the forge. And both would prosper. What do ye say?”

  Lucy wished there were somewhere to look and some way to look that was less astonished and reluctant. Her lady would know what to do, but her lady was upstairs laughing and holding a bonnet to her head. Lucy’s cheeks heated. She had the unpleasant sensation that everyone in the common room had heard Will’s booming declaration. She pulled gently at her hand, and Will, as if just realizing the amount of pressure he had applied, released it. His open face lost a little of its sunny confidence.

  “Mr. Wittering, I thank you for thinking of me as one who could contribute to your prosperity, but I must decline your offer at present. I must see what I can manage on my own before I join my enterprise with any other.”

  Will swallowed, his throat moving visibly, and plunged on as if she had not spoken. “I have three score horses on my books and what with hinge, bolt, and latch work, I might bring on a ’prentice this spring.”

  Lucy hardly knew what to say. He apparently chose to consider her refusal as a prompt for more financial information. “Thank you again, Will, but my answer remains no.” She offered him a bow.

  “Ye’ll not find a better man in London, mind, so I’ll ask again next quarter day, shall I?” He apparently took her astonished silence for agreement.

  She gaped after him, and her gaze met Captain Clare’s amused one. He raised his ale cup in a brief salute, his red coat unmistakable among the browns and grays of the bench sitters. He had seen and heard it all. Lucy escaped at once through the kitchen to the stillroom, where Hannah found her minutes later. Hannah bobbed a quick curtsy and announced, “A gentleman is waiting for ye in the council room. Stranded by a broken carriage wheel, ’e says. Says he knows yer da, but ’e didn’t know yer da had a daughter. Did I do right to put ’im there?”

  “You did, Hannah.” She realized that Hannah looked to her for orders now.

  “Oh, Miz ’olbrook, �
��e’s ever so fine with a gray coat. He says ’e’s a sawbones, and ’e wishes to ’ave a supper. A bit of fish, ’e said.” Hannah opened her palm, revealing a pair of coins that made a satisfying jingle. “Do we ’ave any fish for ’im?”

  Lucy frowned. Mrs. Vell had not changed her menu in Lucy’s lifetime.

  Hannah jingled the coins in her hand again. “It’s got to be the ordinary, don’t it?”

  Lucy shook her head. She was in charge now. She would run the inn her way. “If a gentleman desires fish, he shall have fish.”

  Hannah’s brown eyes widened, and she closed her fist around the coins.

  * * * *

  Early in the afternoon, Harry went round to the defunct Pantheon Club. Outwardly, nothing had changed. The previous day’s rain dripped from the scaffolding that concealed the building’s stone façade. Loose canvas flapped fitfully in the wind. Harry tried the hidden door but found it locked. He strongly suspected that the elusive Samuel Goldsworthy, the spymaster who had recruited them all, was holed up inside.

  Goldsworthy had pulled each of them—Blackstone, Hazelwood, and Harry—out of disaster with the promise of debts to be paid for a year and a day of service. Blackstone and Hazelwood had won their rewards, and Harry meant to have his. He gave the locked door a sharp rattle, but it remained closed. He stood for a moment listening to the drip of the rain. So far Richard’s indolence and his disdain for money matters had served Harry well, but even his brother could not hold off creditors forever. Sooner rather than later, Richard would let Mountjoy Manor slip through his slack fingers. The club might be closed, but Harry still needed to buy up Richard’s mortgages before someone else did.

  The other entrance to the club was through Kirby & Son’s Chemist shop around the block on Bond Street. Harry went round to the little shop. The bell jingled as he entered, and Kirby, the spies’ tailor, looked up from behind the counter where he was assisting a gentleman with a purchase. Harry halted. He was used to seeing Kirby’s daughter Miranda where her father now stood. It was one more sign of the closing of the club. He frowned and turned toward the shelves with their jars and tins and paper-wrapped soaps. The place smelled of lavender and citrus, like a field under the Spanish sun. While the customer dithered over his choice, Harry formed the jars and tins into a square on the shelf.