A Lady's Guide to Passion and Property

by Kate Moore

  An hour passed swiftly by. Miss Throckmorton put aside her plate of strawberries and declared that she would like to explore the woods for primroses and violets. The younger members of the party set off at once while the sisters and Miss Throckmorton’s mother dozed in the afternoon sun.

  Though there was little foliage, the wood was shady and cool. Miss Throckmorton led the way, skipping happily in the lead. Lucy lagged behind, and when the group surged forward in pursuit of a promising clump of green shoots, she simply stepped off the path, skirted a huge hollow tree, and wandered off. The wood smelled of damp earth and sweet air. The voices behind her faded, and she heard only the flutterings and rustlings of unseen birds, the chattering of a jay, and above her the branches stirring in the wind.

  She had no idea how far she wandered before she stopped beside another hollow tree and climbed the arch of its gnarled roots to look out over the wood. There was nothing in bare branches and piles of leaves to make her think of Harry Clare, and yet her thoughts turned to him. She seemed as attuned to his absence as his presence. She had been around plain, honest working men. He was nothing like them. She had thought it was his soldier’s jacket that made him appear to be other than the men she knew, but in London, where he no longer wore the scarlet jacket, she saw that his coat didn’t matter. He was war-marked even without the coat.

  She had thought Papa overly proud to have a genuine Waterloo hero staying at the inn. She had thought little as a girl of England’s distant army. She’d been a child, not even at Mrs. Thwayte’s, while he’d been at war. Other men had gone about their business getting and spending, while he’d been at war. He’d been little older than she was now on the day of the great battle. She thought he had not yet let go of that day.

  A bird took noisy startled flight somewhere behind her. She understood why she’d wandered so far. It was to think of him. Now it was time to turn back. She did not wish to alarm Cordelia and Cassandra. And Miss Throckmorton was right that Lucy should write directly to her father’s solicitor. She would send a letter in the morning. She laughed at herself. Men would be amused at the amount of time ladies devoted to thinking about them while they thought only of their own pursuits and not of ladies, at all.

  With that resolution she looked around to get her bearings and found she was no longer alone. Harry Clare stood not four feet away watching her with an amused gaze.

  “How did you find me?”

  “You laughed. Did you want to share the joke?”

  She shook her head.

  “And,” he said, coming to stand at the foot of her tree, looking up at her, “you left a trail the whole army could follow through the dead leaves. Your shoes must be ruined.”

  His standing so near changed the landscape of the wood. A minute earlier it had seemed an empty place; now it pulsed with life. She looked down at her muddied shoes and damp hem. Leaves clung to her skirts. “Oh dear, I’ll be in disgrace.”

  “Not with your friends. They’ll be relieved to have you returned to them.” He looked around. “Not a place to hunt a husband, is it?”

  She shook her head. Hadn’t she conjured him by thinking? “It’s an enchanted wood where anything can happen.”

  “You should be tenderly flirting with four gentlemen at once.”

  “Should I?”

  “Confess. You let Miss Throckmorton drive you from the field?”

  “I did,” she laughed. “She makes husband hunting seem quite effortful.”

  His gaze altered. He looked at her in that way he had that heated the blood in her veins. He was not a comfortable gentleman like her Back Bench Lending Library friends. Around those gentlemen she was quite at ease, while around Harry Clare she was impatient, on edge.

  “There’s no comparison,” he said. “Any man with eyes and a bit of sense will choose you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  For answer he reached up a hand to bring her down from her perch.

  It was a fine strong hand, and the thought of that hand touching her and undressing her sent a rush of heat through her. “I am not asleep now. I will know if you touch me.”

  “I hope so,” he said in a low husky voice.

  She took his hand and felt the contact everywhere at once. Her body tilted toward him, and with a rush of little steps she descended. He steadied her as her feet touched the ground, and kept hold of her hand, but stopped short of drawing her closer.

  His smile faded. “You’ve just begun to hunt a husband. Give it time.”

  She looked at him, so near, but holding her at a distance when an instant earlier it seemed she must fall into his arms. “Must I? What if I want the husband of my heart to appear at once?”

  “Maybe the fellow needs time. He might see you and want you, but he might need to put his own affairs in order before he can ask for your hand. He might not be as prosperous a fellow as a blacksmith or a water flask dealer. But never doubt he would choose you.”

  He was being kind again.

  A shout from one of the picnickers made them both turn. There were Mr. Bickford and Miss Throckmorton.

  Harry Clare dropped her hand and offered his arm instead to lead her back. Miss Throckmorton talked about primroses as they made their way through the woods. Cassandra and Cordelia exclaimed over her and their worry, but did not scold.

  Harry Clare came to her side again as she climbed into the carriage and contrived a few private words.

  “I must leave London for a few days,” he told her, leaning against the carriage door.

  “What? You would abandon me to the Miss Throckmortons of the world?” she whispered, making a joke of his leaving.

  He glanced to where Miss Throckmorton and her bosom had captivated a pair of gentlemen in the party. “Afraid she’ll take all the gentlemen for herself?”

  “I’m sure she’ll throw one or two back into the pond. When do you return?”

  “I don’t know how long this business will take.” His expression was closed, as if some thought or worry related to his journey preoccupied him. He did not say what that business was, but she guessed at the urgency he felt.

  “There’s a musical evening later this week.” Lucy waited for him to say that he’d attend, but he only quirked a brow.

  “A musical evening? Is that a happy hunting ground for the husband seeker?”

  “So I’m told.”

  Lucy was growing used to such conversations with him. It was not hard to explain his refusal to kiss her. He might flirt a little, a very little, but he knew the obscurity of her origins. He was an earl’s son and the only unmarried man she knew in London who had seen her in a sauce-stained pinny scraping a pike off the floor. The other gentlemen she met knew her as a woman of property acquainted with such visible friends as their hostess.

  “I don’t want you to think me remiss in any duty to you. Your friends will keep you amused and allow you to cast that net of yours wide in my absence.”

  She nodded. He was bringing their conversation to a close, and she cast about for a way to keep him talking a few minutes more. “I’m sure you never shirk a duty, Captain. When do you leave?”

  “At a most unfashionable hour for a lady, I assure you. Only delivery vans, cattle herds, and night soil wagons will be stirring.”

  Lucy wanted to protest that she was an early riser. At least, as an innkeeper she had been, but London ways were taking hold of her. “Then I’ll not see you off,” she said lightly. “London ladies must sleep through the freshness of the morning if they are to dine and talk for hours by candlelight.”

  At least she made him laugh, and he had not yet turned away, though the horses tossed their heads, eager to begin.

  “Do you pass the inn on this journey of yours?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said.

  “Would you ask whether Queenie has returned?”

 
He looked away for an instant, as if he found her request awkward.

  “Of course, as long as you don’t require me to smuggle the cat into the Fawkener household.”

  “Would you? Queenie’s just lady enough for London.”

  “I’ll be at your service when I return. And you may be sure that Adam will remain safe.”

  The husband hunter may imagine that a gentleman with an inclination to favor her as the source of his future happiness needs steady and extensive doses of her company in order to fix his resolve. In truth a little absence may do the trick. The man who finds himself fasting from the sweetness of her smiles and her particular laugh returns to the table starved for what he has missed.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 15

  Harry gave the elusive highwayman credit for covering his tracks well. It took three days of scouting to find the well-concealed pasture where Radcliffe’s stolen horses grazed. A few more inquiries led him to the owner of the pasture, Sir Ajax Lynley, Baronet. The gatekeeper at the lodge directed him up an elm-lined avenue to a stone house with jutting bays of windows, pointed turrets, and strolling peacocks. The place was called Lyndale Abbey.

  The butler seemed to expect him and led him into an old-fashioned room, its walls hung with red damask and paintings with distinctly religious overtones. Robed figures with marble-like faces made their way through dark landscapes. Harry guessed them to be saints by the halos glowing above their heads. He did not at first see anyone in the room. Then a figure lying on a long couch came to life and rose to his feet. With his height and size the fellow would make a menacing highwayman.

  This morning Ajax Lynley wore the buckskin breeches, boots, and buff coat of a country squire, but his dark looks and powerful shoulders suggested a man who would find country life tame. He was younger than Harry by perhaps five years, and his idleness did not conceal a pent-up energy. He might be a man to hold up a Rocket if for no other reason than to escape the sameness of his existence and the disapproval of the saintly figures looking down on him.

  Whatever his reason for holding up the Rocket, Harry could only regard the taking of the horses as a rescue rather than a theft. He hoped the abduction would prove to be the same.

  Lynley studied Harry. “How may I help you?”

  “You could assist me in my search for two young friends of mine.”

  “Search?”

  “They went missing from the Radcliffe Rocket a few nights ago. He may have been shot. I want to be sure they receive shelter and a doctor’s care.”

  “Ah,” said his host. “Refreshment?”

  “Ale, if you have it,” Harry said.

  Lynley rang and gestured Harry to a seat. Harry took a chair where he could look out the tall windows at the wandering peacocks on the lawn.

  “And you think I can help you with your search?” Lynley asked.

  “Situated as you are not far from the Aylesbury road, you may hear something,” Harry suggested.

  A footman brought a jug and two ale cups.

  “Who are these two, it is two? That you are looking for? Relations of yours?” his host asked, pouring from the jug.

  Harry recognized a cool-headed opponent. He had no idea what story Miranda and Nate had told their captor, but he could not claim that they were family. “They are unmistakable, I think. She’s quite a beauty, and he’s got ears and a set of white teeth that must draw the notice of anyone who sees him. They were to meet me at the Tooth and Nail at the end of their journey.”

  There was a slight pause in Lynley’s ale pouring. “You’re not still in the army, are you, Captain?” He handed Harry a cup and returned to his lounging.

  “Old army habits persist. One doesn’t like to leave comrades behind on a mission.”

  The giant’s brows shot up. “An intrigue, Captain?”

  Harry tried the ale. “An old soldier from the Thirteenth Light happened to be a passenger with my friends on the Rocket the other night. His account of the incident leads me to believe that they were in more danger from Radcliffe’s guard and coachman than from the highwayman who held up the coach.”

  “Troubling, I imagine,” said Lynley.

  “It is.” Harry set down his ale. “The third holdup of the Rocket in as many weeks, the second shooting of a guard. Talk of a gypsy gang operating.”

  “There is a habit of blaming the Romany, but I know of no gang in the neighborhood. The magistrates would act swiftly if there were.”

  “So, I must continue my search,” said Harry.

  “Are the authorities no help to you?” Lynley asked.

  “Have they come to you?” Harry asked in return.

  Lynley shook his head.

  Harry stood. “They will, but in the meantime if you hear of my friends, or can help them return to the Tooth and Nail in St. Botolph’s, I’d be grateful,” Harry said.

  “You should not worry so much, Captain,” Lynley said. “Most likely someone in the neighborhood has offered shelter and a sawbone’s attentions to your lost friends, and they will get word to you as soon as they are able to travel.”

  Lynley’s cool face gave nothing away, but Harry understood. The cordial baronet saw Harry to his horse.

  * * * *

  Nate did not know how long he’d been in the soft lavender bed, but he knew he needed to get out of it. A few times he’d wakened to look at the ceiling like a frosted cake and doze again. Or he’d wakened to Miranda’s urging that he swallow some broth. He was useless. He hadn’t got them free of the giant or back to Captain Clare.

  He opened his eyes to find Miranda with her face pressed to his free hand, weeping.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She lifted her head. “You’re awake.”

  He nodded and tried to push himself up. He really needed to get out of the bed.

  “How’s your shoulder?” With the back of her hand she wiped the moisture away from her eyes.

  “Aches some,” he said. Not his most pressing concern. “Can you help me get up?”

  “You can’t get up.” She jumped to her feet.

  “I have to,” he said. He pulled the bedclothes away from his legs.

  “Oh,” she said with a sudden blush of understanding. “I’ll help you. There’s...what you need in the dressing room.”

  He slid from the bed, and she offered him a hand, steadying him as he landed on his feet. She lifted his hand around her shoulder and put an arm around his waist, and they crossed a carpet softer than many beds Nate had slept in. At the dressing room he grabbed the doorframe. “I can manage from here.”

  When he reemerged from the dressing room, he felt his nakedness. He was in smalls and bandage with a good bit of beard on his face and film on his teeth. If he meant to impress Miranda with his gentlemanly appearance, he was failing miserably. She was staring at him. He must cut a miserable figure up against the gentleman highwayman. He was also probably breaking some rule of conduct that said gentlemen didn’t appear naked before their wives.

  “Do we have our cases?” he asked.

  Miranda shook her head. “But the people here have been kind enough to give me things. See, I’ve got my gown back without the stain.”

  “Do you have tooth powder?” His mouth had the most disagreeable taste of broth and medicine.

  “I do, but you can’t mean to use my toothbrush?”

  He raised his brows. That was probably a rule, too, but he was beyond the rules now.

  “Oh, I’ll show you.” She brushed by him, smelling sweet and fresh as she always did. She was probably enjoying her stay in a grand country house with a handsome highwayman for a host.

  She showed him the cabinet with the water and basin and handed him her brush and tooth powder. “Their powder is not as good as Papa’s. I told them they should patronize Kirby’s
in London if they wanted superior powders and soaps.”

  “Do you know where my clothes are?”

  She nodded. “What are you thinking?”

  “We have to get to Captain Clare. How long did it take to get here?”

  She turned away while he brushed his teeth. “I don’t know. It seemed like a very long time, but it could not have been, could it? It was still night when we arrived, and close on morning when the doctor finished with your shoulder.”

  “Not more than a two hours’ ride, then?” he said, finishing up with the towel. His mouth felt much better. He would deal with the beard later. He knew there were footmen who came and went. He would ask one of them about shaving.

  “Less, I think,” she said. “What do you think the highwayman means to do with us?” she asked.

  “We’re a problem for him because we’ve seen his face. We know he robbed the Rocket, but we also know he’s a gentleman. He won’t want us talking to the authorities.”

  “We don’t have to, do we? We could tell him we’ll never speak of the incident and thank him for his kindness to us both.”

  His kindness to her. Nate shook his head. “Constables will want to talk to us.”

  “We could tell them he didn’t really rob the Rocket. He took the horses, but he didn’t take any of the passengers’ watches or purses or anything.”

  “It’s the truth,” he said. “And we don’t know his name or where we are, but we are going to leave.”

  “We can’t just walk away.”

  “We have to. Tonight.”

  The musicale or private concert is an event that may both delight and test the husband hunter. Of course, she must attend. As England’s enduring poet says, “Music is the food of love,” and only in London will the husband hunter hear performers of rare talent and training capable of the full range of musical expression. So universal is the appeal of music that everyone of the first rank will be there. Such an evening places demands on the husband hunter’s attention, her taste, and her endurance. There is no more grievous offense at such an event than falling asleep to the pure intonations of a renowned soprano.