The Husband Hunter's Guide to London

by Kate Moore

  “St. George’s, Hanover Square,” he said, the distinct drawl back in his voice. “The husband hunter’s ultimate destination.”

  Jane regarded the church’s columned portico jutting into the street, and its heavy stone recesses overshadowing small windows. “It looks suitably solemn and dignified.”

  He laughed. “You mean it looks gray and dull, as institutional as a bank or a prison. A fitting place to begin a life sentence.”

  She refused to be drawn. “There are other churches, I’m sure, where one may marry.” She wondered if he had ever considered marrying—an odd thought to have.

  He looked back over his shoulder before pulling into the stream of traffic and spoke a word to his groom.

  In a few quick turns and one dash across a wide thoroughfare, they reached another square, a long oval actually, with dozens of tall plane trees in the center park, bare now in winter. At the southeast corner of the square, Hazelwood drew up the carriage again, next to the iron railing around the square’s center.

  “What am I to see here?” she asked. The square was nearly empty in the cold with rain threatening.

  He gestured with one leather-gloved hand at a shop on the corner. “Gunter’s Tea Shop. You’ll want to be seen here, and you’ll order your wedding cake from Gunter, himself, that is, from his son.”

  She glanced at the shop. Her father had brought her here once in summer to eat a violet ice under the trees in the center. The square had been crowded with open vehicles. She remembered ladies with bonnets and parasols to shade them from London’s heat, and laughter, lots of laughter. The waiters had dashed back and forth through the traffic of the square with orders and trays of confections.

  Hazelwood glanced at the sky of sagging dark gray clouds. “I doubt it will rain before noon. Can you hang on for a few minutes?” He leaped down from the carriage before she answered.

  “Where are you going?” He shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it across her knees.

  “For warmth,” he said. Then he reached into the carriage, and snatched up a large black umbrella that had been lying at their feet.

  “Where are you going?” she repeated.

  He glanced across the square. “There’s a fellow in a slouch hat who takes too great an interest in our carriage.”

  “Is it a grave offense, then, in London, for one to stare overlong at another’s vehicle?”

  “Quite grave. You must never do it yourself.” With a grin, he strolled off.

  For a moment she sat stunned. What did he expect her to do in an open carriage without an umbrella?

  They were parked at the lower end of the long oval square. Jane’s bonnet obscured her vision except of what was directly in front of her. She tugged the strings loose, looking out slightly to her right over the horses’ backs, where she could see a portion of the square and Hazelwood strolling along, the umbrella over his shoulder, as if he had not a care in the world.

  He disappeared from her view about midway, entering the square on a path that must take him through the park to the other side of the square. In a minute she heard his voice call a cheerful greeting.

  She pulled off her bonnet. A man in a slouch hat, standing beside a horse, started as Hazelwood approached him.

  The next instant Hazelwood snapped the black umbrella open under the horse’s nose. The beast snorted and shied, hooves flailing. Slouch Hat stumbled back, trying to keep his feet and losing the reins of his plunging horse. Hazelwood caught the horse’s flapping reins and pulled the animal’s head away from the umbrella. Slouch Hat grabbed the umbrella, and Hazelwood released it, letting the man stagger backward.

  In the next instant Hazelwood flung himself up onto the horse’s back and into the saddle, keeping the horse’s head turned, and leaning back over the cantle to keep his seat. Slouch Hat scrambled to his feet and brandished the open umbrella overhead like an axe. Down it came. The pointed tip of an umbrella rib missed Hazelwood’s face, but connected with the shoulder seam of his jacket and caught. Slouch Hat stumbled again, his weight pulling the umbrella down, ripping Hazelwood’s sleeve free of the coat, and scraping his arm from shoulder to elbow.

  Hazelwood leaned low over the horse’s neck and urged the animal forward. In a minute they came trotting around the square. He slid from the horse, tied the animal to the back of their carriage, and vaulted up into place beside her, taking the reins. His groom climbed up behind the carriage, and they set off as Slouch Hat came huffing around the park toward them, waving the umbrella and yelling, “Stop. Thief.”

  Hazelwood glanced her way. She supposed she must be gaping a little, as one did when a sudden view appeared, when the mountain path opened on a sheer drop and the stones disturbed by the donkey’s feet bounced and rattled down the steep walls of a canyon endlessly while one waited to breathe again. Now she understood what Hazelwood’s close-fitting English clothes revealed—how muscle and bone and height and strength—might be employed.

  He lifted a dark brow. “You’ll want to put your bonnet on, Jane. It’s going to rain.”

  The skies opened up as Jane tied the strings under her chin.

  * * * *

  Nate held the umbrella as Miranda left the carriage. The heavy rain forced her to take his arm and stay close as they entered Lackington’s. They handed over the dripping umbrella to an attendant at the door and turned to admire the shop.

  In spite of the rain, tall windows along the street let in long shafts of light, in which Miranda glowed. She looked particularly fine, and she knew it. They caught the eye of an alert clerk as soon as they entered, and the man hurried to greet them.

  “How may I assist you?” The fellow might have addressed the question to them both, but his stare was fixed on Miranda alone.

  She gave Nate’s arm a subtle squeeze. She had learned to her dismay at Hatchard’s that as soon as she spoke, her accent quite spoiled the impression she made with her beauty and taste. Now she wanted Nate to do the talking, so that she could preserve the illusion of being a lady a little longer.

  Nate assumed his loftiest manner. “My sister and I are looking for a particular title, but first, she would like to find a novel of manners and morals, something by a gentlewoman, and I would prefer a history.”

  The clerk managed to draw his gaze briefly from Miranda’s face. “Sir, you’ll find the histories on the far left wall. If miss would care to follow me, we have all of Mrs. Ross’s work, Miss Musgrave’s latest novel, and more.”

  Miranda shot Nate a look that said she did not want him leaving her with the clerk. He grinned. At the moment she was not thinking about Hazelwood. In truth he could see that she was a little cowed by the grandeur of the shop and would need to recover some of her spirit. He could help with that.

  He leaned toward her behind the clerk’s back and whispered, “Just nod and smile, and try not to gape like a bumpkin. I’ll find you in a few minutes.”

  She shot him a quick glare before she turned a bright smile to the clerk.

  Lackington’s was nothing like her father’s dark and narrow premises. The huge shop held thousands of books in vast two-story blocks of shelves from floor to ceiling with more books stacked on the floor. Tall ladders attached to rails rolled along from one end of each long wall to the other. Clerks in tailcoats scampered up and down the ladders or assisted the ladies and gentlemen gathered around the large circular counter in the center of the store. Miranda, a shopkeeper’s daughter, would know just how to calculate the value of so much merchandise.

  Nate found the histories, and glanced at the prices, but kept an eye on Miranda, as the clerk pulled a volume from the wall to show her. On another day, Nate could spend hours and too much money in the shop, but today, he made his way back to the large circular counter. He could see that Lackington’s kept only its first-rate, mint condition merchandise on the main floor. An inquiry of one of the clerks at the
counter told him that if he and Miranda ascended the wide stairs to the lounging rooms, they would find the books cheaper, but, the clerk warned, in less good condition. The true bargains would be on the top floor.

  As Nate approached them, he saw that Miranda’s clerk had spread out on a table a number of volumes for her to consider. He laughed to himself at the title that drew her eye, The Marchioness.

  “She’ll have that one, I think,” he said to the clerk, pointing to The Spinster’s Journal.

  The clerk frowned and looked at Miranda. “Miss?”

  Nate could see that she was longing to break out with her usual abuse of him, but she mastered herself, and smiled, shook her head, and put her hand on the first book, a shy, feminine gesture that didn’t fool Nate. He laughed and directed the clerk to hold it for them at the counter, explaining that they were going to look for bargains on the upper floors.

  As soon as they passed out of earshot, Miranda jabbed him hard in the ribs. “Nate Wilde, you beastly wretch, you make me want to sink through the floor.”

  “I just don’t want you forgetting who you are, sister.”

  “Thank goodness I am not your sister. I didn’t come from the Bread Street gutters.”

  “Just don’t get your nose so high in the air that you trip.”

  She glared at him, but looked down and lifted her skirts to manage the stairs. “Where are we going?”

  “To find Lord Hazelwood’s book. It’ll be on one of the upper floors.”

  In the end they found it on the third floor with a little help from a condescending clerk who had seemed to regard the book as a joke when Miranda asked for it. But he’d checked his catalogue and led them right to the little blue volume. A water stain marred the front cover, but the pages were intact and the book was complete.

  “Is the lady in search of a husband?” he asked. Plainly, he’d noticed that Miranda’s accent was at odds with her appearance.

  The man was a stick figure in a coat. Nate had both the breadth of shoulder and reach of arm to level the fellow with one good left. He settled for a bit of condescension. “My poor orphaned sister misses a mother’s guidance at this time of her life. It will be a comfort to her to consult a woman in such matters.”

  At the main counter, he paid for Lord Hazelwood’s book and the novel Miranda coveted.

  She looked surprised. He shrugged. “For your part in the assignment.” He couldn’t be more generous than that, and he had his reward. Her face lit up with its prettiest smile.

  But back in the carriage, it was Hazelwood’s little blue volume she held in her lap as she traced the title with her fingertips.

  “Do you think Lord Hazelwood will let me read it?”

  “No harm in asking. You might be able to help him with the case if you know the book’s contents.”

  “Are you going to read it?”

  “Me! I don’t need a husband, do I?”

  “But you’ll need a wife someday. You could learn how to court one properly.”

  “A wife’s for old fellows in flannel waistcoats. I have to make my mark in the world before I marry.” He wasn’t about to let her know that he’d already picked the wife for him.

  “Hah! As if you could make a mark in the world.”

  “It’s what men do, and London’s the place to do it.”

  “What about women, then?”

  “They marry.” He tapped the little book in her lap with his forefinger.

  She gritted her teeth. “You just wait then. I’ll wager you that I can do better by marrying than you’ll ever do.”

  “Be careful, Miranda. I might just take you up on that wager.”

  * * * *

  In the rain with the carriage moving, Jane could do little but hold on. They stopped once under an awning for Hazelwood’s groom to dismount and take Slouch Hat’s horse away. Hazelwood explained that the blameless animal would be returned to the livery stable from which it had come. A brief argument ensued about whether Hazelwood should put on his greatcoat again. Jane did not win.

  Madame met them at the door of her establishment. While Jane looked around at the pale green damasked walls and delicate gilt chairs, one of Madame’s assistants carried off her soaked cloak and bonnet, and Madame turned her attention to Hazelwood. In an instant Jane realized that they knew each other.

  Hazelwood stood just inside the door, dripping wet from the top of his hatless head to the soles of his mud-splattered boots as Madame peeled off his ruined jacket, the torn sleeve first. He was muddied, bloodied, soaked to the skin, and perfectly happy to be so. Jane’s curse had hit its mark, but it had hardly humbled her adversary.

  While Madame’s assistants scurried for towels and a bootjack, Hazelwood tugged at the ruined neckcloth, undoing its soggy folds and wadding the sopping thing into a ball in his hands. Dark curls appeared at the base of his throat. A shop assistant held out a bucket for the ruined neckcloth.

  Translucent with water, the sleeves of his linen shirt stuck to his skin over the bulge of his shoulders and the curve of his arms. His right arm had a vivid pink gash from shoulder to elbow, staining the linen. The rain had darkened his hair to the color of ink. He toweled it, leaving it tangled carelessly about his face like the curling script of ancient scrolls. Jane swallowed. Her throat felt unreasonably dry, her body warm, in spite of the dampness of her own garments. She gathered her wits.

  “I have met eastern rulers, both satraps and beys, with numerous protocol officers used to bending so low their backs are permanently curved like willows over a stream. I’ve never met a functionary with such a taste for direct action.”

  His face was solemn, except for the laughing green eyes. “I believe things are done differently in the East.” He tossed a towel aside with a smile for the assistant helping him. “You’re in London now.” He turned to Madame Celeste. “Has Mrs. Lowndes explained our needs?”

  “She has, my lord,” Madame replied. “Come, Miss Fawkener, let us see to you.”

  Jane gave him one last look. His hands on the buttons of his waistcoat stilled briefly. “Go,” he said. “I’ll soon be warm and dry, and you’ll be fashionable.”

  * * * *

  With a little help from Madame’s girls and a package delivered from the club, Hazelwood sat warm and dry on the shop floor in a pile of pillows, his bootless feet stretched out before him. He listened to the murmur of female voices behind the rose velvet curtains of Madame’s fitting area. As an assignment, he thought his beat any that Blackstone or Clare had had. His groom had ascertained the livery from which Slouch Hat had come, and Hazelwood contemplated his next move in the game against Jane Fawkener’s enemies. A squawk erupted from behind the velvet curtain, followed by a single vexed syllable delivered in an outraged tone and a long rapid flow of words in an unfamiliar tongue. He recognized the low voice as Jane’s.

  “Hazelwood,” she called. “I’m coming out.”

  He came to his feet. “Are you decent?”

  The velvet curtain stirred, and Jane Fawkener, her arms extended from her sides, slipped through.

  He felt his face change and worked to keep from staring at the slim form in the filmy white gown. Curves and hollows and sweetly rounded arms appeared, unveiled by the simple gown. The warm scent of her reached him. He must have looked as stunned as he felt because she flapped her arms like wings. “Hello, Hazelwood, please tell me this is not a shroud, and I’m not dressed to be entombed.”

  Dressed for bed more like. “White is the required color for a lady’s first meeting with the monarch.”

  She looked at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

  “Did you tell Madame that you preferred not to meet his royal highness?”

  “I did, but apparently, your orders trump my preferences.”

  “Ah,” he said, “connected as I am with the government, I do have a certain
sway in this matter.”

  “The dress has no color. I would prefer not to look as cheerless as bleached bones on the side of a desert track.”

  “Is that how you think you look?” He closed the gap between them. “Arms tired?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been standing like a signpost at a crossroads for hours. And there are pins. Hundreds of pins. I could run a stall in the souk.”

  He reached up and offered his open palms for her to rest her arms. She shuddered at the skin-to-skin contact. He kept his hands steady in spite of the desire to slide them along the silky underside of those arms. “You’re used to being invisible, aren’t you?”

  She shook her head to deny it.

  “Unnoticed then. What did you wear outside your father’s house? The veil?”

  “A head covering always, the garment of a modest woman in the public places of Halab. And sometimes the chadri, my own personal blue tent with a mesh screen to peer through.”

  He could imagine her veiled, only the dark eyes visible through the dark mesh of the headpiece, like the gleam of moonlight caught in a well. “Worried about being seen, are you?” He quirked a brow at her.

  She shrugged.

  “I assure you that no man in London will think of bleached bones in the desert when he sees you in this dress,” he said it solemnly as a kind of promise. Then to lighten the mood, he added, “You do know the gown is not finished.”

  “Not finished?”

  “It requires panniers, I believe.”

  Madame stepped out from behind the curtain. “Panniers, certainly.”

  “You mean what a donkey wears?”

  Hazelwood tried not to laugh at the suspicion in her eyes. Clearly she was thinking of the woven baskets merchants strapped on donkeys to carry their wares.

  “And I believe that there’s an overdress required as well with yards of ribbon.” He took his palms away from her arms and stepped back. Then he had to reach for her again. With the tips of his fingers he lifted her chin. “Have a little faith in Madame’s skill.”