A Lady's Guide to Passion and Property

by Kate Moore

“You couldn’t miss me. You were in a fever.”

  “I missed you.” He laced his fingers with hers.

  And Miranda started sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. “You couldn’t miss me,” she said, coming up on her knees on the bed beside him and looking down into his face. “Because I’m the reason the club closed. I’m the one to blame. I didn’t deliver that message from Hazelwood to Jane Fawkener, and she was kidnapped, and Hazelwood fooled the government, and Lord Chartwell shut the club down. It’s my fault.”

  She leaned over him, burying her head against his chest, and felt his good arm come around her, his good hand sweep up and down her back, until the sobs became hiccups.

  “You’re overset,” he said. “You’ve been taking care of me this whole while, haven’t you?”

  She nodded against his chest. She had come to know that chest quite well, the simple churchlike symmetry of arching ribs over the hollow of his belly, the surprising soft dark hair around the coins of his nipples and down the center valley of his torso. Because their captor had accepted the story that she was Nate’s wife, she’d seen rather more of him than propriety allowed. She found she liked the compact shape of his body, lean and neat, and hard and flat where she was soft and round.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s time I did something for us, and I promise I won’t lead you through the woods again.”

  Miranda lifted her head. “Did you hear me? I am the one to blame for the club closing.”

  “I heard you,” he said. “Can you help me sit up against some pillows? I’m weak as a cat.”

  For a few minutes they pushed and pulled pillows and bedclothes until Nate lay back panting against the headboard. “Come here.”

  Miranda sat back on her bottom and scooted up against the headboard next to him. He lifted his good arm over her shoulders and pulled her tight against him. He had claimed to be so weak, but his arm was lean and hard and strong around her. He turned his head slightly, and his mouth brushed against her forehead.

  It was a light touch, sweeter than spun sugar. It made her eyes fill up again and spill down her cheeks.

  “You’re crying,” he said. “It was just a kiss. I didn’t think you would mind so much.” His hold slackened. He tipped his head back against the headboard.

  She glanced at him and watched his throat work as he swallowed.

  “I didn’t mind,” she said, snuggling closer under his arm. “I just thought that it was...that you meant it to be a last kiss.”

  He opened one eye. “Never.”

  “You’ll kiss me again?”

  He smiled. “As soon as you lend me some tooth powder.”

  “I haven’t got any,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything. She sneaked a peek at him. His eyes were closed. His cheeks shadowed with beard. A year earlier he had kissed her for the first time. It had been a revelation, that kiss, but then she’d been so foolish over Lord Hazelwood.

  She nudged him. “Does that mean you won’t kiss me again?”

  “I’ll kiss you senseless when I get the chance. If you’ll let me.” One eye opened. “It’s a good thing you came with me, Miranda,” he said. “Together, we’ll get the club open again. You’ll see.”

  The husband hunter’s Season offers such a round of pleasure, activity, and novelty, that she may mistake the dizzying whirl that occupies her for the happiness she seeks. She may, like a child dazzled by gaily wrapped presents and frosted cakes, imagine that these are the source of the gladness she feels in being alive and engaged in her world. But the happiness she seeks in marriage is of a different order entirely. It is the happiness of what is suitable, fitting, and felicitous in the choice of a partner.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 18

  Lucy looked around the little white-and-blue chapel. She and her friends had attended services together for nearly two years. They sat in their favorite back bench, awaiting the call to rise for the final prayer and recessional hymn. By now Lucy knew many faces in the crowd, and some names. She tried to guess who had left The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London on the last pew for her friends to find. Everyone in the chapel certainly recognized the group of them as most regular members of the congregation and knew something of their habit of exchanging books each Sunday. Someone had placed the worn blue volume with the water spot on the cover just where Lucy habitually sat. Whom was she to thank? If she understood him at all, Captain Harry Clare was to meet her at the chapel, take her up in his curricle, and propose.

  A fortnight had seen this change in them from near strangers passing in her father’s inn, to friends who understood each other deeply. It was not only the little book that had helped them, but dear Adam, her first and dearest friend, her playmate, her charge, and some would say, her burden.

  Harry Clare’s kindness to Adam, his defense of Adam from Findlater, and his understanding that Lucy needed Adam to be kept safe so that she could enjoy London—those were the acts that had first made Lucy see something more in him than the faded glory of his scarlet coat over his broad shoulders. Then she’d seen his other self in town among the fashionable people her friends collected around them and understood his loneliness, his wit, and his sense of duty.

  The other, the necessity of being close to his person, of touching and being touched, of sitting in the middle of the bench together rather than at either end, that had come later, somewhat mysteriously, catching her unawares, a thing you could not observe happening, until it had happened, until you were in the midst of it. No other gentleman had awakened her senses as Harry Clare had.

  Her book would say that she had permitted liberties, but it had never been a matter of permission, nothing had been unwelcome, she had given as good as she got. If he had more knowledge than she in such matters, he had not pressed her beyond where she was ready to go. The least ladylike of feelings—impatience and greed—had possessed her in those moments. She hardly knew where such feelings came from.

  Around her, people stirred. Lucy took up her hymnal and stood. One final song, a few words to friends and acquaintances, and her husband hunting would end. She would be in Harry Clare’s curricle, headed for the park, and a new life.

  * * * *

  Harry saw the sexton open the chapel doors and heard the organist begin the recessional. Lucy and her friends would be the last of the congregation to leave. Their habit of gathering in the rear of the church to exchange the latest novels they’d read always put them behind the rest of the churchgoers. But Harry could afford to be patient. The day was mild. They could roll through the park at a leisurely pace to exchange smiles and vows. He would give her the ring he carried in a box in his coat. He had let go of the case, of his role as a spy, and of the ambition to possess Mountjoy and restore it to its former dignity. All the things he had been fighting for since he’d left the army.

  In their place, fate had seen fit to put a girl, a gray-eyed, fair-haired girl with waves of curls and a wide-mouthed, freckle-dusted face. She was loyal and kind, and the warmth of her unaffected laugh drew him as strongly as a fire on a bitter night. If he could not make her “Lady Somebody,” he would make her his lady, The Honorable Mrs. Harry Clare. If she wanted to run her inn, he would settle there and make a home in that small patch of England for which, after all, the war with Bonaparte had been fought. If he had to defend her from her unseen enemy, he would do that, too. He patted the ring box in his breast pocket. It was still there.

  These satisfying thoughts passed through his mind as the first members of the congregation emerged from the church, blinking in the March sunlight. Separating from the crowd and crossing the street to Harry were his fellow spies and friends, Hazelwood and Blackstone. They came with grave faces and purposeful strides. With the club closed, Harry could not guess the meaning of their coming.

  “There you are, Clare,” said Hazelwood. “Kirby told us you might be
here.”

  “I’m meeting Miss Holbrook for a drive in the park.”

  Blackstone nodded. “We thought as much, and regret this errand.”

  “What’s happened?” Harry asked.

  “Richard is dead,” said Hazelwood.

  “Richard?” Harry glanced between their two perfectly sober faces. “Richard is forty-one.”

  Neither man made a reply, and Harry rallied himself to ask more questions. “How? Where? When?”

  The crowd was already thinning in front of the church. Hazelwood was answering Harry’s questions, but Harry’s blood was pounding in his ears, blocking the words. “Whatever you need, name it,” Hazelwood said.

  “You are Mountjoy, now,” Blackstone said.

  And Lucy Holbrook stepped into the sunlight with a quick, light step and shining eyes turned to him.

  “Pardon me,” Harry said to his friends. “I must speak to someone a moment.” He stepped into the street and halted as a carriage rattled past, the driver swerving and shaking a fist at Harry. He tried again with more care and reached Lucy. She extended her gloved hands. He took them in his, regretting the gloves, the street, the glare of day on this meeting.

  “I must postpone our drive. Can your friends take you home?”

  “Of course. Something has happened.” Her hands squeezed his.

  “My brother has died. I never...”

  “And your friends are here to help you?” she said, glancing at Hazelwood and Blackstone.

  “Yes, there are things I must do.” He held himself together.

  “Then you must do them. Cordelia and Cassandra will take me home.”

  He nodded. “That will be best,” he said. He tried to frame a parting that sounded right, but none came to mind. He could not offer for her now. Mountjoy, that mountain of debt and duty, made him the least eligible man in London.

  “Go,” she said. “You know where to find me.”

  He bowed a farewell.

  In every enterprise there are expenses that must be borne if the venture is to succeed, and husband hunting is surely a vital venture. The husband hunter, whatever her resources, must invest wisely if she is to reap the benefit of spending a Season in London. If she feels she must economize in any way, let it be in those areas where simplicity serves her aim. If she must invest heavily, let it be in that activity which brings her with consistency to the notice of eligible gentlemen. A box at the Opera House may procure a lifetime of happiness at relatively little cost.

  —The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

  Chapter 19

  A box at the opera at forty pounds for the Season was in Cassandra and Cordelia’s view a bargain for any woman wishing to secure a husband. Bringing Lucy to the opera near the end of her fortnight in London had been the plan from the beginning. Lucy owed her friends a great deal for their kindness. Without them, she would have forever imagined and perhaps regretted her lost London Season. Now she knew she would have no regrets. A delay in her happiness was inevitable as Harry Clare dealt with his new circumstances, but tonight she would show her friends only smiles.

  As they stood in the red-and-gold box before the gaze of hundreds of people, Cordelia said, “This is your send-off, dear girl, your farewell for a time, but we hope you’ll return.”

  “Of course she will,” Cassandra said. “Tonight we’ll see what her true prospects are. Some gentlemen will merely wave from the pit. Those we can dismiss. But others will rush to our box at the interval. Those we can consider serious suitors.”

  “Well, we’ve plenty of room in our box, dear,” Cordelia assured her. “We can accommodate half a dozen candidates for your hand easily.”

  Lucy laughed. “Oh dear, I hope some poor fellow doesn’t feel he must propose before all of London.” She did not confess that she had no need of dozens of suitors.

  Lucy had not seen such a crowd before. She was glad at that moment that most of her evenings had been spent in smaller gatherings. Nearly all of London must be there. Except Captain Clare. Her heart ached for him. His grief would be the harder to bear than hers had been for the bitterness between the brothers.

  Margaret, on Lucy’s right, smiled at her. The return of Lady Eliza’s son and granddaughter had given her a rare evening away from her duties as companion. “You look lovely, Lucy. I had not guessed when our friends showed me the fabric that pewter would favor you.”

  “Yes, and how fortunate for me to look well in it. I imagine that if Miss Throckmorton is here in her usual gold, she’s in danger of being mistaken for one of the pelmets.”

  “Ladies,” said Cassandra, lifting her glasses to her face to survey the crowd, “do pay attention. I see several gentlemen already eying Lucy.”

  Lucy was still laughing when she caught a gentleman in a neighboring box staring at her. The gentleman seemed unable to leave off the stare, pronounced and puzzled. He was older than Lucy or her suitors by many years, and she was sure she had not met him at any of the dinner parties she’d attended. Her appearance or her laugh or her very existence seemed to offend him.

  The musicians began to play, and the crowd settled into a low murmur as people took seats and turned from each other to the stage in anticipation. Lucy ventured one last glance at the staring man. He looked away when she caught him at it. Margaret noted him as well.

  “Who is that gentleman?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  “I believe its young Lydford. How odd of him, and I dare say, rude, to stare so. Do you know him?”

  Lucy shook her head. “Should I? Is he the disapproving father of some young gentleman of my acquaintance?”

  Margaret shook her head. “His only son is betrothed.”

  The first part of the program passed quickly. It was a light piece with a pair of sopranos who were favorites with the lively crowd. Lucy endeavored simply to let the music transport her, joining in the laughter and applause. It was easier to forget the scowling gentleman in the neighboring box than to stop looking for Captain Clare.

  At the interval, the audience, as if weary of being contained on benches for an hour, took to its feet. Lucy’s friends became quite businesslike.

  “Now, we shall see,” said Cassandra.

  A servant was dispatched for refreshments, and the ladies arranged themselves to greet callers to their box. And they came. Not Lucy’s baron, or the brilliant inventor, but several dashing men of fashion, in their black evening clothes and their easy charming ways, and yet there was no seriousness in any of them. They were playing at courtship.

  Lucy relaxed at once. Her secret happiness would not wound another. No one would make an awkward proposal she was compelled to reject. She smiled at the man in front of her and sipped the lemon water he’d procured and waited for the interval to end.

  Before it did, however, there was an interruption. The disapproving gentleman entered their box. He greeted Cassandra and Cordelia with a curt bow and demanded, “Who is your protégé?”

  Margaret stepped into the shocked silence, making the presentation. “Mr. John Lydford, Miss Lucy Holbrook.”

  Lucy made her curtsy. The gentleman seemed to be experiencing a strong emotion.

  “You are not with your parents?” he asked.

  “They are not alive,” she said. “I’m here with my good friends, as you see.”

  “But who were your parents?” he insisted.

  “See here, sir,” said Lucy’s lemon water–procuring companion. “You’ve no call to badger Miss Holbrook about her connections. She’s a woman of property, and I dare say, as well born as any of us.”

  Mr. Lydford quelled him with a fierce glare, and Lucy put a hand on her companion’s sleeve. It was clear that Mr. Lydford was laboring under some misapprehension.

  “My father was Thomas Holbrook of St. Botolph’s. You would not know him, Mr. Lydford, unless you were, many years ag
o, a follower of the fancy and knew him as Iron Tom.”

  Mr. Lydford’s brow contracted in a frown of puzzlement. “But how did you come by that laugh?”

  “Oh dear. I couldn’t say. We laughed often in our house. I am sorry my parentage disappoints you, sir.”

  * * * *

  The party gathered around the tea tray after the opera was not a lively one. Harry Clare had left no message at the house. Lucy rallied herself to show a cheerful spirit in spite of the uneasiness she felt in not hearing from him. After all a delay in embarking on an outing of pleasure was as common as clouds in an English sky. She could wait a few days or weeks before she set out for a lifetime of happiness.

  Margaret was enjoying the last few minutes among them before she returned to her duties as a companion. Lucy and Margaret sat together while Cordelia served the tea and Cassandra managed the conversation, turning it to Captain Clare.

  “So now he is the Earl of Mountjoy. It will be a terrible burden for him,” Cassandra predicted.

  Cordelia agreed. “His brother’s affairs were quite tangled I understand, and his debts, staggering.”

  “You said he had friends with him, did you not, Lucy?” Margaret asked.

  Lucy nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. The sisters’ words cast a shadow of doubt on her happiness. She hoped it would be a fleeting one.

  Cassandra changed the subject. “We might have been overly sanguine about your prospects, but you are now established here with a circle of friends and may return at any time. We’ll see you betrothed yet.”

  “Thank you, Cassandra.”

  “We have been so glad to have you with us, dear girl,” Cordelia seconded her sister. “You must come again, later in the Season, when you feel that you can. Then we shall see who offers for you.”

  Lucy promised she would. Then perhaps she would have glad news of a betrothal to share. For a few minutes they had little else to say.

  Late as the hour was, the bell rang, and the butler, waiting up to see Margaret off, came a few minutes later to announce that the Earl of Mountjoy was below and wishful of a word with Miss Holbrook.