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In general, the Husband Hunter should not be alarmed to discover that a gentleman of interest to her has a capacity for friendship with the members of his own sex. The Husband Hunter herself must form dear and lasting friendships with women.

Nevertheless, the serious Husband Hunter will want to ascertain about a prospective spouse the level of his devotion to his club, which is to say his tribe. By observing him closely and listening to his talk, she will determine whether he is capable of forming a serious attachment outside of his circle of male friends. You do not want your home to be the island to which he occasionally rows from the mainland where he finds all his comforts, save one.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter Eight

When Hazelwood returned to the club, a dozing Wilde staggered to his feet from a couch in the coffee room. The youth to took Hazelwood’s coat and hat and offered him a second copy of the little blue book.

“Found it at Lackington’s, sir.” The youth yawned. “Goldsworthy’s in his office.”

Wilde didn’t say, nor did he have to that their leader expected Hazelwood’s report. Hazelwood clapped the youth on the shoulder. “Off to bed with you now, Wilde. I’ve got another job for you in the morning.”

The youth looked over his shoulder at him. “Sir, Miranda wants to read the book, if it’s no trouble.”

“If it helps your cause, Wilde, I’ll give her a crack at it.”

Hazelwood made his way to the spymaster’s office. In the whole time he’d lived at the club, scaffolding had hidden its façade along Albemarle Street. The interior rooms, except for the coffee room and the bedrooms, were draped in canvas. Passersby were meant to think the place empty and undergoing renovation, and not housing a nest of spies. During daylight hours, most of them passed through the back of the house and out through Kirby’s chemist shop on Bond Street to disguise their comings and goings.

The under-renovation disguise was pronounced in Goldsworthy’s office, which had the tented look of a military field headquarters. Hazelwood found two men in the office, Goldsworthy, behind his huge desk, and Captain Harry Clare, at ease in one of the club’s green leather armchairs facing their leader. Seated, Samuel Goldsworthy was no less monumental than when he rose to his towering height. A dozen candles illuminated the desk and cast the big man’s imposing shadow over the canvas-draped wall behind him.

Hazelwood took the leather chair next to Clare, opposite the big man. In his scarlet regimental jacket, Clare looked like a faded print of Wellington’s annual Waterloo banquet.

“Hazelwood,” Goldsworthy greeted him, “just the man I wanted to see. What’s the report?”

“The enemy is after the girl. We were followed from Mivart’s to the dressmaker’s this morning, and around seven this evening, while her maid was at supper, the girl’s rooms were searched.”

Goldsworthy’s shaggy russet brows lifted. “And? Any papers taken?”

“Not that the girl will admit to. She showed alarm over one Morocco-bound book. As soon as she found it, she had little further interest in the work of the thieves.”

Clare sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Bold customers, I’d say to enter Mivart’s. Looking for what?”

“That’s the question I’ve been pondering.” Hazelwood watched Goldsworthy, trying to read any tic or twitch in the bluff ruddy face. The big man’s expression was as readable as lichen on a boulder. Goldsworthy was not one to give away government secrets. “What information would Fawkener give his daughter that the other side badly wants?”

Goldsworthy showed no sign of hearing him. “Has the girl made any further claim that her father is alive?”

“Not a word.” Hazelwood held up the little book he’d received from Wilde. “She’s got herself a copy of The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London, and plans to give the Season a go. I’ve offered to help, of course.” He held on to the information that the guide had been delivered to her from her father through his bankers not the government.

Goldsworthy nodded approval, while next to him Clare snorted.

Hazelwood turned to his friend. “You doubt my ability to be of service to a maiden navigating the perilous seas of her first London Season?”

Clare assumed an innocent expression. “I’m sure that if she’s looking for a reliable shot, or a man who can break heads, you’re her man. Is that her object?”

Hazelwood shook his head. “I think she rather expects to find a fellow of dull and respectable domesticity plus a tidy income.”

“You’re safe then,” Clare quipped.

Goldsworthy cleared his throat with a rumble that could be mistaken for a coal cart passing. “Gentlemen, may I remind you that the girl in question likely has information vital to His Majesty’s government and that we must have that information.”

Goldsworthy’s tone reminded Hazelwood of certain unpleasant interviews he’d had in his youth with the Headmaster of his school. Goldsworthy had a sense of humor, but he also had a presence that squashed rebellion. Now he fixed Hazelwood with a grim stare.

“The government expects you to do what you do, Hazelwood. Persuade Jane Fawkener to tell you what she knows.”

“Do what I do?” He kept his tone neutral in spite of a sudden distaste at his employer’s suggestion.

Goldsworthy offered a dismissive wave of one of his melon-sized hands.