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And he liked his work steering young men away from Malikov, which had been his job for nearly a year with occasional episodes of facing foreign assassins with Blackstone and Clare.

He shouldn’t let lying to Jane Fawkener trouble him. He knew what Clare would say. There were Englishmen in dangerous spots on the other side of the world who depended on them for good information about the enemy and on English secrets being kept. Why should it matter to him, if, years from now, Jane Fawkener, Lady Somebody-or-Other, came across a fan or a ribbon or a glove that stirred an errant memory of the time in her life when a man named Hazelwood played the villain? She’d be the wiser for any deception practiced on her. Besides, Jane Fawkener was smart. The chances were that she would see through him.

To get access to her book, he was supposed to seduce her into trusting him. He’d given Goldsworthy his assurance that he could do it, but as he thought of Jane, he realized she was unlike his former flirts. She had surprised him that first day by refusing the honor offered her father and claiming that she would turn husband hunter. Seeing her in contrast to her cousin Allegra confirmed his impression that Jane had a cautious, skeptical turn of mind, and an eye for anything that rendered a person ridiculous. He suspected that she’d take exception to some of the Husband Hunter’s advice, and yet she seemed determined to follow the guide step-by-step. At least by reading it, he could anticipate her actions, like her desire to visit her grandmother.

Only when he had settled himself in bed with a brace of candles and his copy of The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London did he remember a thing that had bothered him about the ransacked hotel room. The thief had left Clive Walhouse’s card of invitation untouched on the desk.

* * * *

Clive tried to give the appearance of indifference as he passed Lady Pamela in the crowded salon of a prominent Member of Parliament’s house. Just when Clive was growing accustomed to a daily dip into the pleasures of her lush body, she was required by a visit from her in-laws to be rather more circumspect than usual. There would be no late-night meeting between them tonight.

He accepted a fourth glass of wine from a passing footman and steeled himself for his friends’ conversation about sport. Talk about guns and horses and numbers of birds bagged in the fall was inevitable. He’d never been particularly keen on any of it. Perhaps because his father’s chief road to ruin had been overspending on dogs and horses.

He fixed a properly affable smile on his lips, positioned himself to watch Lady Pamela from across the room, and allowed himself to recall a recent interlude between them in the little house he had taken in St. John’s Wood.

Malikov’s voice in his ear startled him sufficiently that his arm jerked and a few drops of claret caught the lace of his cuff.

“I take it you were unable to persuade your cousin Jane to remove to your home?”

Clive switched his glass to his other hand and shook the claret from his fingertips. “Good evening, Count.”

“You look out of sorts, tonight, Walhouse. Are you and the fair Pamela already on the outs?”

“Not at all.” Clive recognized the attempt to needle him. Malikov was up to something. “Her mama-in-law is in the house. Discretion required, you know.”

“I see your sister is having quite the triumphant night.”

“Is she?” Clive frowned. He had probably erred there, ignoring Allegra’s movements. He wondered whether the Count had sought her out and coaxed the story of their morning visit out of her. It would be easy enough for a man of his address to get Allegra babbling about her grievances. Clive found himself a little irked with his friend.

He didn’t really want the count sniffing around Allegra. The man was acceptable company but hardly a match for his sister.

Malikov lifted his glass in a toast. “To a splendid match for your sister and a final defeat of the duns at your door.”

Clive swallowed the angry retort that bubbled up inside him. He now regretted his unguarded sharing of his monetary woes with the Russian. “Thank you. You can be sure that our family will look out for Jane Fawkener.”

Malikov clapped him on the back. “Just the thing. Keep her in the family fold, where she can’t hurt your fortune.”

The role of family in the Husband Hunter’s quest is first and foremost to provide those connections through which helpful invitations and introductions may be obtained. No family tie, however slight can be ignored, especially where considerations of rank may weigh. One’s second cousin, once-removed, the Dowager Duchess of Grandpark, is as worthy of a visit as the dearest godmother of your heart.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter Nine

By nine Hazelwood stood before the tall mahogany-framed glass in the back room of Kirby & Sons chemist’s shop while Kirby examined the fit of a new blue coat that was to replace the one ruined by Slouch Hat the day before. Kirby’s fitting room was as plain as Madame Celeste’s establishment was ornate. Yellow painted walls, heavy solid tables and chairs, a Kilim-rug padded bench, and open shelves of fabric and tools gave the room its comfortable masculine air. Only Miranda hunched in the corner over The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London added a feminine touch. This morning her father had to speak sharply to her when he required his chalk or tape.

Hazelwood smiled at Miranda’s absorption. He had found a night of reading the book quite enlightening. Had he read the thing a decade earlier, he would have known how to signal his unavailability to the hopeful mothers and daughters of three seasons who had wrongly imagined he wanted to be caught. Had Isabella Walhouse, Teddy’s youngest sister, read the thing, she would not have sent him a letter of distress over her impending marriage to Stafford begging him to rescue her. The first of many scandals would have been avoided. In the end his father’s action against him had reduced him to a permanent state of ineligibility as a husband. Now he could read the guide with disinterested amusement.

In the few minutes he’d had to study Jane’s copy, he’d noted on page twenty-six the letters EF, HC, and TD. Last night he’d penciled that brief marginalia into his own copy. It was a start. Each time he got hold of her copy, he’d collect another piece of its notes, but that was hardly fast enough to suit Goldsworthy. The enemy, it appeared, was working just as fast to steal the information away. The one advantage their side had was that the enemy did not know about the book Jane had received from her father. Hazelwood very much wanted time to examine her copy thoroughly.

Kirby smoothed the new jacket across his shoulders and nodded his approval of the fit. “I’ve put some give in the shoulders, should yer lordship ‘ave to take a swing at another bully boy.”

Hazelwood thanked him and turned to Miranda just as Wilde entered the room, dressed for the task of tracking down Slouch Hat.

“Sir, your rig’s ready and the coffee flask you wanted.”

“Thanks, Wilde. Let me take you as far as the hotel. I’ll let you know the target as we go.”

Miranda still did not look up. She was hunched over the book, her shining chestnut curls falling forward across her creamy cheeks. Hazelwood reached down and put a hand over the pages.