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Hazelwood had reached the salon doors when he simply stopped to look at her uncle’s painting. Jane tensed, willing him to keep moving as Bolton advanced.

Allegra moved into the final flourishes of her performance, the audience stirred, and another footman, looking at his tray of glasses, oblivious of the phalanx bearing down on Hazelwood, stepped directly into the path of the oncoming men. At the collision his tray went askew, and glasses flew upward. Guests jumped aside as champagne rained down, and when Jane glanced back, Hazelwood was gone.

Jane was left staring at the painting. She joined in the polite applause, turning to watch Allegra take her bows, sure that Hazelwood had come to the same conclusion she had. The painting concealed the map.

Contrary to what the Husband Hunter might expect this guide to suggest, she must not fall in love. It is no more advantageous to “fall” in love, than to fall from a horse or a bridge or down a flight of steps. The uncontrolled path of a falling object and the inevitable end of a fall in a broken head or broken limbs is no apt metaphor for the onset of deep and lasting affection. Love does not happen to us as a result of chance or a misstep. It is not induced by Cupid’s arrows, nor by the juices of rare flowers applied to one’s eyelids. We may discover that love has begun, or that we are in the midst of love with another person, but not because we have fallen but because, in a fertile garden carefully planted and tended, love has bloomed in its season and place when perhaps we were not looking.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter Fourteen

Hazelwood handed Jane into the carriage and climbed in after her without speaking. He settled a rug over their legs and feet. The carriage lamps cast a faint light into the cold interior.

“Are you sure you want to leave? We could make a push to get your uncle’s painting. Cut it out of the frame, roll it up.”

“You already created a sufficient stir this evening, you know.”

“Did I?” He knocked against the forward panel for the coachman to start the horses and leaned back against the leather upholstery. The dim light revealed his profile, the straight line of his brow above the deep-set eyes, the plain thrust of his nose, and the faint pull of a smile on his lips. In profile he looked almost ordinary, almost like the sort of man her guide would recommend, a sensible man of good character and respectable reputation. She reminded herself that he was no such thing.

“The clumsy footman, I take it, is an associate of yours?” She hardly needed to ask.

“Did Clive give you trouble on my account?”

“Clive forgave my ignorance in connecting myself with you.”

“Generous of him.”

“He explained how you offended his family at his aunt’s wedding. Do you want to tell me your version of the story?” She could imagine how offhandedly he would tell the story, making light of his feelings for the bride. She guessed he might have been very much in love, at twenty.

“I’m sure Clive’s version sheds a sufficiently glaring light on my faults.”

“Must you play the hero all on your own?”

“The situation called for action. That’s what I do. I act. Are you going to tell me what you discovered about the painting?” There was a touch of irritation in his tone.

“After you have confessed to a habit of independent action more likely to harm you than anyone else?”

“Clive’s story is an old one. No damage done. You can see for yourself.” He took her gloved hand in his, slipped it inside his greatcoat, and pressed it against his chest, his warm, hard chest. Through soft wool and silk and linen she could feel the strong beat of his heart. The sudden intimacy altered the smooth rhythm of her pulse.

The carriage rattled along over the stones, and under the rug her knee bumped against his thigh. Hazelwood’s other hand slid around the back of her neck and pulled her closer. The wool scarf over her head slipped back.

“We didn’t finish our conversation about how to behave alone with a gentleman in the dark.”

She swallowed. “I decided never to be alone with a gentleman in the dark.”

“Yet here you are.” His low voice had that break in it that turned her insides to jelly and made the inches apart seem like too much. His mouth was near but not near enough. It was like the end of a desert journey, when the donkeys stumbled on their feet, and it was dangerous to even think of water.

He took her other hand in his and lifted it to his face. “Eversley’s not the man for you, you know.”

“He is exactly the sort of man my guide recommends.”

He shook his head. “Let me show you why your guide is wrong.”

“You mean tell me.”

“Eversley’s touch doesn’t move you, and what’s more, you know it.”

She could not deny the truth of it. Though she had no experience by which to judge, some instinct of which she had been previously unaware told her as much. She had barely tolerated Clive’s patting her hand, yet Hazelwood’s tying her bonnet or tugging at her ribbons drew her whole person to him, like a wave sucked back to the sea.