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She did not see the lake of her childhood, like a finger crooked in summons. Instead a huge crowd had gathered at the base of the slope, restlessly moving about in a tide of dark cloaks and coats in which bright bits of blue, yellow, and red bobbed like flotsam on the muddy Thames. As the carriage drew closer, Jane realized that the crowd stood and skated on the ice of the lake itself. Clumps of brown reeds and bare, black-limbed trees marked the edge of the water. Across the breadth of the long, narrow lake was a swath of ice empty of spectators. Other fashionable carriages like theirs converged on the slope above the lake. Gentlemen called greetings and ladies waved at her cousins. Clive directed their driver to the right along the brow of the hill above the crowd.

Allegra immediately protested. “Clive, we must be nearer.” She spoke directly to the coachman, telling him to drive to the water’s edge.

The coachman appeared not to hear her.

“Clive, tell him.”

“Allegra, show some sense. We’ll be mobbed when the ice goes if we come too close.”

“You think the ice will collapse?” Jane asked. The lake was perhaps a hundred yards wide and fifteen feet or more in depth. She had no idea how thick or sturdy the ice would be.

“Oh pooh,” said Allegra. “Clive just wishes to remain aloof. He’s not much of a sportsman, our Clive. He rarely wagers on anything.”

Jane smiled at Clive. “Sounds sensible to me.”

“All true gentlemen wager,” Allegra declared with a toss of her head that shook the ribbons on her bonnet.

* * * *

Hazelwood might not like Clive Walhouse, but he approved of his good sense in choosing a spot on the northeast slope from which to view the Radical Race, as the print shops and papers were calling Hunt’s proposed dash across the width of the lake. Allegra’s elaborate bonnet made the open barouche easy to spot in a loose circle of fashionable vehicles. Coachmen in their greatcoats had gathered together to smoke their pipes and no doubt to share their own opinions of the exploit about to be attempted.

Hazelwood was willing to admit that his year of spying might have impaired his ability to judge danger rationally. England, London, and Hyde Park might have their share of rogues and footpads, but enemy agents were rare, and not likely to join in the amusements of the king’s ordinary and loyal subjects. A public kidnaping at a fashionable gathering in front of hundreds of people was unlikely, but if not a kidnapping, what? In the fortnight she’d been in England, Jane Fawkener had been followed, had her hotel room invaded, been nearly pulled from a carriage, and had a stone chucked at her head. Whoever had orchestrated those earlier attacks on her would not likely let an opportunity pass. And through Hazelwood’s blunders she was no longer in his care.

The carriages on the slope, occupied by people he knew or had known, offered some protection for Jane, but a challenge for him. His eye had to discern between the ordinary and familiar and the unexpected and out of place. The real danger, he decided, was in the restless movement of men on foot. A hired fist, dressed as a coachman or a hawker, could move among the carriages without anyone’s notice.

Hazelwood glanced back at Nate and Miranda in his own vehicle and set off across the slope, crunching through the frozen grass, to position himself closer to Jane. He picked a vantage point from which he could see the girl, the carriage, and the surrounding turf and tried to shake off his unease. A quick downhill sprint would bring him to her side if anyone suspicious approached her. He thought again that maybe he was crazy to imagine enemies in the midst of such a crowd. Jane’s family might be as vain and obsessed with rank as most of their circle, but they weren’t going to let Jane be kidnapped.

Once he had his spot, he widened his gaze to take in the larger scene. Touts circulated, taking side bets from several men he once counted as friends. An enterprising pie man worked the crowd with his wares. Young gentlemen hung about the open Walhouse barouche, plainly vying for Allegra’s attention, and Hazelwood swore to himself when one of them opened the door and let down the steps. Without meaning to, the man had made it easier for the enemy to reach Jane Fawkener. His sense of unease increased when he spotted Lord and Lady Ravenhurst with their good friend Count Malikov. The position of the Ravenhurst carriage above and to the east of the Walhouse barouche was no accident. Count Malikov would have Jane directly in his sight as he watched the race below. The thought of Jane in the hands of the enemy lodged like a stone in the pit of Hazelwood’s stomach.

* * * *

Jane studied Allegra. Whatever was happening on the ice below, Jane could learn the most by watching Allegra manage her admirers. Several young men had gathered to lean against the vehicle looking up at her. Jane had met some of them at her cousin Phoebe’s musical evening. Now each gave her a polite summary glance, rating her attractions, and an equally quick dismissal. By turns Allegra invited a favored man to step up into the carriage until she dismissed him to give one of his rivals a place in the seat of privilege. Hazelwood had warned Jane that she might lose her head when she, too, found admirers, if she ever did, but Jane could see that Allegra was not losing her head, at least not in the way Hazelwood meant. But she was not using it, either. Allegra’s method did not give her more knowledge or understanding of the young men vying for her attention, instead it reminded Jane of looking in a mirror at oneself to see which angle flattered.

Clive, too, Jane observed, did his share of looking about. The trick with both of her cousins seemed to be to take notice of others without letting anyone see you do it. It was something her father could do quite well, and she wondered if he had learned the trick in London society rather than in the palaces and courts of the East. Clive was taking particular care not to notice a striking group in a nearby carriage above them. His studied disinterest made it seem to Jane, as if an invisible string connected him to a golden-haired lady in lavender silk and dark furs who sat with two gentlemen in another open carriage. The one gentleman, fair and relaxed, shared the back seat with the lady, and made occasional comments that drew her laughter, while the other gentleman, dark-haired and restless, talked a great deal to two boys with him in the other seat, pointing out elements of the great scene. The second gentleman never looked at the lady. The lady herself seemed an expert in taking no notice of others, but Jane suspected that she knew Clive watched her.

She was on the point of asking Clive about them when Eversley, standing below the carriage, asked Jane how she felt about the race. A quick glance at Allegra showed that she was occupied with her other suitors. She did not greet Eversley, who hung on the edge of the group, looking on. It was not an overt declaration of indifference, but Jane felt she might take a chance on talking to the shy gentleman.

“How are your dogs?” She turned to him. She had not thought of dogs in years. Dogs in Halab lived on scraps, slunk around the edges of town, and figured in curses and insults hurled between enemies. Eversley’s round, ruddy face had an open, trusting look, as if any unkindness toward dogs might wound his feelings deeply. “Are the new puppies getting on?”

“They are,” he said. “I’ll be looking out for homes for them soon. I think people in general underestimate dogs. My Ajax understands hundreds of words.”

“Words? Do you speak with him then?” Jane had not thought dogs knew words. They knew scents and gestures and tones of voice, but did they recognize words. She smiled at Eversley to encourage him.

A roar went up from the crowd on the ice, and they both turned to see a green van drawn by four bay horses appear through the trees on the other side of the lake. The driver, dressed in a white coat and hat with a dotted neckerchief, waved at the crowd. Two servants in green livery to match the van, clung to the rear, and waved in their turn. Huge lettering on the side of the van proclaimed, MATCHLESS BLACKING.

“Now that’s a rig,” said her companion. “Big as a gypsy’s wagon, and those bays are no lightweights. Prize horseflesh. Hunt’s got some nerve to try this stunt.”

The horses were beautiful, and Jane wondered whether the driver felt any compunction about risking them on the ice. He took obvious pride in his driving skills. For the next several minutes while the crowd buzzed with excitement, he tooled his rig up and down the far bank. He halted his wagon and lifted his white hat aloft with his cane, twirling the hat about on the end of the cane to the crowd’s joy. Then he tossed the reins to one of the two servants, jumped down from the box, and with businesslike energy strode across the Serpentine, looking at the ice. The crowd shouted and cheered. Having crossed, Hunt shook hands with a group of gentlemen. At Jane’s side, Clive drew her attention from Eversley to point out the judges and the man betting against Hunt. Then with another tip of his hat to the crowd, Hunt strode back across the ice. He vaulted up onto the driver’s box, and started his horses in motion, turning them back along the carriageway a distance from the lake. It was all done in high spirits with reckless disregard for any danger. Like Hazelwood, Jane thought.

As the appointed time drew near, the crowd surged forward toward the open space on the ice, packed densely in a dark line along either side of the ice path. The noise subsided to a low rumble as Hunt turned his van around, facing the lake again. Allegra squealed as her favorite of the moment pulled her to her feet, and Jane stood, too. In a moment everyone was standing in the carriages around them.

* * * *

Now that the appointed hour had arrived, Hazelwood tried to judge Hunt’s chances. Ice on the Serpentine was usually no more than a few inches thick and apt to break into hundreds of jagged fragments under the influence of London’s changing weather. It was a testament to the past fortnight of severe cold that with all those bodies on the lake’s surface no cracks had appeared. It occurred to Hazelwood that Hunt had used the gathered spectators to test the ice for him. Had their number and weight caused a collapse, the whole race would have been called off. No wonder Hunt appeared so unconcerned. The Matchless Blacking van with its four horses was a feather compared to the mass of Londoners watching. A prudent man would clear the crowd from the ice, but then a prudent man wouldn’t attempt the thing at all. Hazelwood himself had never been a prudent man.

He swung his gaze back to Jane. Now that the carriage occupants were standing, he shifted his position slightly. Allegra’s ridiculous bonnet was still visible, but Jane, at her side, was just a hint of a blue brim. He moved to keep her in sight. If anyone planned to strike against her, it would likely be when Hunt reached the ice and drew all eyes his way. Hazelwood scanned the carriages around the Walhouse barouche again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or alarming. Everyone was standing, all eyes fixed on Hunt’s van. Even Malikov appeared to be absorbed by the spectacle. He might have a wager on the outcome after all.

Hunt halted his horses above the short, steep southern embankment. Their nostrils streamed vapor into the frigid air. The crowd on the ice grew quiet. Hunt’s man blew his horn from the back of the van like the guard on a mail coach. On the north bank the man holding the hundred-guinea purse looked on unmoved by the show. Beside him another gentleman raised a white neckerchief, which fluttered in the stiff breeze. The handkerchief dropped, and Hunt’s horses sprang forward smartly, negotiated the bank, and trotted briskly onto the ice. The crowd cheered. A thousand watching gentlemen lifted their hats in tribute.