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Nate met the old woman’s sharp gaze. “No, ma’am.” It was harder to lie to her than he’d thought it would be. He must be out of practice. Later, if the captain solved the case, maybe they could tell her the truth about Adam.

Nanny’s look turned thoughtful. “Don’t suppose he’s in service again. What will you do next then?”

“Ma’am, you’ve given us some clues to guide our search. Before, we didn’t know where to start or even what Cousin Adam looked like.” It was true. Nanny Ragley had given them the beginning of the story. Nate knew the end. He knew where the coach had disappeared and where Adam Pickersgill had ended up. It was the middle of the story they must find. Nate hoped they’d discover the truth riding a Radcliffe Rocket on its night run.

While Miranda tidied up their cups and put the provisions away in Nanny’s cupboard, Nate walked the lane to find the gig. When he returned, Nanny and Miranda stood at the gate, arm in arm, the old woman patting Miranda’s hand. Nate shook his head. He was certainly seeing another side of his haughty love. She, who wanted to be a lady, was cowed and quiet in grand spaces and full of talk and laughter in cottages and kitchens and housekeepers’ rooms.

He helped her up into the gig and turned to thank Nanny Ragley. The old woman hooked his arm in a strong grip and leaned toward him. “Mind, young man, I don’t know what game you two are playing at, but someone’s going to see through yer stories, mark my word.”

As the husband hunter consults her post, she naturally thrills to invitations for balls, routs, and the opera—those engagements that promise the exhilaration of seeing and being seen in a glittering crowd among whom are a number of eligible gentlemen. She holds a ball invitation in her hand, and her imagination sees eligible partners lining up to claim her for a quadrille. A word of caution is now in order. In the pile of invitations, the husband hunter must not disdain the invitation to a small dinner party. Supposing the guests are only the hostess’s maiden aunt Lady Plume, the easily scandalized Bishop Pew, a gossip or two, and three married couples without a single man among them, the wise husband hunter will make room in her calendar for such a dinner. The small dinner party is simply the best occasion for the husband hunter to dazzle her company, and the report, which her fellow guests will willingly spread of her beauty and spirit, is sure to reach the ears of those gentlemen who will seek to fill her dance card at the next ball.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 11

Nanny Ragley’s warning came back to worry Nate as he and Miranda watched the Hartwood gig drive off in front of the Three Horseshoes in Sunley.

The inn’s three stone bays, each with a tall pointed roof, towered over them. Two mail coaches with their distinctive black bodies and red door panels passed in the crowded high street, the guards blowing on their yards of tin, foot travelers scrambling out of the way.

Miranda, who had talked steadily in the gig about Nanny and Mrs. Wellby, now fell silent and took Nate’s arm with unusual docility as they entered the inn. He managed to haul the two cases into the coffee room and find Miranda a seat on a bench under the window.

“I’ll be a few minutes,” he said, more to himself than her. Miranda was a girl men noticed. Already she was drawing glances from strangers. “To get our tickets,” he told her.

She looked very much the lady in one of those short tight jackets women wore over their bosoms. Little dots on her white skirts matched the blue of her hat and her eyes. There was a quality to her clothes to make ordinary fellows like him hesitate to approach her, but if she spoke in that shop-girl accent of hers, there was no telling what insult she might receive.

From the ticket queue, he glanced over his shoulder, ready to dash to her side if any man accosted her. With his mind on Miranda, he had to ask the agent to repeat. There were no seats to be had on the night run of the Radcliffe Rocket until the next day. Nate paid for two seats for the following night and turned back toward Miranda.

He held the tickets in his hand, half elated, half terrified. They could tell Captain Clare what they’d learned about Adam Pickersgill, and now fate had handed him more time with Miranda, but he had to keep her from unwelcome attention until they got on that stage. For all her shrewdness, she was still an innocent.

He crossed the coffee room and sat down beside her on the bench.

“Well?” she said.

“Listen, they don’t have seats for us on the Rocket tonight.” He took the tickets and put them away in a safe pocket.

“We take another coach then.” She smoothed her skirts over her knees.

“We have to stay the night.”

“Here?” She looked aghast.

“No. A smaller inn will be better, but if I’m to protect you—”

“Protect me? From what?”

“Insult. We need a story.”

“We have a story. We’re looking for our lost cousin.”

He shook his head. “We need a story that lets us stay in one room.”

“One room! You don’t mean it. I can’t sleep in a room with you. A lady has her character to think of.”

He put a finger to her lips, silencing her. A gentleman across the room watched them over his newspaper. “So I can protect you,” he said. “One room”— he made a supreme effort to dismiss the images flashing in his brain—“not one bed.”

Miranda’s cheeks turned an interesting shade of pink.

“Ready?” he asked.