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In their place, fate had seen fit to put a girl, a gray-eyed, fair-haired girl with waves of curls and a wide-mouthed, freckle-dusted face. She was loyal and kind, and the warmth of her unaffected laugh drew him as strongly as a fire on a bitter night. If he could not make her “Lady Somebody,” he would make her his lady, The Honorable Mrs. Harry Clare. If she wanted to run her inn, he would settle there and make a home in that small patch of England for which, after all, the war with Bonaparte had been fought. If he had to defend her from her unseen enemy, he would do that, too. He patted the ring box in his breast pocket. It was still there.

These satisfying thoughts passed through his mind as the first members of the congregation emerged from the church, blinking in the March sunlight. Separating from the crowd and crossing the street to Harry were his fellow spies and friends, Hazelwood and Blackstone. They came with grave faces and purposeful strides. With the club closed, Harry could not guess the meaning of their coming.

“There you are, Clare,” said Hazelwood. “Kirby told us you might be here.”

“I’m meeting Miss Holbrook for a drive in the park.”

Blackstone nodded. “We thought as much, and regret this errand.”

“What’s happened?” Harry asked.

“Richard is dead,” said Hazelwood.

“Richard?” Harry glanced between their two perfectly sober faces. “Richard is forty-one.”

Neither man made a reply, and Harry rallied himself to ask more questions. “How? Where? When?”

The crowd was already thinning in front of the church. Hazelwood was answering Harry’s questions, but Harry’s blood was pounding in his ears, blocking the words. “Whatever you need, name it,” Hazelwood said.

“You are Mountjoy, now,” Blackstone said.

And Lucy Holbrook stepped into the sunlight with a quick, light step and shining eyes turned to him.

“Pardon me,” Harry said to his friends. “I must speak to someone a moment.” He stepped into the street and halted as a carriage rattled past, the driver swerving and shaking a fist at Harry. He tried again with more care and reached Lucy. She extended her gloved hands. He took them in his, regretting the gloves, the street, the glare of day on this meeting.

“I must postpone our drive. Can your friends take you home?”

“Of course. Something has happened.” Her hands squeezed his.

“My brother has died. I never...”

“And your friends are here to help you?” she said, glancing at Hazelwood and Blackstone.

“Yes, there are things I must do.” He held himself together.

“Then you must do them. Cordelia and Cassandra will take me home.”

He nodded. “That will be best,” he said. He tried to frame a parting that sounded right, but none came to mind. He could not offer for her now. Mountjoy, that mountain of debt and duty, made him the least eligible man in London.

“Go,” she said. “You know where to find me.”

He bowed a farewell.

In every enterprise there are expenses that must be borne if the venture is to succeed, and husband hunting is surely a vital venture. The husband hunter, whatever her resources, must invest wisely if she is to reap the benefit of spending a Season in London. If she feels she must economize in any way, let it be in those areas where simplicity serves her aim. If she must invest heavily, let it be in that activity which brings her with consistency to the notice of eligible gentlemen. A box at the Opera House may procure a lifetime of happiness at relatively little cost.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 19

A box at the opera at forty pounds for the Season was in Cassandra and Cordelia’s view a bargain for any woman wishing to secure a husband. Bringing Lucy to the opera near the end of her fortnight in London had been the plan from the beginning. Lucy owed her friends a great deal for their kindness. Without them, she would have forever imagined and perhaps regretted her lost London Season. Now she knew she would have no regrets. A delay in her happiness was inevitable as Harry Clare dealt with his new circumstances, but tonight she would show her friends only smiles.

As they stood in the red-and-gold box before the gaze of hundreds of people, Cordelia said, “This is your send-off, dear girl, your farewell for a time, but we hope you’ll return.”

“Of course she will,” Cassandra said. “Tonight we’ll see what her true prospects are. Some gentlemen will merely wave from the pit. Those we can dismiss. But others will rush to our box at the interval. Those we can consider serious suitors.”

“Well, we’ve plenty of room in our box, dear,” Cordelia assured her. “We can accommodate half a dozen candidates for your hand easily.”

Lucy laughed. “Oh dear, I hope some poor fellow doesn’t feel he must propose before all of London.” She did not confess that she had no need of dozens of suitors.