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“Oh, he was asking me about my plans for Christmas, and I told him, of course, that I would not continue long with my brother because I must and will have a husband by Christmas.”

“And he did not receive that news well?” Harriet surmised. Though Octavia could not see it, the young man was plainly smitten. Harriet had no doubt that Octavia’s intention to marry had taken him by surprise. And Harriet imagined that with his frank disposition, he had strongly objected without disclosing his own feelings.

“Not at all. First he told me that I could not possibly have a husband by Christmas because the church doesn’t let people marry in this season of the year or without a proclamation of the banns.”

Harriet kept a smile to herself. “Had you not considered those obstacles to your plan?”

“Of course I had, but there are special licenses to be had, and one can always marry between Christmas and Twelfth Night, which is still Christmas in its way.”

“Did he accept your logic then?”

“No. And when I told him about my book and explained how the writer’s instructions on how to hunt a husband are quite clear, he said the whole notion of husband hunting was idiotic.”

“That ended the conversation, I imagine.”

“Not at all, because I said he was the idiot for not looking about to see how marriage works in town. And then he went on and on about love, as if gentlemen know anything about love, which, I can tell you, they do not.”

“Ah, so you have done with his friendship?”

“I have. He was never a prospect, you understand.” She opened and closed the fan again. “He is handsome, I suppose, in his way, and he doesn’t entirely lack intelligence. He does know his Newton, but really, he is just a distraction, like the Luxboroughs and the whole ghost game. It is good that the game is ending tonight and that they all leave for the country. I will have ten whole days to concentrate on my hunt. At Lady Hardwicke’s ball, I am bound to meet other gentlemen as well as Captain Fanshaw.”

Octavia squared her shoulders and, with a toss of her head, turned to the stage.

Last-minute arrivals, Perry among them, hurried to find seats. Nothing Harriet had heard from her companion explained the worry that preoccupied Wynford. Octavia might artlessly confide her matrimonial ambitions to Harriet and even to John Jowers, but such openness to friends would hardly hurt her standing in London society.

Perry made a breathless sprint up the stairs and slipped in beside Harriet on the bench. Harriet thought she might sound Perry out about his friend’s preoccupation, but Perry was looking triumphant.

“Got her,” he said. “Faraday’s done it.”

The hour rang, and the lecture began.

As the husband hunter seeks to distinguish herself from the generality of young women in her situation, she may imagine herself the heroine of a novel and expect that she must fight evil or face death in order to win the notice of a particular gentleman. While this author will never discourage the reading of novels, I must protest that it is not in battle or in peril that a worthy woman wins a gentleman’s highest regard, but rather in her response to the trifling occurrences of daily life.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 14

Charles thought he had grown accustomed to seeing Harriet Swanley sitting at the Luxborough tea table under the dangling bough of bright green leaves and translucent white berries tied with checked ribbon, but tonight he found that the disturbing effect was increasing. She wore an unremarkable gown of soft, dove-colored wool with the burgundy shawl bright around her shoulders and appeared not to notice as he entered. Her attention was fixed on Pris, who stood at the table earnestly explaining something with rapid hand motions.

One of Miss Swanley’s wheat-brown curls had escaped the confines of the simple arrangement of her hair and caught the light, but she did not notice. The tilt of her head and the steadiness of her gray gaze revealed something fundamental to her nature, her ability to give her whole attention to one of her charges without any self-awareness. Charles wanted that attention for himself, somewhere private, like a bedroom. He wanted to wrap them both in nothing but her burgundy shawl. The erotic vision stopped him, and he deliberately looked away to recall the time and place.

The rest of the Luxborough clan stood around the Egyptian chair, which had been moved from its corner to face the hearth, a padded footstool in front of it and a table beside, set with a teacup, saucer, and spoon. On the chair lay a package wrapped in brown paper and a red silk ribbon.

Jasper called to Octavia. “These are the last clues,” he said.

“What’s in the package?” she asked. This evening Octavia had insisted on wearing the most modish of her new gowns, her hair up in an elaborate plumed coiffure more appropriate to a matron of thirty years than a miss of twenty.

“Oh, that’s the prize,” Jasper said. “It’s a clue, too, and everyone’s had a chance to hold it, except you and John.” He picked the thing up and handed it to her.

Octavia took the package, turning it over in her hands and giving it a squeeze. “It’s very soft, and there’s more than one item, I think.”

“Give John a chance,” prompted Camille on behalf of her partner.

Charles caught an awkward exchange of glances between his sister and the young man. Octavia dropped her gaze at once, color rushing into her cheeks, and thrust the package his way, saying, “Here.” She turned and marched over to the tea table, pursued by Jasper, asking her what she thought.

“Shall we make a guess?” he asked.

“We won’t win if we rush it,” she said.