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“She should be. Perhaps I could provide a commendation to appear in the front matter of any further editions.” He put the book on the table beside him. Later he would add to his copy more of the notations her father had penned in the margin of certain pages. If George Fawkener were using the book to pass along information, it was in code, and the letters in the margins of the page needed examining.

Her father’s notes were a further reminder of the mission. Hazelwood had had an unfortunate moment earlier in the public street when his anger at her attacker had opened the way for other feelings. Looking up from the ugly bonnet in his hands, he’d seen the beauty of the ordinary, the round cheek, the clear, frank gaze, and the resolute chin. He’d felt as if he’d let his guard down and taken a direct hit from some fourteen-stone bruiser wearing weighted gloves.

It did not help his frame of mind that the milliner from whom the bonnets had arrived had been one Mrs. Paxton, proprietress of an establishment with which he was quite familiar. The last woman for whom he’d purchased Mrs. Paxton’s bonnets had been a high flyer of a sportive temperament who had been as familiar as he was with Aretino’s Postures and whose reputation had helped to prompt his father’s legal action against him. Jane Fawkener might be a woman of spirit, but she had no experience of desire or its consequences.

She was studying her reflection in a glass and trying to tie the bow under her chin. The close-fitting cap of cerulean blue velvet framed her face perfectly and gave her skin a pale gleam like pearls.

He took up the book again. “What makes you trust a woman writer, likely a spinster, to be your guide?” he asked.

“Who better?” She was holding her head perfectly straight.

He leaned back on the sofa. “Why a man, of course, the object of the hunt. Wouldn’t a woman like to hear directly from a man how he may be ensnared?”

“I doubt any man would reveal such a thing.” She let go of the black ribbons under her chin to begin again. “Besides, a husband may be the object of the hunt, but as a treasure rather than a trophy to mount on the wall.”

“You make husband hunting sound quite mercenary.”

“You are being deliberately provoking.” She looked away from the mirror and had more success tying the bow. Of course, she tied it primly, with perfect symmetry, directly beneath her chin.

“Am I?” His fingers itched to adjust that bow.

“Of course. The guide is for a woman of sense who looks upon marriage as…as a partnership.” She frowned at herself in the glass. “In the East the poets write that marriage is the free will of the two partners based on love.”

“I’m not sure a man sees marriage in those terms.” He put the book aside and crossed the room, threading his way through the furniture. He had to fix that bow.

“In what terms then, does a man see marriage?” She appeared surprised to see him so near.

“As a catastrophe to be avoided until the last possible moment.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her to face him, and once more tilted her chin up.

She gave him a wary glance. “And how did you escape the catastrophe?”

He tugged the ends of the hat ribbons undoing her insipid bow. “In my youth—”

“And you are now in your dotage?”

“Flannel waistcoats are next.” He pulled the ribbons to one side and began to tie a bow in the hollow between her right ear and the edge of her jaw. “In my youth I resisted the prescribed path laid out for my father’s heir. I courted women of the demi-monde. I speculated in trade. I refused to marry a lady of birth and rank to whom my father had betrothed me. It was a great scandal. For my sins, my father cut off my allowance, and when that measure did not seem to arrest my downward slide, he went to parliament to cut me off from him in a more permanent way.”

“He ruined you.”

He smiled at her plain speaking. “I ruined myself. My father merely contained the damage to a single generation.”

“And your lack of fortune makes you ineligible?”

“In the eyes of husband hunters, like yourself.” He gave a shrug. “Nevertheless, my friends tell me to beware the woman with maternal ambitions who will take me in order to become the mother of the next Earl of Vange.”

“Such a hopeful outlook on conjugal bliss. No wonder you doubt my guide’s wisdom.”

He turned her to face the glass again. “Always tie your bow on one side or the other, Jane, or you’ll look a complete dowd.”

Hazelwood thought for a moment that he’d succeeded in turning her mind from the conversation they’d been having. She looked pretty, her eyes bright with the argument. He rang the bell for Nell to bring his greatcoat, hat, and gloves.

Jane twisted away from the mirror. “How does your mother feel about your father’s casting you off?”

Nell entered with his things, and he thanked her and shrugged into his coat, letting the question of his mother’s feelings go unanswered. When Nell left, he started a different conversation.

“We need to practice the investiture ceremony, and I know a place that might give us room and privacy.”

“Privacy?”