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Jane wished she had a curse to banish quaking limbs and chattering teeth. The count was not, after all, a bandit, with whom one could bargain for safe passage. “Count Malkov, you overestimate m-m-me. No one in government entrusts a young woman with imp-p-portant information.”

“It is not through the government, however, that you received a message from your father, but rather through his bankers.”

In spite of herself Jane could not conceal a small start. Malikov watched her narrowly.

“You see, Miss Fawkener, I know a great deal about your movements since you arrived in England.”

There was little chance then that she could convince him he was mistaken, that she was just a girl enjoying the Season. She could deny him the information she possessed. She could delay him, and hope that Hazelwood had a way of finding her. “The only information my father’s bankers imparted to me was the meagerness of my fortune. By restricting my funds until such time as I marry, my father encouraged me to become a husband hunter.”

“Yet you are seen everywhere with the disgraced Viscount Hazelwood.”

“I was. Until my cousins explained the danger of such a connection. I have not seen the viscount since the Walhouses took me in.”

“So, you claim that you have no information to give me.”

“N-n-none.” She doubted he believed her.

“An unfortunate answer, Miss Fawkener. If you have no information, we will have to find another use for you.”

There is inevitably in the Husband Hunter’s search for her partner in life a moment when it appears that she will fail in the quest. It may be that a heart she believed to be turning her way is captured by another. It may be that she has smiled and danced and listened and attended and worn her loveliest gowns in vain for no one has singled her out as worthy of his special notice. She is liked. She is admired. She is not loved. The end of the Season approaches, and happier girls confide in her the professions of love they have received, while she alone imagines a future of wearing lace caps and tending the sickbeds of nieces and nephews with no one to observe her tender ministrations or share her anxieties. If she is wise, the Husband Hunter will immediately cease to imagine her bleak future, offer her friends her heartiest wishes for their health and happiness, and consult her dressmaker for how best to appear at each of the weddings she will soon attend.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter Twenty-four

Nate did not like the way things were going. Hazelwood had shared no plan with him. The clocks in the coffee room ticked forward indifferent to Nate’s dilemma. The quarter hour would chime, and the two men in front of him would turn to him. He would have to decide where to lead them.

Harry Clare had armed himself in his customary way with a pair of Land Pattern pistols and a Mameluke sabre, the British cavalry’s preferred sword. As he donned his greatcoat, he glanced pointedly at Blackstone.

“Shall I see what’s keeping our friend?” Blackstone asked.

He returned grim-faced in less time than Nate expected. “The fool’s gone off on his own, Clare.”

Clare turned to Wilde. “Well, whelp, do you know his plan?”

“No, sir.” Nate squared his shoulders.” The thing is, sir, Hazelwood’s a man in love.”

“That explains it, then,” said Blackstone with a dry laugh, and Clare winced. “Let’s hope we’re not too late to stop him from sacrificing himself.”

“And England,” Clare added under his breath.

The quarter hour chimes sounded, and Nate steeled himself to lead the way when below them the club doors opened, and the sound of angry voices and tramping boots rose up to meet them. The three men appeared, blocking the coffee room entry, Goldsworthy, Chartwell, and a third man Nate had never seen before. Clare and Blackstone exchanged a look. They had a problem.

Round-faced, bespectacled Chartwell was the smallest of the three men, dwarfed by Goldsworthy’s great bulk, but he immediately took charge. “Gentlemen, where’s Hazelwood?”

Blackstone looked around the coffee room as if his friend might be lying on one of its sofas or lounging in one of its chairs. “He’s not here. May we help?”

“Of course, you can lads,” Goldsworthy said. “Just tell us where he’s gone.”

“Upstairs?” Blackstone shrugged. Nate appreciated the man’s cool. “You don’t mind if Clare and I take off, do you, Chartwell? We were on the point of leaving.” He made it sound as if they meant to go around to a club or a pleasure house.

“Upstairs! What sort of answer is that? I do mind.” Chartwell seemed to puff up under his coat. His pointed gaze took in Blackstone’s pistol and Clare’s sword. He turned and signaled behind him, and a troop of red-coated Horse Guards filed into the club. Chartwell pointed to the stairs, and the captain led his men up them. The tramp of boots filled the club.

“Lads,” Goldsworthy said, frowning severely, “no use trying to disguise the thing. Hazelwood’s gone off on his own, I expect.”

“And you’ve brought a unit of the Horse Guards to back him up?” Blackstone asked. He could be as pointed as anyone.

Goldsworthy looked grim, and Chartwell, furious. The third man, a bearded fellow, who looked to Nate as if he belonged in the Canadian wilds, watched the proceedings with a curious, detached expression. “A precaution merely,” said Chartwell.