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The faint pale strip of the drive kept them on a straight uphill course. It occurred to Miranda that the drive might be a couple of miles in length. She pushed herself to keep pace with Nate. At last she could see a tiny pinpoint of light that must come from the lodge. She hoped Nate had a plan for dealing with the gatekeeper.

The road took a dip and rose again toward the light. They were close now. Then abruptly Nate’s hand slipped from hers, and he crumpled. He hit the ground with a thud. Miranda put down the lamp and reached for him. He was out cold, covered in sweat. She pulled his head and shoulders into her lap. She reached for the lamp, knocked it, and heard it clatter away from her in the dark. They had come so close to the gate.

“Nate Wilde,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

He didn’t stir. His limbs felt lifeless, and the sweat seemed to dry up on his brow. She shoved her hand into his coat and felt for his heart. It still beat.

If she was being punished, the punishment was deserved. She was the one who had flirted with gentlemen in the shop, telling stories of her mother and the shoe buckles. She was the one who had foolishly loved Lord Hazelwood and hidden the note he’d asked her to deliver. Because she’d failed to deliver the note, Jane Fawkener had been kidnapped by the Russian spy Malikov and the club had been closed.

But hadn’t her papa shown her Mama’s silver buckles and given her Mama’s thimble? And was it so wrong to want a mother who’d been brave and clever and escaped the Revolution? And hadn’t her mother named her Miranda, who was a duke’s daughter in a play?

She hugged Nate tighter.

A heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

Miranda shrieked.

“It’s just me, Miranda,” said a deep familiar voice, “your amiable and much aggrieved host. After the care I’ve provided, to go sneaking off in the night? What a troublesome pair you are.”

The flare of a lantern illuminated Nate’s crumpled form in her lap. Miranda held on tight.

“You have to let go, sweetheart. We have to get him back to the house.”

Spirits—those which bubble up in the husband hunter’s glass and those which arise spontaneously in her breast—are great provokers of the wrong word. In an instant a thought flashes from her mind to her tongue and cannot be recalled. She stands among her companions with her frailties revealed in a new and glaring light. She must acknowledge the fault and yet take heart. The suitor who abandons her for one piece of folly is not worthy. The mortifying moment of indiscretion will pass and be forgotten by those who understand her character more fully. And every wrong word, except those uttered in spite, may be forgiven.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 17

Miranda leaned back against the silken headboard and closed her eyes. Just for a minute. She didn’t know what else she could do to bring Nate Wilde back to his senses soon.

She had endured their host’s scorn and a severe scold from the sturdy maid on the night of their attempted escape. Her shoes and clothes had been beyond saving with mud and tears. She had accepted a cast-off kerseymere gown the color of potatoes and a pair of yellow lady’s pumps sadly out of fashion. She ached from bending over Nate to sponge his brow or turn him on his side, or hold his head to pour some draught down his throat. Her hair was lifeless and flat against her scalp. She was out of tooth powder, the borrowed gown smelled a bit lived in, and her hands were raw from washing them every time she tended Nate.

Nothing had gone according to plan. Captain Clare hadn’t come for them. Her papa must be most distressed by now to have no word of her. They’d been a burden and an expense to their captor, who had laughed at Miranda’s attempt to pay the doctor from the purse Nate carried. She should have stayed at home. She should have accepted that she was a shopkeeper’s daughter. Her papa kept an excellent shop on a fashionable street. She should have been content to show gentlemen the elegant brushes and the fragrant lotions, soaps, and balms. She should not have gone dreaming such lofty dreams of being a lady with a fine lord for a husband.

She was not so sure she liked fine lords any longer. Whoever their captor was, he was heartless and mocking. And the worst of it all was that it was all her fault. If she had not broken her promise to Lord Hazelwood, none of this would be happening. The club would be open, Nate would be there making coffee for the spies, and she would be in Papa’s shop in her prettiest clothes.

Hot silent tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks, and her nose ran, and she felt too tired to care.

“Fine protector I turned out to be.” Nate’s voice made her open her eyes. His hand, moving across the counterpane, found her knee. “Are you crying?” he asked.

She wiped her arm under her nose. “No. Are you in your senses again?”

“I think so,” he said. “How long have I been out?”

“Days.”

“Our captor hasn’t offered you any insult, has he?”

“As if he would deign to notice a shop girl in a potato sack.”

“You’re beautiful. Every man notices you.” His hand found hers and squeezed. “I missed you.”

“You couldn’t miss me. You were in a fever.”

“I missed you.” He laced his fingers with hers.

And Miranda started sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. “You couldn’t miss me,” she said, coming up on her knees on the bed beside him and looking down into his face. “Because I’m the reason the club closed. I’m the one to blame. I didn’t deliver that message from Hazelwood to Jane Fawkener, and she was kidnapped, and Hazelwood fooled the government, and Lord Chartwell shut the club down. It’s my fault.”