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As the familiar questions came, she missed the little book. Dimly she remembered putting it aside on Adam’s bench. She had no use for The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London now that Papa had died, but she would put it on her shelf and treasure it like the painting as a gift from those who loved her. Managing the inn and caring for Adam—those were her duties now and for the future.

By midmorning she and Hannah and Ariel had aired the sheets in three rooms, empty since the death of her father. She had conferred with Frank about the supplies of ale and spirits. And Mrs. Vell had informed her that no funds were available to purchase beef for the day’s ordinary. She stopped on her way to the cashbox to look for her book under Adam’s bench. It was his day to black boots. A row of scuffed footwear lined the bench beside him, while Queenie curled up in his basket of rags. There was no sign of the missing book under the bench or under Queenie. She stood trying to recall the moment it might have fallen, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

When she turned, she found herself face-to-face with Will Wittering in his Sunday best, or rather face to black-and-gold-striped waistcoat, for Will was a head taller than most men.

His thick golden hair curled over his ears. His beard was trimmed and combed. His ruddy face radiated confidence, and his large person blocked her view of the common room though she could hear the familiar murmur of male voices. “Miss Holbrook, a word,” he said.

“Of course.” She stopped where she was, conscious of his height and his size and a sense of some urgency compelling him.

Unexpectedly, he seized her hand in one of his own large ones and clung to it as a man washed overboard might cling to a line being dragged through rough seas. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath like a bellows filling, and before she could stop him, a flow of words huffed out. “Miss Holbrook, the forge doing well this year puts me in a position to marry. I thought of you at once as just the woman for me, for yer not brought up too high and ye know the value of a pound. Ye could keep the inn, as I would keep the forge. And both would prosper. What do ye say?”

Lucy wished there were somewhere to look and some way to look that was less astonished and reluctant. Her lady would know what to do, but her lady was upstairs laughing and holding a bonnet to her head. Lucy’s cheeks heated. She had the unpleasant sensation that everyone in the common room had heard Will’s booming declaration. She pulled gently at her hand, and Will, as if just realizing the amount of pressure he had applied, released it. His open face lost a little of its sunny confidence.

“Mr. Wittering, I thank you for thinking of me as one who could contribute to your prosperity, but I must decline your offer at present. I must see what I can manage on my own before I join my enterprise with any other.”

Will swallowed, his throat moving visibly, and plunged on as if she had not spoken. “I have three score horses on my books and what with hinge, bolt, and latch work, I might bring on a ’prentice this spring.”

Lucy hardly knew what to say. He apparently chose to consider her refusal as a prompt for more financial information. “Thank you again, Will, but my answer remains no.” She offered him a bow.

“Ye’ll not find a better man in London, mind, so I’ll ask again next quarter day, shall I?” He apparently took her astonished silence for agreement.

She gaped after him, and her gaze met Captain Clare’s amused one. He raised his ale cup in a brief salute, his red coat unmistakable among the browns and grays of the bench sitters. He had seen and heard it all. Lucy escaped at once through the kitchen to the stillroom, where Hannah found her minutes later. Hannah bobbed a quick curtsy and announced, “A gentleman is waiting for ye in the council room. Stranded by a broken carriage wheel, ’e says. Says he knows yer da, but ’e didn’t know yer da had a daughter. Did I do right to put ’im there?”

“You did, Hannah.” She realized that Hannah looked to her for orders now.

“Oh, Miz ’olbrook, ’e’s ever so fine with a gray coat. He says ’e’s a sawbones, and ’e wishes to ’ave a supper. A bit of fish, ’e said.” Hannah opened her palm, revealing a pair of coins that made a satisfying jingle. “Do we ’ave any fish for ’im?”

Lucy frowned. Mrs. Vell had not changed her menu in Lucy’s lifetime.

Hannah jingled the coins in her hand again. “It’s got to be the ordinary, don’t it?”

Lucy shook her head. She was in charge now. She would run the inn her way. “If a gentleman desires fish, he shall have fish.”

Hannah’s brown eyes widened, and she closed her fist around the coins.

* * * *

Early in the afternoon, Harry went round to the defunct Pantheon Club. Outwardly, nothing had changed. The previous day’s rain dripped from the scaffolding that concealed the building’s stone façade. Loose canvas flapped fitfully in the wind. Harry tried the hidden door but found it locked. He strongly suspected that the elusive Samuel Goldsworthy, the spymaster who had recruited them all, was holed up inside.

Goldsworthy had pulled each of them—Blackstone, Hazelwood, and Harry—out of disaster with the promise of debts to be paid for a year and a day of service. Blackstone and Hazelwood had won their rewards, and Harry meant to have his. He gave the locked door a sharp rattle, but it remained closed. He stood for a moment listening to the drip of the rain. So far Richard’s indolence and his disdain for money matters had served Harry well, but even his brother could not hold off creditors forever. Sooner rather than later, Richard would let Mountjoy Manor slip through his slack fingers. The club might be closed, but Harry still needed to buy up Richard’s mortgages before someone else did.

The other entrance to the club was through Kirby & Son’s Chemist shop around the block on Bond Street. Harry went round to the little shop. The bell jingled as he entered, and Kirby, the spies’ tailor, looked up from behind the counter where he was assisting a gentleman with a purchase. Harry halted. He was used to seeing Kirby’s daughter Miranda where her father now stood. It was one more sign of the closing of the club. He frowned and turned toward the shelves with their jars and tins and paper-wrapped soaps. The place smelled of lavender and citrus, like a field under the Spanish sun. While the customer dithered over his choice, Harry formed the jars and tins into a square on the shelf.

To Harry’s mind the customer took an unconscionably long time deciding between one shaving soap and another. When the fellow finally left with his purchase, Harry greeted Kirby. “Where’s the big man?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say, Captain.”

“Has Goldsworthy said anything about starting the club up again?”

“Not a thing.”

Harry wanted to push on through the red velvet curtain at the rear of the shop, stride across the garden, and slip into the club as he’d done for the past year.

At that moment Miranda, Kirby’s seventeen-year-old daughter and chief seamstress, burst through the curtain. Her gaze flew to Harry, and she checked her steps. “Oh, it’s you.”

“You were expecting someone else?”

She shrugged. “No one comes here anymore.”