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She studied her hands folded in her lap. He had made her uncomfortable.

“But I, too, must beg your pardon,” she said.

“For what?”

“You are, I think, justified in your concern for Octavia. The marchioness appears to meet your sister with more frequency than mere chance would explain.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“If she is acting by design to influence your sister, you must wonder why.”

“I admit I am puzzled by it,” he said. He could not explain the instinct aroused by the marchioness’s interest in Octavia. If the woman were a Russian agent, Octavia had no information. The Russians could not yet know that he was now a counteragent. Though each side seemed to discover the other’s people fairly rapidly, the spy club had succeeded where the Foreign Office regulars had often failed, because its members were amateurs recruited from the ranks of gentlemen down on their luck, who served a year and a day. He and Lynley were exceptions to the rule only in that each had retained his fortune.

She pressed her gloved hands together in her lap. He suspected she was exercising a firm control over her naturally curious mind. He smiled to himself. He’d made her curious. She was not as indifferent to him as she appeared. It was a small thing, that curiosity, no bigger than a mustard seed, but he would make it grow. He supposed she wanted to ask why he took such an interest in a woman who made him uneasy. The easy answer, the one meant to disguise his true mission, was that he was a man and men pursued fascinating available women. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“I imagine not,” was her answer.

“Everyone finds her charming, but you don’t like her,” he said.

“She doesn’t like me. She has a poor opinion of the English governess as a breed and claims superiority for our French counterparts.” She offered him a wry smile. “You must not trust the judgment of a person who’s been offended.”

“But you are generally regarded as fair-minded, are you not?”

She laughed. “I’m not sure I can be in this instance, but you need not rely on my judgment. You could...I don’t know...take the bull by the horns, and invite her to the theater with you and Octavia and judge for yourself what the marchioness’s motives are.”

It was a brilliant idea. He should have thought of it himself. He might catch the marchioness in more slips, but what made the plan appealing was the chance to work on Miss Swanley’s resistance.

“Would you come with us?” he asked. He gave her a sideways glance, watching the play of emotion in her quiet face.

“Would that not defeat the purpose?” she asked.

It was just the opening he’d hoped for, the seed falling in a crack in the garden walk and sprouting a frail green shoot. “Not at all.”

A temptation the husband hunter must avoid is unnecessary comparison with other young ladies. While she may wonder at another woman’s success in attracting beaux, husband hunting is not a numbers game. The aim is not to entertain the attentions of many gentlemen but to win the steadfast affection of one man.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 8

In the end Harriet did see Octavia home. Wynford left the party just after midnight in the wake of the marchioness while Lady Throckmorton’s guests were at supper. In the close darkness of the carriage, Octavia could not sit still. The cold was biting in spite of hot bricks under their feet and a blanket over their legs.

“Are you worried about your brother?” Harriet asked. She wondered whether Octavia felt deserted by Wynford’s pursuit of the marchioness.

“Charles? No. I am trying to figure out how Miss Throckmorton does it.” Octavia stuffed her hands deeper into her muff.

“Does what?”

“Has so many beaux. I danced as prettily as she did, didn’t I?” Octavia twisted toward Harriet. “I didn’t...bounce.”

Harriet thought the less said about Miss Throckmorton’s methods of attracting admirers the better. “You danced very well tonight, and you only need one beau, don’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should like to choose, and I shouldn’t like to have someone else’s castoffs.”

“Castoffs?”

“Miss Throckmorton told me that I could have either Mr. Povey or Mr. Paxton as she is done with them. But...”

“It sounds a bit like giving an old gown to a housemaid.”