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Charles said nothing. Someone knew more about Charles than he realized. He had no particular reputation in London. He was a single man of good but not extraordinary fortune. He had not called attention to himself by any of the exploits of sporting or betting men. He had friends, but except for Perry, he kept them at a distance. He had not raised expectations among matchmaking mamas as a man looking for a wife. In short, he had called as little notice to himself as a man could, until he began to wear the waistcoats provided him by the club. His work as an analyst had satisfied his mind’s need for activity in the way that sparring and riding satisfied his body. So how had someone discovered that he might be other than he seemed?

“Yes, yes,” Goldsworthy continued. “I know the Foreign Office leaks like an old tub, but I doubt even Chartwell understands what you do, lad.” He shook his great head. “This fellow from the Exchequer doesn’t know anything, I’m sure.”

“I have to agree on that point, sir. I’ve never known Edenhorn to take an interest in foreign affairs.”

Goldsworthy began to move the papers around on the great desk. “Did the marchioness see you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good. Did Fanshaw recognize you?”

“No.” Charles had a question of his own. “Do you know who Merville is?”

Goldsworthy shuffled the papers on his desk. “Inquiries will be made.”

London at any season is a scene of unceasing activity in which persons of every degree of rank play a part. Before dawn, carters, bakers, drovers, night soil men, and countless cooks and scullery maids light fires, draw water, and haul necessaries to and fro in the streets. By day bankers, merchants, and shopkeepers occupy themselves in all manner of enterprise in the service of gain. By night pleasure seekers and thieves alike revel and rob, while soberer, more respectable citizens bank their fires, blow out their candles, and retire to bed. Such is the whirl of activity in our great Babylon, that without care, without a pause for reflection or some refuge from its assault on her senses, the husband hunter may find herself burnt to a cinder. A time of solitary reflection or a quiet evening at home with friends will restore her spirits and energy.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 11

That evening Harriet found herself under Wynford’s scrutiny as the Luxborough children explained the game she had invented for them years before to pass the impatient time before Christmas. Lord and Lady Luxborough had gone out for an evening engagement, leaving the family drawing room to their offspring.

It was a comfortable room to which old sofas and chairs retired as fashions changed in Lady Luxborough’s more formal drawing room. Two faded teal blue sofas faced each other in front of the carved oak mantel. Three armchairs of various styles and colors tucked into the room’s corners offered cozy retreats from the group, and included a black-and-gold chair from the craze for the Egyptian look, supposedly in the style preferred by the pharaohs, with perching Nile birds above the chair back and seated servant figures supporting the arms. Family lore said Lord Luxborough had declared the chair ridiculous and banished it from the main drawing room. Harriet sat at the tea table at the open end of the room opposite the sofas. A fire burned brightly, and all the candles and lamps were lit, giving a soft glow to green-gold silk that covered the walls.

Wynford seemed to recover himself a bit after his first notice of her. He took a seat on one of the blue sofas, and the dog, who had been sleeping on the hearth rug, rose and repositioned himself at the viscount’s feet. Harriet concealed her surprise at Wynford’s appearance. He looked haggard and knocked about, a condition in contrast with his flame-colored waistcoat. The knuckles of his left hand, resting on the dog’s head, were scraped and bruised, and his brow was furrowed with some worry. Occasionally, she caught him looking at Octavia with a baffled gaze.

The others gathered around the cleared tea table as Pris retrieved the set of well-worn game cards in a velvet box with a secret drawer. Harriet couldn’t say exactly what had inspired the game. She had been new to her position and searching desperately for something to engage all of her charges together in the last restless hour before they could be dismissed to their beds each night. She had made the cards out of some stiff paper in her schoolroom supplies.

There were eighteen, in red, yellow, and blue. Octavia turned them over, idly looking at the sketches and words inked on the face of each card. In that first year, Harriet had encouraged the children to suggest items for use in the game. Pris, at three, had been proud of her suggestion.

Now Pris bounced a little on her toes as she explained to a bored-looking Octavia how the game worked. “Miss Davenham, a ghost will haunt us for the next three days, and we have to solve the mystery. First, we draw three cards—one red, one blue, and one yellow. Harry puts them into the secret drawer at the bottom of this box.”

Pris turned over three cards, showing Octavia the drawings of a candlestick, an ear, and a coachman. “The red cards name people in the household, the yellow cards, objects, and the blue cards name body parts.”

“Body parts?” asked Octavia.

“Yes,” said Pris, “because the ghost is always lacking some part of his or her anatomy. Like his toes.”

“Toes?” Again Octavia appeared mystified.

Jasper cried “Boo!” in Octavia’s ear, making her start and turn on him with a frown. “Toes were Pris’s idea. The ghost could be lacking a head, a leg, an eye, an ear, or a hand. Like the headless woman that haunts St. James’s Park.”

“A headless woman haunts the park?” Octavia asked.

“Don’t be taken in like a child, Miss Davenham.” John Jowers stood facing Octavia from the opposite side of the table.

Octavia sent him a quick glare.

“It’s not a take-in,” protested Jasper at Octavia’s side. “Sentries from the Coldstream Guards have seen her.”

“Right,” said Ned with obvious sarcasm.

Harriet glanced at Wynford on the sofa. His eyes were half-closed; his injured hand lay slack on the dog’s head. He looked bone weary, but his brow remained clouded with some concern he clearly could not ease.

“The object,” said Jasper, taking up the explanation from his sister, “is to be the first to solve the mystery of who’s haunting us this year.” Though he had been a mere infant when they’d begun the game, at eleven he was an enthusiastic player. He flipped over three cards. “Is it the headless butler with the holly branch? Or the one-eyed dog with the cellar key?”

“But how do you do figure out which it is?” Octavia asked.