Page 6

“Excuse me, Lord Wynford,” Miss Swanley said. “Duty calls. Timothy, can you get Cat’s lead?”

Charles watched the dog push his nose deeper into the leaves. “His name is ‘Cat’?”

“For Catapult. He bolts when he sees daylight.”

“Ah. Will he come to a stranger?”

“He might, but don’t let me keep you.”

Charles ignored the dismissal. Apparently Miss Harriet Swanley was a woman who did not readily seek help. He crossed the street to the pile of storm debris where the dog still nosed about, picked up a stout stick, and called the dog’s name.

Cat lifted his head, turning toward the voice of authority. Charles waited until the stick caught and held the dog’s gaze. Then he tossed it in Miss Swanley’s direction. It landed a few feet in front of her. Cat bounded after it, pounced, and began to crunch the stick happily. Miss Swanley slipped a lead around his neck.

Charles strolled back her way, conscious of the cold November gusts ruffling his hair. “What is he?” he asked. Cat now sat at Miss Swanley’s feet, a picture of canine obedience.

“He’s an unfortunate mix of French and English foxhound.”

“Why unfortunate?” He extended a hand to stroke the dog’s head.

“He absolutely refuses to hunt.” She grinned at him. “Do not pet him, by the way. He will not forget you and will insist on receiving such attentions ever after.”

Charles regarded her narrowly. Something teased his memory. “Have we met before?”

“I am sure I would remember if we had,” she told him, sobering at once and looking at a point over his left shoulder.

There is genuine pleasure in being noticed. However, the husband hunter does not want to purchase the inferior goods of being a mere distraction, of catching a man’s eye because of the feathers in her bonnet. Rather, she wants the true gratification of being recognized, of having a gentleman direct his eyes and indeed his footsteps her way, not because she has caught his eye with her plumage but because he seeks her company.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 3

Harriet was spared a second encounter with Lord Wynford when his friend Perry brought Octavia to the Royal Institution the following Monday. With his interest in science, Perry was a regular attendee at the institution’s lectures and gatherings. His easy manners made him one of the few people from the world she’d left behind that she met with pleasure.

Since meeting Wynford and agreeing to help his sister, Harriet had thought better of her answer to his final question. Something in their conversation had stirred his memory, and she feared he might recall later how and where they’d met. She had not lied when she said she would remember a previous meeting between them, but she would, perhaps, have been wiser to suggest that they had met in some wholly unremarkable way in London.

In the foyer of the Royal Institution, Perry introduced Miss Davenham, giving an uncharacteristically muddled explanation for accompanying her in Wynford’s stead. Obviously, Wynford was occupied in the gentlemanly pursuits of a man of rank and means. Harriet performed her part by introducing the two eldest Luxborough girls, Anne and Camille, who welcomed Octavia warmly.

There was a strong resemblance between the sister and brother except in the stricken look in Octavia’s light brown eyes and the limpness of her posture, which suggested a fever victim rather than a girl eager to take on London.

Harriet knew what it was to live inside that lost look and what it took to overcome it, and she was glad to see the girl rally, opening the strings of her reticule and drawing out a small blue volume with gold filigree lettering. Harriet glanced at the title—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London.

“Cousin,” Octavia said, clutching the little book to her chest. “Charles tells me I must depend on you to set me on the path to a husband by Christmas, but I promise not to trouble you much. I have my book, you see.”

Harriet applauded Octavia’s instinct to be active but doubted that husband hunting would mend a broken heart. A suitor or two tossing lavish compliments her way might offer a balm to wounded pride, but something more was needed for true healing.

Harriet had been fortunate in her time of anguish to be given a consuming task and to find in that task a part of herself, both generous and strong-minded, she had not known she possessed. It had given her great confidence. She would have to think of some occupation that might suit Octavia as well. If the girl truly had a scientific bent, there would be something.

Around them, people poured into the institution with the usual buzz of gathering and greeting. Anne and Camille noted several young gentlemen and exchanged nods with friends. There was a momentary hush as Mr. Faraday himself passed through the crowd. He had instituted the lectures the year before.

“Must speak with Faraday,” Perry announced. With a brief bow, he hurried off.

“Faraday!” Octavia pivoted to look after him, then sighed and turned back to Harriet. “He’s a fine scientist, but not an eligible gentleman, is he?”

“No,” Harriet said gently. It was a little slip on the girl’s part, a brief show of excitement over seeing the great scientist, quickly quelled by whatever troubled the girl and made her clutch the little book like a lifeline. “He’s the director at the moment, and of course, the founder, just last year, of these lectures.”

“Of course,” said Octavia, tucking her book away. “But it’s eligible gentlemen I must seek. I’ve no time to waste, you see.”

The look in Octavia’s eye struck Harriet as grim determination. The girl had seized on the idea of hunting a husband as a rider on a runaway horse might mistakenly tighten her arms on the reins and lock her back, measures that only made it easier for the horse to throw her.