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Harry shifted his glance to a long low bed covered in a blue-and-white-striped rug tucked under the stairs. Together they maneuvered the old man to the edge of the bed, and he sank down.

Lucy turned promptly to Harry, in charge again. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re not finished with me yet,” he told her. “Remember, I offered to sit with him tonight.”

Her chin came up, and she shook her head. “Adam and I, we have a ritual.” It was plain she did not want Harry intruding on a private moment.

He bowed and withdrew. Tom Holbrook had gone to his grave with whatever secret made him hide Adam from the world. If any evidence remained of Adam’s past, the dead man’s room would be the first place to look for it. Harry would search her father’s room as soon as he could.

Through the ups and downs of the Season, the husband hunter must keep her female friendships in good repair. She must make time not only for morning calls, but also for visits of compassion, commiseration, and shared joy. Furthermore, she must keep up a regular correspondence with those friends from whom she is, on occasion, separated. A letter full of the little nothings of another’s life is by its nature, in its trust and close connection, restorative to the spirit. She will perhaps have few friends to whom she may open her heart entirely, but the alert female consciousness of a true friend is a powerful antidote to errors of feeling. Alone, without female friends, the husband hunter may come to depend on the attentions of gentlemen who seek her company only to gratify their own vanity or lust.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 5

A letter came from Margaret Leach in Wednesday’s post. Her friends had not abandoned her. Lucy tucked the letter in her pocket, promising herself she’d read it the first chance she had. When she moved, the paper made a noise, reminding her that it was there and reminding her of the lost book, the gift her friends had given her. She’d asked Hannah and Ariel to look for it, but neither of the girls had seen it.

The mystery of the lost book bothered her when she had time to think of it, but most of the time she was simply too busy running between the kitchen and the public room, or seeing to it that the girls kept at their tasks. She was neglecting Adam, she knew, but once a day at least Captain Clare sat with him, stroking the cat and talking the way Adam liked to talk about ale and coffee and cats.

When she finally had a moment, she would read Margaret’s letter and do a thorough search for the book. It must be somewhere deep under Adam’s bench. She would take a broom handle and reach back to the wall.

The clang of metal hitting slate brought her from the kitchen on the run. She swung around the tall back of Adam’s black bench and saw Queenie, her back arched high, hissing from the mantel. On the floor six brass candlesticks rolled wildly, but no Adam sat on the bench.

Lucy glanced across the common room. At first she saw only the usual crowd of bench sitters with their pipes and mugs. Then her gaze found Adam. A man in a flat-brimmed hat and long coat had Adam by the arm and tugged him along toward the door.

“Adam,” she called. “Stop. It’s Lucy.”

Adam halted and wheeled toward her voice, swinging the stranger, who clung to his arm, around to face her. “Adam stay.” He planted his feet in a wide stance and tried to shake off the man’s grip.

Lucy did not recognize the other man. She crossed the room with a quick stride. The bench sitters fell quiet. Face-to-face, the stranger was smaller than he first seemed. His clothes, from the wide-brimmed hat and greatcoat to the boots sagging about his ankles, looked too large for his frame. His face bristled with wild black brows and whiskers. His dark eyes were small and narrow in the pointed face of a burrowing creature. Lucy expected his sharp nose to twitch.

“Morning, miss,” he said, drawing himself up. “I’ve come to collect your madman.”

“Adam is not mad,” Lucy corrected him. “And who are you?”

“I’m Findlater, miss, the new parish overseer. I heard that this fellow gave you a great deal of trouble on Sunday.”

“Adam is not mad,” Lucy repeated. “And he troubles no one, Mr. Findlater. I’m sorry you’ve come on a fruitless errand. I will take Adam back to his bench now.”

Findlater shook his head. He had not let go of his hold on Adam’s arm. Adam stood stiff and unmoving, his head cocked to one side.

“Now, miss, I don’t want to quarrel with you, but this man doesn’t belong here. He’s not a St. Botolph’s man at all. No record of him being dipped in the font, is there?”

“He’s lived here for twenty years.”

Findlater shook his head. “He ain’t in the books, so to speak, ain’t in the parish registry. He’s a vagrant is what he is, miss. He must go to his own parish if he needs alms. He can’t be taking food out of the mouths of St. Botolph’s people.”

“You’re misinformed, Mr. Findlater, if you think Adam depends on parish charity. Adam earns his keep. He has been employed at the inn for years and makes it his home.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, he’s a public nuisance. Look where I found him—halfway to the door. Can’t let his sort wander the high street. He needs minding. If you can’t do it, miss, they’ll do for him in the madhouse.” Findlater looked at her pinny with its stains of gravy and currant jelly.

“No. Adam stays. He lives here. The inn people will look out for him.” Lucy looked around for Frank Blodget in the tap, but he wasn’t there. No one in the common room met her eye.

Findlater smirked.

The front door opened, and in strode Harry Clare. He shed his coat and hat before he saw her then stopped, looking down on the scene, his scarlet jacket bright in the late afternoon gloom. The bench sitters called out to him, and Findlater turned for a moment.

Lucy took advantage of the distraction the captain made to step forward and reach for Adam’s left hand, taking it in hers and pulling gently. Adam’s hand shook in Lucy’s. “I’m responsible for Adam. I’ll see to him,” she told Findlater.