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He knew she suffered from more than the closing of the club, for she had developed an unreasonable expectation that the most charming of the spies, Viscount Hazelwood, would marry her. It was Hazelwood’s love for another girl, Jane Fawkener, that had brought disaster down on the club.

Nate didn’t blame Hazelwood. If anyone knew what it meant for a man to be well and truly hooked by a woman, Nate knew, had known from the moment he’d met Miranda with her haughty airs and shop-girl accent, her fiery chestnut curls, blue, blue eyes, and creamy skin. She was like him, caught between two worlds, neither the lady she wished to be, nor a creature of the gutter like the girls of Bread Street.

Unreasonably, he wanted her to come with him.

He’d travel quicker alone, and alone, he’d pass unremarked. Alone, he wouldn’t have to worry about enemies they might meet. But he wanted a chance to make her forget unattainable lords and remember that kiss. And he wanted her to see that they worked well together. So he played a little unfairly.

“You’re too busy for adventure, I see.” He stood up and moved toward the door. “I’ll let you put away your needle and get your father’s tea on.”

She glared up at him. “As if I didn’t know my duty.” With a few rapid moves she tucked her needle and thimble away in the little case beside her on the bench.

Nate stopped at the door and looked back. “Is it what you want—doing for your father, putting the tea on and tidying the rooms—or do you want to come on an adventure with me?”

She stood up and tossed the bit of blue silk aside. “Oh very well, I’ll come with you. When do we leave?”

Whatever her disposition, the husband hunter will want to consider her laugh. It is not necessary that she, herself, be a wit, capable of astonishing a room with clever repartee, but she must be seen to catch and understand the wit of others. It is chiefly through her laugh that she will reveal the liveliness of her mind and spirits. Is her laugh warm and spontaneous? Is it cruel or artificial? Is it dry, hollow, or insincere? There must be nothing of the titter, the squeal, or the cackle in her mirth. If she laughs with delight at the genuinely ridiculous and refrains from laughing at what is small and mean in the conversation of others, her laugh will please whether it sounds like the chirping of birds or the wheezing of an old bellows.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 8

When Harry returned to the inn, he found Lucy and Adam on the high-backed bench laughing. The cat stalked back and forth in front of them, her orange-and-white tail twitching in offended feline dignity.

Hearty gusts of mirth shook the old man’s torso. Lucy’s lighter laughter skipped and danced in bright bursts between soft catches in her breath.

Those throaty breaths hit Harry squarely in the gut. Lucy would laugh in bed, and her breath would come in little gasps of a different sort.

“What’s the joke?” he asked. Apparently neither of them felt his nagging sense of danger at a second stage robbery or at Findlater’s attempt to remove the old man from the inn. The mitten tucked inside Harry’s jacket said they were wrong.

Lucy looked up at him, wiping a hint of dampness from her eyes. “I was telling Adam about the stage passengers, and he said they were like Queenie. I’m afraid she took exception to the comparison.”

Harry thought their laughter a bit daft. Lucy’s disgruntled stage passengers must have kept her jumping with demands for food and altered travel arrangements, and he marveled that after bearing the brunt of their dissatisfaction, she still laughed.

The cat, evidently regarding Harry as the sensible one of the bunch, rubbed once against his boots and sat down to do some grooming. Lucy looked up. “You have something on your mind?”

“I think you should leave the inn.”

“That’s plain speaking. Why?” Her expression sobered, and she glanced at Adam. “More threats of imminent marriage proposals?”

“You would not stay if you thought Adam in danger.”

“You think he’s in danger?” She spoke slowly, a studied calm in her voice.

“I do.”

She stood abruptly. “More plain speaking. From whom is he in danger?”

“From those who once injured him.”

“Why should they hurt Adam now?”

“Your father kept him hidden. Now they know where he is.”

“Are you suggesting that I have exposed Adam to danger?”

Harry shook his head. He would not burden her with his suspicions. “You can protect him. Take him away from the inn.”

“Take him where?” She crossed to the hearth and heaped a shovelful of coals from the scuttle into the grate.