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“Sir Geoffrey pays a guard,” the second clerk said.

“And yet a bold thief continues to steal his horses,” Harry replied. “At least tell him I offered.”

“Keep an eye on him,” advised the first clerk. He turned and disappeared through a door in the wall of whips.

“Mind if I look at a coach or two?” Harry asked.

A grunt was the only reply. Harry took his time walking around the coaches under the hostile gaze of the big fellow. He studied the maps on the wall. Each of the Rockets’ several lines converged on Dover, and Harry realized he had seen Radcliffe’s routes before on a map in Goldsworthy’s office at the club.

A canvas-draped vehicle at the rear of the room caught his eye. Its size and shape and the wheels visible below the canvas drape suggested a private rather than a commercial vehicle.

“You’ve got a coach that’s not on display.” Harry took a step in the direction of the shrouded carriage, and his path was immediately blocked by the substantial personage of the pugilist clerk.

“That ’un’s not restored.”

The second clerk returned. “Sir Geoffrey says to leave your name.”

“Captain Harry Clare.” Neither man wrote the name down.

Across the street Harry waited behind a beer wagon. As he expected, Sir Geoffrey’s clerk emerged from the office and summoned a hack. Harry followed the man to a fashionable address on Curzon Street, an address Harry knew well, the lodging of a Frenchman with long ties to the Foreign Office. Goldsworthy had explaining to do, and Harry had friends to recover, but first, he had a picnic to attend.

As she begins her Season, the husband hunter may feel that her matrimonial aim is so well known to those around her when she arrives in London that she can do nothing to achieve it. She may imagine that every rival miss, every eligible bachelor, and every sharp-eyed mother of marriageable sons or daughters has anticipated her intention and her tactics and is working to achieve a contrary aim. But if our husband hunter will consider the behavior of true opponents meeting in battle, even opponents as well acquainted with each other’s tactics as rival generals who have met in the field before and studied the ground well, she sees at once how fatal it would be to assume that her rival’s victory is inevitable.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 14

The day’s weather favored a picnic. Cassandra and Cordelia had decided that in spite of the apparent gaiety of such an outing, a picnic was more proper to a true state of mourning than endless rounds of calls on slight acquaintances. In their opinion the tranquility and simplicity of the natural scene, the buds and shoots of spring, and the opportunity for quiet reflection away from the noise and confusion of London would certainly do Lucy’s spirits good.

Accordingly a gown in a shade of gray the sisters called “cloud” with black ribbons for her bonnet was to be Lucy’s outfit, and the high open ground of Parliament Hill in Hampstead four miles away was to be their destination. A flurry of messages from the Brook Street house brought round nine people for the affair. A pair of barouche-landaus set off by noon with the five ladies, a pair of footmen, and a handcart with a hamper, a basket of drinks, and blankets. Four gentlemen on horseback accompanied the ladies. Lucy tried hard not to be disappointed that Harry Clare was not among the men. The inescapable Miss Throckmorton and her mother were of the party. Miss Throckmorton wore a day dress and matching spencer and bonnet, in a yellow that any dairymaid would be proud to see emerge from the churn.

In their carriage Miss Throckmorton began at once the subject of mothers. “I appreciate how fortunate I am in my mother now that I’m out. In the schoolroom one hardly realizes the advantage or disadvantage one’s parent may prove to be in society.”

Lucy murmured that it must indeed be a comfort to have a mother’s guidance for the Season.

“What have you discovered about your mother since we last met?”

Lucy conceded that she had no new information to offer.

Miss Throckmorton looked grave. “Well you must pursue it, you know.”

Lucy nodded. “I intend to.”

“Now, my mother, even at her age, with her appearance and figure, and of course, with her lineage, is the perfect chaperone. It would be dreadful to have a mother who looked a fright. Gentlemen might suppose that one was headed down that path oneself.”

For a few blessed minutes this stream of self-congratulation was interrupted by Cordelia bringing up the history of Hampstead, the benefits of its waters, and the many famous personages who resided there.

Lucy managed to avoid further discussion of mothers during the remainder of the drive. The carriages halted at the entrance to the heath, and they descended to climb a rutted wagon track through faded grasses, picking their way between hard frosted ground and softer, boggy patches with Cassandra exhorting them to mind where they stepped, and the footmen stoically pulling the handcart. Lucy thought she would chide her lady about those laboring footmen when she returned to the inn.

The view from the top of the hill was worth the effort. The ladies held their fluttering hats in the breeze, while Lucy’s friend Thomas Bickford, the barrister in their Back Bench Lending Library group, pointed out the distant dome of St. Paul’s and the spires and roofs of other famous London edifices.

A thick rug was spread on a relatively dry patch of ground, and they sat to enjoy sandwiches, cakes, and hothouse strawberries. Is this what you wanted for me, Papa? The question popped into Lucy’s head unbidden, and for a moment she could not taste her sandwich. Miss Throckmorton began to speak, but Cordelia cut her off, bringing the conversation round to books. Lucy smiled to herself as the Back Bench group dove into their usual talk about the latest novels they’d read. They were a comfortable group.

An hour passed swiftly by. Miss Throckmorton put aside her plate of strawberries and declared that she would like to explore the woods for primroses and violets. The younger members of the party set off at once while the sisters and Miss Throckmorton’s mother dozed in the afternoon sun.

Though there was little foliage, the wood was shady and cool. Miss Throckmorton led the way, skipping happily in the lead. Lucy lagged behind, and when the group surged forward in pursuit of a promising clump of green shoots, she simply stepped off the path, skirted a huge hollow tree, and wandered off. The wood smelled of damp earth and sweet air. The voices behind her faded, and she heard only the flutterings and rustlings of unseen birds, the chattering of a jay, and above her the branches stirring in the wind.

She had no idea how far she wandered before she stopped beside another hollow tree and climbed the arch of its gnarled roots to look out over the wood. There was nothing in bare branches and piles of leaves to make her think of Harry Clare, and yet her thoughts turned to him. She seemed as attuned to his absence as his presence. She had been around plain, honest working men. He was nothing like them. She had thought it was his soldier’s jacket that made him appear to be other than the men she knew, but in London, where he no longer wore the scarlet jacket, she saw that his coat didn’t matter. He was war-marked even without the coat.