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“You can’t get up.” She jumped to her feet.

“I have to,” he said. He pulled the bedclothes away from his legs.

“Oh,” she said with a sudden blush of understanding. “I’ll help you. There’s...what you need in the dressing room.”

He slid from the bed, and she offered him a hand, steadying him as he landed on his feet. She lifted his hand around her shoulder and put an arm around his waist, and they crossed a carpet softer than many beds Nate had slept in. At the dressing room he grabbed the doorframe. “I can manage from here.”

When he reemerged from the dressing room, he felt his nakedness. He was in smalls and bandage with a good bit of beard on his face and film on his teeth. If he meant to impress Miranda with his gentlemanly appearance, he was failing miserably. She was staring at him. He must cut a miserable figure up against the gentleman highwayman. He was also probably breaking some rule of conduct that said gentlemen didn’t appear naked before their wives.

“Do we have our cases?” he asked.

Miranda shook her head. “But the people here have been kind enough to give me things. See, I’ve got my gown back without the stain.”

“Do you have tooth powder?” His mouth had the most disagreeable taste of broth and medicine.

“I do, but you can’t mean to use my toothbrush?”

He raised his brows. That was probably a rule, too, but he was beyond the rules now.

“Oh, I’ll show you.” She brushed by him, smelling sweet and fresh as she always did. She was probably enjoying her stay in a grand country house with a handsome highwayman for a host.

She showed him the cabinet with the water and basin and handed him her brush and tooth powder. “Their powder is not as good as Papa’s. I told them they should patronize Kirby’s in London if they wanted superior powders and soaps.”

“Do you know where my clothes are?”

She nodded. “What are you thinking?”

“We have to get to Captain Clare. How long did it take to get here?”

She turned away while he brushed his teeth. “I don’t know. It seemed like a very long time, but it could not have been, could it? It was still night when we arrived, and close on morning when the doctor finished with your shoulder.”

“Not more than a two hours’ ride, then?” he said, finishing up with the towel. His mouth felt much better. He would deal with the beard later. He knew there were footmen who came and went. He would ask one of them about shaving.

“Less, I think,” she said. “What do you think the highwayman means to do with us?” she asked.

“We’re a problem for him because we’ve seen his face. We know he robbed the Rocket, but we also know he’s a gentleman. He won’t want us talking to the authorities.”

“We don’t have to, do we? We could tell him we’ll never speak of the incident and thank him for his kindness to us both.”

His kindness to her. Nate shook his head. “Constables will want to talk to us.”

“We could tell them he didn’t really rob the Rocket. He took the horses, but he didn’t take any of the passengers’ watches or purses or anything.”

“It’s the truth,” he said. “And we don’t know his name or where we are, but we are going to leave.”

“We can’t just walk away.”

“We have to. Tonight.”

The musicale or private concert is an event that may both delight and test the husband hunter. Of course, she must attend. As England’s enduring poet says, “Music is the food of love,” and only in London will the husband hunter hear performers of rare talent and training capable of the full range of musical expression. So universal is the appeal of music that everyone of the first rank will be there. Such an evening places demands on the husband hunter’s attention, her taste, and her endurance. There is no more grievous offense at such an event than falling asleep to the pure intonations of a renowned soprano.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 16

Lucy thought it not least among the delights of the musical evening at the Marquis of Hertford’s house that she could easily lose herself among the five hundred or more guests and one Italian opera company. Miss Throckmorton would never find her in such a crush.

She gladly followed Cordelia and Cassandra to a small salon where a mere hundred guests gathered to hear the new musical director of the English Opera House. He had composed an opera in English, soon to be performed featuring the soprano, Miss Cawse, a great favorite of Lucy’s friends. As they hurried forward, and as other guests made way for them in their distinctive matching gowns, Lucy slipped to the back of the crowd. She found a convenient marble column against which to stand. The nearby door of a small antechamber admitted a slight, refreshing stir of night air.