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She watched Harry’s friend pull Radcliffe’s body off Adam. The large man who had called Radcliffe a dog came to stand over the dead man.

“You probably wanted him alive,” Harry said.

The big man shook his great shaggy head. “No. I didn’t know his name, didn’t know the cheeky devil was hiding in our midst behind a mask of respectability, but I have wanted him dead for twenty years.”

Harry’s friend helped Adam to his feet. Lucy touched Harry’s sober face and went to take Adam’s hand and lead him to his bench. Around them she heard familiar voices speaking in shocked tones. The quiet hour had ended. The inn’s usual people were returning.

One of Harry’s friends organized a small party of bench sitters to move Radcliffe’s body. His other friend pulled chairs into a circle around the hearth. Frank Blodget began to pour ale. Mrs. Vell muttered about divine wrath and pork and marched a quietly weeping Hannah off to her kitchen.

“Pardon me.” Harry’s chestnut-haired friend interrupted. “Blackstone and I will keep the authorities occupied while you all get your story straight. By the way, does the physician’s case in the dining room have any bearing on the case?”

Lucy shuddered. “Radcliffe came for Adam, calling himself a Doctor Waller with a private asylum in Fulham. He kept the pistol in the case.”

The big man with the head of russet hair like a lion’s mane and the look of a large oak tree came to stand before Lucy and Adam. Tears ran down his craggy cheeks.

“Dear, dear girl, your mother is avenged.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Oh yes. The countess was fierce and fearless with a laugh no man could resist. She was one of the best agents England ever had.”

Lucy turned to Harry, the spy, the man of duty and mission. “You knew?”

“I suspected.” His face had the bleak look she remembered from when they parted in the breakfast room at Brook Street.

She turned back to the big man. “You called her ‘the countess’?”

“Yes, her French title from her husband—de Neuvillette. He was captured in France. She was on her way to help him escape with funds and documents when she disappeared.”

Lucy started. It was the name of the woman in her painting. Her father had not spent wildly on a portrait. He had known who her real mother was. “But she was English?”

“To the core. Penelope Lydford before she married. Of Hartwood.”

The bandaged youth, whom Lucy had seen earlier with Harry, now stepped forward, a pretty girl clinging to his good arm. “Hartwood is where Adam came from, sir. Miranda and I confirmed it with Adam’s old friend Nanny Ragley. There was a second footman there named Geoffrey Gibbs, who left when Adam did.”

Adam stirred on the bench beside Lucy. “Adam hide Lucy in the bulrushes,” he said.

“A clearing off the Aylesbury road,” said Harry. “I found a child’s mitten there. The mate to one your father kept.”

“Geoffrey ran away,” said Adam.

Harry shook his head. “Adam, you were frightened. You thought Geoffrey ran away. But he went to the road to show the French the way.” Harry turned to the big man. “I take it that Radcliffe got his start with the money paid to him for betraying the countess.”

The big man nodded. “He never stopped working for England’s enemies, but he wanted out when the Russian spy Malikov was arrested.” The big man turned to another stranger, a tall, dark-haired young gentleman, standing apart from the rest, leaning against the mantel with an amused look on his long, lean face. He had held Hannah when she fled.

“Is that when he came to you?” the big man asked.

The tall stranger pushed off the mantel. “I went to him. We had an encounter over Radcliffe’s practice of disposing of his dead animals on my land. I threatened to expose him and offered to buy up all his cattle. He had another idea. He would pay me to play highwayman and ‘steal’ his horses.” The stranger shrugged.

The russet-haired big man grinned. “Let’s talk,” he said.

A stir at the door signaled the arrival of the constables and a magistrate. Harry’s dark-haired friend came to tell them each would be summoned to give witness.

For the woman of property, the question of when to accept a gentleman’s proposal may be vexed. Knowing, from her own experience, the cares and satisfactions of managing her affairs allows her to meet her suitors on an equal footing. She is of all women free to choose the husband of her heart without regard to the acquisition of a comfortable establishment for her future life. Furthermore, she does not expect a man of sense himself to deny the advantages of a pretty piece of property or a handsome income with which to supply the needs of a household. She does not wish to marry a fool or a spendthrift. Nevertheless, she must accept no proposal until she is fully convinced that a gentleman’s passion for her person wholly outweighs his interest in her purse.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Chapter 23