Page 14 of A Spy’s Guide to Seduction

So prejudiced is society in favor of a woman’s marrying that the sole measure of her worth is a paltry hoop of gold upon her finger. A single miss, however lovely, intelligent, and virtuous, whose hand remains unadorned by such a bauble within a Season or two of her first appearance in the fashionable world, is regarded as flawed no matter her merits, while the plainest girl with the least figure and only modest accomplishments may lord it over all her companions when once she wears a gentleman’s ring. To do so, however, is to fall into the grave error of supposing that a ring on one’s finger is a triumph or a victory. Such thinking must inevitably undermine the very happiness the husband hunter seeks in marriage.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Lynley watched Emily Radstock apply a hoof pick to her mare’s near hind foot. Another woman would have left the task to a groom. He could find no fault in the practiced care with which she handled her horse. Her voice soothed the mare, and she plainly knew what she was about as she worked to dig out dirt and stones. Her dark blue habit was cut close to her figure with skirts full enough to allow her more than a fashionable walk in the park. A flush in her cheeks and loose curling strands of honey-brown hair around her face told him she’d had a good ride. He envied her that.

It was the part of his agreement with Goldsworthy which chafed him the most that he had been required to leave Sultan at Lyndale Abbey. His black stallion was too easily recognizable as the horse that had figured in the recent exploits of the highwayman of the Aylesbury Road, as the constables had dubbed him.

Emily had tied her horse, a chocolate-colored mare with a black mane, to a post in the open area of the mews between the rows of stalls. With the morning sun just peeking over the rooftops, grooms and stable boys went about their business, taking no notice of the lady in their midst. Lynley leaned against the wall to watch.

She went about her work, oblivious of her surroundings, until he ventured a greeting. She started, turning toward him but keeping a secure hold on the horse’s hoof.

“What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t stay away.”

She regarded him narrowly. “I should think you would still be abed.”

“Not when I might see you.” The words sounded hollow in his ears. It was the sort of flirtatious thing his uncle might say to a tavern girl.

“Fustian,” she said. Gently, she released the horse’s hoof and moved to the off side. “You’ve never come here at this hour of the day to pour the butter boat over my head, and you can’t imagine that I have any government papers on my person.”

“You relieve my mind. I would hate to think that you made off with Lord Ravenhurst’s documents under my nose.”

“Did someone make off with them?” she asked, coming around the horse to toss the hoof pick into a pail and pick up a dandy brush.

“I came to ask if I might take you for a drive in the park this afternoon.”

“I have a...a prior engagement.” She moved the brush across the mare’s back with short flicks.

“I believe our betrothal ends your obligations to other gentlemen.”

She shot him a quick glance. “I didn’t say I was meeting a man.”

“Can you put this person off to another day?”

She laughed. “Oh, he is always available for a visit. He’s in Marshalsea Prison for debt.”

He had to admit she shocked him a little with her cheerful willingness to visit a notorious prison, but only a little. He’d read her letter to the Times. “Who is this gentleman in such uncongenial accommodations?”

“The Reverend Arthur Broome. Do you know of him?”

It was a test. She’d think more highly of him if he knew who Broome was, but he wouldn’t pretend. He shook his head.

“He founded the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.” She moved from her work with the dandy brush to a currycomb.

“A worthy cause. Are you a member of this society?”

Her brow furrowed at the question, and she looked away. “Ladies are not yet admitted to membership status. We have a different role.”

“You pour tea and provide funds?” Lynley suspected that a society with its founder in debt was little more than a scheme to prey on the tenderheartedness of rich ladies.

“We write letters and pamphlets.”

“Sounds safe...and...”

The currycomb made a few passes. “And?”

“Dull.”