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“A bsolutely not,” Dorothea said, when Lucinda poured the whole story into her usually sympathetic ears the next morning. “Cecil will agree.”

Lucinda swallowed her annoyance. “It’s not that I want to risk my life—I don’t, but to finally be involved in something more interesting and important than clothes and parties and marriage, and then be told that I mustn’t participate—it’s infuriating!

” She paused. “I can’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Pearce, though.

He’s a rather sweet man, naturally kindly, I think, and not inclined to be aggressive. Rather refreshing it its way.”

“Yes, but not much use in some situations. You did very well, you know—stabbing that horrid Mr. Wharton with your scissors was a brilliant notion. How fortunate you had them in your reticule!”

Lucinda stopped herself just in time from mentioning that she’d had a penknife as well. She must find a better way to hide it that allowed for easier access. Not that she anticipated another such emergency; she just didn’t relish being told she was useless, and said so.

“You’re not useless,” Dorothea said. “My father is delighted to have you work for him. He came by last night with a couple of messages he wants put into code. You’ll be using a different book, of course, but the same process, or so I understand.”

That cheered her a little. Unfortunately, she had no sooner sat down to work when her mother came to call.

It was far too early for morning callers, so Mother had not come to make a polite visit.

In fact, the butler said in offended tones, she denied any wish to see Mrs. Hale, but demanded to see Miss Belair alone.

Not only that, she’d ordered him to have Miss Belair’s things packed, as they would be leaving shortly.

“Oh, no,” Lucinda groaned to Dorothea upon hearing the news. “I knew she would come to fetch me, but not so soon! What am I to do? I can’t write secret messages for Sir Frederick while I’m at home.”

“You’ll refuse to go with her,” Dorothea said. “We need you here. I told the servants that on no account should your things be packed.”

Lucinda gave a sigh of relief. “Come with me, then. She disapproves of your progressive views, but she’s less likely to have a tantrum if you are there.”

In the drawing room, Dorothea greeted Lucinda’s mother with her usual charm.

“Mrs. Hale,” Mother said frostily. “So kind of you to take Lucinda in, but we shall not trouble you any longer. She shall leave with me.”

“No, Mother, I’m sorry, but I cannot come home to Sussex just now,” Lucinda said. “Mrs. Hale wishes me to stay as her assistant.”

“We’re not going home, Lucinda, but rather to the house in Curzon Street, where we shall make preparations for the wedding.”

“What wedding? Didn’t Susannah run away to Gretna Green? That’s what I understood from her letter.”

“I neither know nor care where Susannah may be. I’m speaking of your wedding. I am creditably informed that you came to London with Lord Restive—alone and unchaperoned.”

Oh no, you don’t. “In an open curricle, Mother.”

“Therefore, you must wed him.”

“I shall not,” Lucinda said flatly.

“Not only that, a friend tells me you attended a salon at Mrs. Haraldson’s with Lord Restive and behaved most abominably there.”

“I was chaperoned by Lady Alice Turlow,” Lucinda retorted, “and if freely expressing my opinions is abominable, then so be it. I shall not marry Lord Restive.”

“Everyone knows Lady Alice is touched in the head,” Mother said, “and you shall marry Restive.”

Lucinda threw up her hands. “Restive doesn’t wish to marry me.” She gave silent thanks for his lordship’s recurring refusal to be forced into marriage. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.

It occurred to her, but only fleetingly, that this last thought wasn’t entirely true.

She didn’t want to marry him—heaven forbid—but she did rather like him from time to time, which was a surprise—although why should it be?

Perhaps the real Restive, the one she’d liked years ago, still dwelt within the often unpleasant man.

“His wishes have nothing to do with the matter,” Mother said. “He has ruined you, and therefore he will wed you.”

“He has not ruined me,” Lucinda said. “Any ruining that has been done, I have done to myself.”

“All the more reason to wed, and speedily.” Mother stood. “If you are afraid to confront Lord Restive, I certainly am not. I shall call on him today.”

“Please don’t!” Lucinda cried. “He won’t agree, and?—"

Mother ignored her, bade Dorothea a curt goodbye, and stalked out.

“Oh, God ,” Lucinda said. “How mortifying! What will Restive think of me? I must write immediately to warn him.”

“If you wish,” Dorothea said, trying not to laugh, “but believe me, Restive can take care of himself.”

“Yes, but I shan’t be able to bear it if he thinks I planned this—for he will, you know.”

“No, he won’t. But go ahead and write a note, and my footman will run over there with it.”

“T ell her to go away,” Restive told the longsuffering Stokes, and then, to his valet, “What’s that, a note from whom?”

“Mrs. Hale sent it, marked urgent,” the valet said, but the note proved to be from Lucinda Belair, written in untidy haste.

Lord Restive,

My mother is in town and means to force you to marry me.

I told her that any ruining of my reputation was done by me without any help from you.

Since it’s not a convenient moment for you to flee to the ends of the earth (as I suggested earlier), please refuse to speak to her.

Do not hesitate to be as rude as you please.

Gratefully in advance,

Lucinda Belair

He gave a snort of laughter. “On second thought, show Lady Belair in.”

“Here, my lord?” A reasonable question, since he was still at breakfast.

“Yes, here. Bring fresh coffee.” He went on eating, and a few minutes later, Lady Belair marched into the room.

Restive stood, sketched a bow, and indicated a chair, which the footman pulled out for her. “Have you breakfasted, ma’am?”

“I am not here to eat, young man. I am here to discuss an extremely important matter.”

“Coffee, then. My mind bends itself best to important matters when fortified with coffee.” He indicated to the footman to pour for her. “What is it, Lady Belair?”

She glared in the direction of the footman. “My business with you is private .”

Restive waved him away with a grin. The footman was accustomed to irate matchmaking mamas and would no doubt listen on the other side of the door.

“I have been creditably informed that you were seen with my daughter ,” she said.

“Your daughter? I understood she had run off to Gretna with Humphrey Ball.”

“Not Susannah,” Lady Belair snapped. “I mean Lucinda, and well you know it.”

“Ah, the lovely Lucinda,” Restive said. “A delightful girl.”

“D-delightful?” Her face lit up with astonishment, or perhaps hope. Or both. What an idiot she was, not to recognize Lucinda’s excellence—not to mention thinking she could force her to do anything.

“Yes, I drove her to town a few days ago. Have you come to thank me?” He essayed an austere expression. “As you should, for it’s not at all the thing for a gently-bred girl to travel to London on the stage. I can’t imagine what you were thinking, ma’am!”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she said. A muffled laugh came from the other side of the door. “Lucinda ran away!”

“Ah. Your daughters do seem to make a habit of that.”

Lady Belair reddened, waving an agitated hand. “She didn’t run away , exactly. She left without a word to me, ostensibly to visit her old governess.”

“To whom I delivered her, as requested. She is now staying with her friend, Mrs. Hale.”

“That does not change the fact that she ran away with you , Lord Restive. If anything, it makes it worse. That woman is a dreadful influence on my hapless daughter.”

“Hapless? You cannot mean Lucinda. I have seldom met a more capable woman. More coffee?” He buttered another piece of toast. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat? My cook can whip up some eggs in no time.”

“I’m not hungry! How can I be, when Lucinda’s reputation is ruined!” She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the corner of her completely dry eye.

“On the contrary,” Restive said. “Lucinda is astonishing. Intelligent, well-educated—only fancy, she reads Latin and Greek!—and knowledgeable upon any and every subject. Fearless, forward-thinking, even, may I say it, brilliant! Thanks to me and my aunt, Lady Alice Turlow, many people now know how wonderful she is.” He sighed. “Such a pity.”

“A pity indeed. She has none of the qualities of a proper lady.”

“Oh, but she does. She’s beautiful, accomplished, exquisitely polite, is kind to even the most foolish of men—such as a poet who is infatuated with her, but don’t try to convince her to marry him. That would be a dreadful mistake.”

“Indeed I shall not, whoever he is, for you ruined her, and therefore she must marry you .”

He shook his head, adopting a mournful pose. “If only that were possible. I adore Lucinda, truly I do, but alas, she is far too good for me.”

Lady Belair huffed. “You won’t weasel your way out of it that way.”

“My dear ma’am, I never weasel. I merely consult my conscience, which would never permit me to marry such perfection. I am not a good man.”

“What does goodness have to say to anything? You are a peer!”

“A mere baron, hardly worth considering. She intends to marry the right man or no one, and reluctantly, I applaud her decision.”

“Such nonsense. There is no such thing as a right man.”

“You may be correct—there may be no man good enough for her—but I’m a crude, unkind, cold-hearted sort. She deserves better.” Which was the truth, and well he knew it.

He wiped his mouth, set his napkin down, and stood. “It’s kind of you to call on me, but I fear I must refuse your offer to give me your lovely daughter.”

She rose. “You shall marry her. I insist !”

“Insist all you like, madam, but even were I to agree—which I won’t—one insuperable obstacle stands in your way.”