The Matrimonial Advertisement

by Mimi Matthews

  Jenny had sat beside her on the bed, smoothing her hair from her forehead. “Don’t give up,” she’d said softly. “Please don’t give up.”

  Helena hadn’t given up. Hope had flickered in her breast at the thought of her escape, a small, struggling flame fed by her own meeting with Mr. Finchley and then, later, by Justin’s letters.

  Dear Miss Reynolds, he had begun each one. Except for the last letter. The one confirming her journey to Devon to meet him. That had been addressed to My Dear Miss Reynolds.

  My Dear.

  An extraordinary intimacy from her future husband.

  Or so it had seemed at the time.

  Would that she had known then how handsome Justin would be. How tall and powerful and charismatic. Would that she had known how passionately he would kiss her at the Stanhope Hotel, his large hands cradling her face with a gentleness that made her heart ache to recall it.

  I could fall in love with him.

  The realization settled in her chest, warm and bright. It was not as alarming as she would have imagined it would be. Quite the opposite. For Justin Thornhill wasn’t only a handsome man capable of bestowing kisses that made her melt into a mass of treacle. He was a good man. Unutterably kind and steadfast, and fiercely protective of everyone in his care.

  She’d learned that about him during their time apart. It had been an unspoken thread in every conversation she’d had with Neville, Mr. Boothroyd, and Mrs. Whitlock. Justin took care of people. He protected them.

  Despite his growls and grumbles and his often-grim countenance, despite the ignominy of his birth, Justin Thornhill was as true a gentleman as any she’d ever met. Too good for her by half.

  Fall in love with him? She could think of nothing more ill advised. Not when she’d lied to him in such stupendous fashion. Not when she’d tricked him into a marriage he didn’t want.

  No. It was far better to steel herself against him. That way, when he rejected her—when he sent her away—her heart wouldn’t shatter into smithereens.

  She continued toward the stables, her head bent against the rising wind. The drive curved in a gradually winding slope, leading down past the cliffs. The cold air nipped at her face as she traversed its edge. She inhaled a bracing lungful, breathing in the wild, salty smell of the sea. It was only a few more steps to the stable. It would be warmer there and—

  “What the devil are you doing out here?”

  She looked up with a start.

  Justin was standing several yards off, clad in a mud-spattered greatcoat, a portmanteau slung over one shoulder. His black hair was wet, his hat held carelessly in one gloved hand.

  Any thought of hardening her heart vanished into the ether.

  “Justin.” She ran to meet him in a flurry of silken skirts, reaching him in only a few hasty strides and flinging her arms around his neck. It was not an easy feat. He was so much taller than she was. He must have leaned down to her or bent his head. She was too overcome to know which. “You came back.”

  “Of course I did.” His voice was gruff. He brought one arm around her waist to steady her. “Helena, I’m all over mud.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He held her for a long moment. She felt the rain splashing down on her back and shoulders and soaking into the rolled and braided coils of her hair. Her wide pagoda sleeves slid toward her elbows, the light muslin of her undersleeves growing damp on the collar of his coat. The front of her bodice was dampening as well.

  She drew back from him at last, lowering from her tiptoes and releasing the death grip she had on his neck. She wiped the raindrops from her cheeks with her hands. She prayed he didn’t think she was weeping.

  “What are you doing outside?” he asked again. “Where’s Neville?”

  “In the stable. I’m going—I was going—to sit with him while he works.”

  Justin gazed down at her, his expression hard to read. “And your hat and gloves?”

  “At the Abbey.”

  He dropped his portmanteau from his shoulder and removed his greatcoat. She held herself immobile as he draped it over her shoulders. It was lined with wool, still warm from his body heat, and so large it fairly swallowed her whole.

  “Draw it up over your head,” he said. “Come. I’ve been dreaming of a warm fire and a cup of tea for the last two and a half miles.”

  They returned to the Abbey, walking side by side up the drive. With each step, Helena felt a little more ridiculous about the exuberant greeting she’d given him. For all she knew, he’d already decided to annul their marriage.

  Either that or have her committed.

  The prospect sent a chill down her spine. She cast a sidelong glance at Justin’s face. He looked thoughtful. Grave. Like a man with a great deal on his mind.

  She reminded herself of the words he’d uttered when he rescued her from the cliff’s ledge.

  “You married me to keep you safe and that’s precisely what I intend to do.”

  That night he’d meant it.

  Did he still mean it?

  He’d told her to trust him. And, except for leaving her without a word, she had no real reason not to. Not unless she counted the sins of other men against him. But that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Justin was not her uncle or Mr. Glyde or any one of the half dozen gentlemen in London who’d refused to help her. It would be unjust to tar him with the same brush.

  They climbed the front steps of the Abbey in silence. He opened the door, allowing her to precede him into the hall. She removed his greatcoat from her shoulders and handed it back to him. “You’ll want to wash and change. I’ll have a tea tray brought to the library in half an hour. Unless you’d like more time?”

  “I daresay we’ll need it.” His gaze dropped to the front of her gown. “I’m not the only one who must wash and change.”

  She looked down at her bodice. “Oh dear.” It was worse than damp. It was streaked with mud all across the collar and bosom. She gave him a rueful grimace. “It serves me right for embracing you.” She attempted to inject humor into words, but her voice only succeeded in sounding hollow. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Helena—”

  “Mr. Thornhill?” Mr. Boothroyd emerged from the library. “I wasn’t aware you’d returned. And I see you’ve found her ladyship. Splendid.” He came across the hall to speak with Justin, full of questions about his visit to Mr. Finchley.

  Helena stood listening for a moment, but she felt excluded. As if her very presence was superfluous to the conversation. She excused herself to go upstairs and change. Neither man made any objection. She wondered if they even noticed when she quietly slipped away.

  Once in her bedroom, she stripped off her wet undersleeves and bodice and stepped out of her muddied skirts. She deposited the whole in the bathroom and, after washing up and repairing her hair, returned to her bedroom and quickly donned a clean dress. It was the last of the three she’d brought with her from London and the only one that wasn’t gray.

  “Ashes of roses,” the modiste had called the dusky shade of pink.

  It was silk like the others, with long, loose sleeves that fastened tight at the wrists and a plain bodice, confined at the waist by a ribbon belt of dark plum velvet. The same dark velvet edged the single deep flounce at the bottom of her skirts. It was a beautiful dress. The cut set off her figure and the color made her hair shine and her skin look rich as cream. But that wasn’t why she’d brought it. The simple fact was, it was one of the only gowns she owned that she could get into and out of without the assistance of a lady’s maid.

  If she remained, perhaps she could offer the position of lady’s maid to Bess. Hadn’t the young maidservant said she knew something about removing stains from silk? It was a skill that would be particularly useful now, given the current state of Helena’s gowns.

  But she didn’t know if she
’d remain.

  In order to find out, she’d have to go downstairs and confront the situation. Part of her—a rather large part, admittedly—would have preferred to crawl under a blanket and hide. The news from town could not be good.

  I don’t want to know.

  A stupid, childish thought. She was becoming a coward. It simply wouldn’t do. She straightened her spine and crossed to the door. She was halfway there when someone knocked. The sound echoed through the room, strong and firm.

  Not a servant, then.

  She shouldn’t be surprised. Unlike her, Justin was no coward. If there was bad news to be relayed, he would not scruple to do it himself.

  “Come in,” she called out.

  Justin entered. She watched, heart thumping, as he slowly closed the door behind him. “You left rather quickly,” he said. “I trust there wasn’t anything—”

  And then he stopped and looked at her. Simply looked at her. The sort of scorching look that took in every detail of her appearance, from the top of her head to the hem of her flounced skirts.

  Her pulse beat heavy at her throat.

  “You’ve changed your dress,” he said.

  A vague sense of self-consciousness assailed her. Did he think she was trying to entice him? To use her feminine wiles to influence his decision about their marriage?

  “I hadn’t much choice.” She smoothed both hands over her skirts. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

  He dropped a brief glance at the muddied legs of his trousers. “Hardly. I haven’t yet had a chance to change myself. I’ve been talking to Boothroyd.”

  “Have you?”

  He gave her another long, measuring look. “I’d like to talk to you as well.”

  “By all means.”

  “Why don’t you order tea while I wash up? We can have it here. In our room.”

  Our room.

  She swallowed. “Very well.”

  Her eyes followed him as he walked to his dressing room. Most of his clothes were there. She’d examined them in his absence. Frock coats, waistcoats, trousers, riding breeches, and a collection of pristine white shirts. It was all impeccably organized. Especially considering he didn’t keep a valet.

  “What about Mr. Boothroyd?” she asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Will he be joining us?”

  Justin stopped at the door to the dressing room. His brow furrowed. “No. Why should he?”

  “I assumed…” Her voice trailed away. He was coming back to her, crossing the room in a few long strides. He reached inside of his coat.

  “I have something for you,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten.” He withdrew a small envelope, stamped with a red wax seal. “You can read it while I change for tea.”

  She took it from his hand. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “And Helena?”

  “Yes?”

  His lip quirked. “Don’t assume.”

  She flushed. But he didn’t linger to see it. He was gone through the dressing room door in a trice, leaving her alone with the mysterious letter.

  She took it to the window. A shaft of sunlight filtered in through the glass. Still standing, she broke the seal, spread the paper open in her hands, and began to read.

  My dearest Helena,

  This evening I met your Mr. Thornhill. We didn’t get on at all. Nevertheless, he’s promised I shall see you again when the rains cease. Do the rains ever cease in Devon? Perhaps it’s all a ploy to silence my unruly tongue. No matter. Mr. Finchley says that if Thornhill should prove disagreeable, he will bring me to you himself.

  I’ve so much to tell you and no time in which to write it all down. Your new husband won’t wait on a longer letter. He’s impatient to see you again. Does this mean what I think it means? If so, you’ll forgive me for gloating. Didn’t I tell you it would all come right?

  With boundless affection,

  Jenny

  After washing and changing into a clean suit of clothes, Justin returned to Helena’s bedroom. Their bedroom. She was seated on the settee near the fireplace, her skirts settled all about her like a dusky pink cloud. She was still looking at Miss Holloway’s letter. He stood a moment in the door of the dressing room and watched her.

  He didn’t know what Miss Holloway had written. He hoped it was something that would lift Helena’s spirits. When he’d seen her walking down the cliff road, her face had been pale, her eyes despairing. And when she’d thrown her arms around him in greeting, he’d felt a small portion of what she must have been feeling in his absence. She’d been alone. Afraid. Uncertain of him.

  Justin’s fist clenched reflexively at his side. He’d handled things badly. And, quite probably, hurt her in the process. “I should have woke you before I left.”

  Helena looked up, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

  He crossed the room to join her on the settee. The tea tray was sitting on a low table near the fire. A swirling vapor of steam floated up from the spout of the teapot. “A note was inadequate,” he said. “I can see that now.”

  Helena refolded Miss Holloway’s letter and set it aside. Her eyes found his. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He sank down beside her, half crushing her voluminous skirts against his leg. It was no use dissembling. “Because I knew if I woke you—if I saw how frightened you were—I wouldn’t be able to leave you.”

  “Oh,” she said softly.

  “Leaving you here was the safest thing to do. With the rainstorm and the road… It was the only way I could see Finchley.”

  “And Jenny?”

  “She happened to be there as well.”

  “With Mr. Finchley?”

  “Yes. Er…it’s rather a long story.”

  Helena poured him a cup of tea. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed. “I’m listening.”

  He waited to speak until she’d poured a cup out for herself. “When your uncle discovered your absence, he confronted Miss Holloway. When she wouldn’t divulge your whereabouts, he fell into a rage, ransacking her rooms for some sign of where you’d gone.”

  Helena’s face drained of color. “Did he hurt her?”

  “No. But when he found the evidence he was looking for—”

  “What evidence? There wasn’t any, I’m sure of it. We were exceedingly careful.”

  “There was a letter,” Justin said. “Miss Holloway kept it in a locked drawer of her dressing table.”

  Helena shook her head, unwilling to believe it. “There must be some mistake. I brought all of your letters with me.”

  “Did you?” He filed that bit of information away to examine later. “But this wasn’t a letter I wrote to you. This was the letter Finchley wrote in reply to Miss Holloway’s initial inquiry about the advertisement. It mentions me by name. It also mentions North Devon and the King’s Arms.”

  “Why in heaven would Jenny have kept that?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Justin said.

  Not that he didn’t have his suspicions.

  “So,” Helena said, stirring a generous helping of sugar into her tea, “after reading that letter, my uncle would have all but had your direction.”

  “That’s the size of it.”

  “He would have sent Mr. Glyde after me straightaway.” Her expression was meditative. “And what about Jenny? You say he didn’t hurt her—”

  “He didn’t. Not physically. He turned her off without a reference. He gave her half an hour to collect her things and then had a footman escort her from the premises. She had no money and no one with whom she could take shelter.”

  “Which is why she went to see Mr. Finchley,” Helena concluded.

  Justin’s lips tilted in a wry smile. “You know her well.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what I would have do
ne.”

  A sharp twinge of emotion caught him unaware. He recognized it at once for what it was. He’d experienced the exact same sensation when Finchley had prattled on about Helena’s beauty.

  Jealousy.

  It was damned disconcerting. He had no earthly reason to be jealous of Finchley, nor of any man. Nevertheless…

  “You think a great deal of him,” he said.

  “Of Mr. Finchley? Yes, I suppose I do.”

  “Why? You scarcely know him.”

  “No, but he was kind to me when I needed it most. I shan’t ever forget it.”

  Justin’s fingers tightened reflexively on the handle of his teacup. He forced them to loosen, imposing relaxation on himself as he raised the dainty porcelain cup to his lips and took a deep drink. The brew was strong—unlike the tea they’d shared on her first visit to the Abbey. “Ah yes, kindness.” He returned his cup and saucer to the tea tray. “One of your primary requirements in a husband, as I recall.”

  A dull flush rose in Helena’s cheeks. “Where is Jenny now? What has Mr. Finchley done with her?”

  “He’s procured a little house for her near Piccadilly.”

  Helena’s mouth fell open. “He’s done what?”

  “It’s all perfectly respectable,” Justin assured her.

  Or so he’d been led to believe.

  Then again, Finchley had been in residence when Justin had come calling in Half Moon Street. And he had admitted to spending time alone with Miss Holloway without benefit of a chaperone.

  “She needed somewhere safe to stay,” he explained, as much for his own peace of mind as for Helena’s. “A place where your uncle and his hired villains wouldn’t think to look for her. And Finchley could hardly offer her board and lodging with him, could he?”

  Helena was suitably appalled. “I should hope not!”

  “He’s been careful not to compromise her.”

  “I’m certain he has, but…” She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, as if to stave off an impending headache. “Oh, but this is all my fault. If not for me, Jenny would never have been put in such a predicament.”