The Matrimonial Advertisement

by Matthews, Mimi

  “The king,” Neville had said.

  “It’s not the king,” Archer had retorted. “The king is an old man.”

  Justin had watched the tall, impeccably clad gentleman dismount at the entrance to the three-story stone building where the orphans of Abbot’s Holcombe were housed. “Maybe it’s someone’s father,” he’d said. “Come to fetch him home.”

  It felt like a lifetime ago. That brief morning encounter that had set the events of the next two decades in motion. All because they’d been fascinated by the appearance of a fine gentleman. Because they’d been dazzled by wealth and rank.

  But if Justin was dazzled by Helena, it had nothing to do with her wealth and aristocratic lineage. How could it? He hadn’t known about either of them until the appearance of Hargreaves and Glyde. Up until then he’d known only that she was a lady. A woman of quality.

  She was too good for him by any measure. Anyone could see it. But touching her didn’t feel presumptuous. It felt natural and right. As if she’d been specially fashioned to lie in his arms.

  He bent his head to her hair and inhaled deeply.

  She didn’t stir. Not even when he released her and slowly extricated himself from the bed. She’d said she hadn’t slept well since she left London. And, considering what she’d been through, he didn’t doubt it. After yesterday’s events, he was feeling a little tired himself.

  But there wasn’t time to linger.

  He kindled a fire for her in the hearth and then, after collecting a few articles of clothing from the dressing room, withdrew to the bath. Within fifteen minutes, he was washed, shaved and dressed. He tossed a change of clothes into an old leather portmanteau and headed downstairs.

  Boothroyd was in the kitchen, just as he always was at this time of morning. He sat at the wooden table, his napkin tucked into his shirt as he spread jam on a piece of toast. Neville was seated across from him, finishing off a plate of eggs and bacon. Paul and Jonesy milled at his booted feet.

  At the sight of Justin, Boothroyd stilled. His eyes fell to the portmanteau. “You’re going, then.”

  “I think I must,” Justin said.

  Boothroyd returned his toast to his plate. He tugged the napkin from his collar and tossed it onto the table. “For how long?”

  “It shouldn’t take above two days.”

  Neville looked up from his breakfast. “It’s still raining, Justin.”

  “So, it is.” Justin strode across the flagstone floor to join them at the table. He poured himself a cup of tea and drank it standing. “Not to worry. I won’t melt.”

  “Do you think it wise to leave, sir?” Boothroyd asked.

  “Wiser to do it now than when the road dries out.” Justin said. “I’ll hire a carriage to take me to Barnstaple. I can catch a fast train from there to London.”

  “And how do you propose to get down to King’s Abbot?”

  Justin shrugged. “The same way I always do when the cliff road washes out.”

  Boothroyd pursed his lips. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but one of these days you’re going to break your neck.”

  “Justin won’t fall,” Neville said. His brow creased. “Will you, Justin?”

  “Indeed I will not.” Justin shot a warning glance at Boothroyd. There was no reason to alarm Neville. The truth was, though the cliff road was impassible by horse or carriage, someone who knew the terrain—someone who was both fit and exceedingly careful—could navigate his way down on foot. It was a touch risky. But it was less than three miles. And it wasn’t as if he’d be scaling down the cliff face.

  “You’ll be all over mud by the time you arrive in King’s Abbot,” Boothroyd said.

  Justin’s finished his tea. “Very likely.” He turned to Neville, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I have a special task for you, Neville.”

  Neville sat up taller in his chair. “What is it?”

  “While I’m gone, you’re to look after Mrs. Thornhill.”

  Boothroyd lifted his brows.

  Justin ignored him. “I want you to watch over her. You, Paul, and Jonesy.” He held Neville’s gaze. “Do you understand?”

  Neville gave a solemn nod. “Yes, Justin.”

  “Good man.” He looked at Boothroyd. “No one will come. There’s no one in King’s Abbot who would dare risk the cliff road. Nevertheless…be vigilant.”

  “As always, sir.” Boothroyd stood. When Justin left the kitchen, he followed after him. “What shall I tell Mrs. Thornhill?”

  Justin frowned. It occurred to him that he should have left a note for her. An oversight on his part, but one that was easily remedied.

  He headed upstairs to the library, taking the steps two at a time. There was money in Boothroyd’s desk that he would need for his journey. There was pen and paper as well. As Boothroyd counted out coins, Justin dipped a sharpened quill into the inkwell and scratched out a short message to Helena.

  Gone to see Finchley. Will return in two days.

  Yr. obedient, etc.,

  Thornhill

  He paused, quill poised in his hand. After a moment’s reflection, he added a postscript.

  P.S. — Trust me.

  London, England

  September, 1859

  Finchley shared his premises in Fleet Street with another solicitor, a gentleman by the name of Mr. Keane. Upon arriving, Justin was shepherded into Keane’s office by his clerk, a harried fellow with uneven side-whiskers, who was juggling a stack of law books.

  “Shall I bring in tea and biscuits, sir?” the clerk asked.

  Mr. Keane rose from behind a heavily cluttered barrister’s desk, causing several pieces of paper to spill over from their respective piles and waft down to the floor. After casting a questioning look at Justin, he waved the clerk out. “Mr. Thornhill, I apologize for the disarray. We’ve been at sixes and sevens this week.” He motioned to a chair. “Won’t you sit?”

  Justin remained standing. His clothes were stained from travel. He’d come directly from the station. “Where’s Finchley?”

  “Ah.” Mr. Keane’s face fell. He sank back into his chair. “Most distressing, sir. And very unlike him. I’ve been obliged to —” He stopped. “But I won’t complain. There’s been many an occasion when he’s taken it upon himself to manage my cases when I’ve been called away. Only last Christmas, when my mother was ill—”

  “Called away?” Justin interrupted. “To where?”

  “It’s his sister, I believe. Some difficulty at home. He was needed quite urgently.”

  Justin’s eyes narrowed. Finchley didn’t have a sister. He didn’t have any family at all. None of them did.

  “She arrived here Tuesday morning in a terrible state,” Keane continued. “He took her away at once. And then—quite extraordinarily—a message arrived, informing me that he wouldn’t be returning until matters at home were resolved. Naturally, I expected him back directly. He’s never absented himself for longer than the space of an afternoon. I can only guess that the crisis is of a grave and serious nature. An illness or, possibly, a death.”

  Justin listened to Keane rattle on, a sense of amazement rendering him temporarily mute. Good God, was it possible his work-obsessed friend had at last taken a mistress?

  “Did he say where he was going?” he asked.

  “Home, I expect. To be with his family.” Keane opened a drawer of his desk and shuffled through the contents. “He gave me his sister’s direction. Said it was confidential. That I wasn’t to share it with anyone. Excepting you of course. Or Mr. Boothroyd, if he should… Ah. Here it is.”

  He withdrew a folded piece of notepaper from the drawer and extended it to Justin. An address was scrawled on it in black ink.

  Justin departed Fleet Street moments later in a hansom bound for what turned out to be a small but quite elegant house in Half Moon Street. When he arrived
, he vaulted up the steps and applied the knocker with no little force. Long seconds passed before the door was cracked open, not by a servant, but by Finchley himself.

  “Thornhill!” His eyes flashed with relief behind his silver-framed spectacles. “I knew you’d come.”

  He was clad in a frock coat and matching trousers, his cravat neatly tied and his usually wild dark brown hair forced into compliance by a liberal dose of Macassar oil. He looked clean and pressed—and quite unlike himself.

  “What the devil’s going on?” Justin asked.

  Finchley waited for him to enter and then shut and bolted the door behind him. “Come through to the sitting room. We can discuss things there.”

  Justin dropped his portmanteau in the hall and followed Finchley upstairs. There was a cozy parlor there, furnished with a plump chintz sofa and chairs, a tufted ottoman with tassel-trim, and an array of heavy wooden tables on which various collections of dried flowers and stuffed birds were displayed under glass domes.

  A fire of hot coals glowed cheerfully in the grate. On a carved mantelshelf above it, a gilt-trimmed clock softly chimed the hour.

  Justin’s gaze roamed over the room. “Very homey,” he said dryly.

  “I thought so.” Finchley sank into a chair. “I’ve just signed a three-month lease.”

  Justin sat down across from him. “For your sister, I presume.”

  A dull flush tinted Finchley’s neck. He cleared his throat. “There’s time enough to explain that. But first, tell me…did you marry her?”

  “Miss Reynolds? Otherwise known as Lady Helena?” Justin rubbed the side of his face. “Bloody hell, Tom. What in blazes were you thinking to perpetrate such a scheme?”

  “It wasn’t a scheme. It was a mission of mercy.”

  “At my expense.”

  “I don’t see how you can view it in those terms. Lady Helena is extraordinarily beautiful. Her disposition is pleasing and her intelligence appears to be well above average. Add to that her wealth and breeding and you have what amounts to an ideal candidate for a wife. Any man would think himself lucky to have her.”

  A sudden flare of irritation turned Justin’s voice cold. “With so many superior qualities, I’m amazed you didn’t marry her yourself.”

  Finchley briefly removed his spectacles to massage the bridge of his nose. There was a slight bump in the ridge, evidence of an old break he’d suffered during their time in the orphanage. “Yes, well, given the circumstances, I’m not altogether sure I’d have suited the lady.”

  “Because she’s reckoned to be mad.”

  “No.” Finchley settled his spectacles back on his face. “Because Lady Helena didn’t require a solicitor. What she needed was a hero.”

  Justin drew back with a flinch. “Ballocks. I’m the farthest thing there is from a hero and well you know it.”

  “So you claim. But in times of trouble, when have you ever been anything less than heroic? And don’t dare say India. You’re forever raking yourself over the coals for what happened in Cawnpore. It’s become a little self-indulgent, to be honest.”

  Justin stiffened. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is. But I don’t care about that right now. All I care about—all I really want to know—is whether or not you married her.”

  “Of course I did.”

  Finchley exhaled. “Thank heaven. Where was it done, and how?”

  “Yesterday morning, at the registrar’s office in Abbot’s Holcombe. We returned to the Abbey in the early evening. Hargreaves arrived an hour later.”

  “Alone?”

  “No. He had a large man with him who threatened to tear apart my home and forcibly remove my new bride.”

  “That would be Mr. Glyde.” Finchley frowned. “I assume you didn’t allow him to take her.”

  Justin gave his friend a speaking glance.

  Finchley’s lips quirked. “Quite. As a matter of curiosity, how did you manage to put him off?”

  “It was in the midst of a thunderstorm. The cliff road was on the verge of washing out. In addition…” Justin tugged at his cravat. “I may have intimated that we’d already consummated the marriage.”

  Finchley lifted his brows. “Have you?”

  “It’s what I’ll swear to.”

  “The answer is no, then.”

  “Does it make any difference? Glyde and Hargreaves mentioned something about Helena lacking the ability to consent.” Justin paused. “My God, Tom.” He ran a hand through his hair in a burst of frustration. “Is this marriage even legal?”

  Finchley’s face grew serious. “It is, even without consummation. But there’s nothing to prevent them from arguing that it’s not. And winning that argument too.”

  “She’s frightened to death.”

  “And well she should be. That uncle of hers… He won’t scruple to have her put away.”

  “All because of the money her brother left her.”

  “That’s the crux of the matter,” Finchley said. “It’s no small sum, Justin.”

  “Why the hell does he need it? Didn’t he inherit all of the property? Helena mentioned estates and hunting lodges and the like.”

  “The income from the estate isn’t enough. Not for a man like Castleton. He has debts, apparently. He might manage well enough if he retired to the country, but he’s a man who likes to cut a figure in town. Lavish balls, fine bloodstock, a yacht on the Thames. His lifestyle is luxurious by any measure. And the expenses…well. Suffice to say that the earl has every reason to want his niece—and her money—back in his clutches. And given his status in society, there’s little anyone can do to stop him.”

  Justin stared into the fireplace for a long moment. He was close enough to feel some of the warmth from the burning coals. But he didn’t feel it. The prospect of losing Helena left him cold to the heart. “It’s a mystery to me why you ever involved yourself in this affair.”

  “I wouldn’t say I involved myself. I never sought Lady Helena out. She simply answered your advertisement.” Finchley hesitated. “Or, rather, her companion answered it.”

  “But you met her, didn’t you? You must have done. She speaks highly enough of you.”

  “Naturally I met her. You don’t think I’d send a lady all the way down to Devon to marry you sight unseen?”

  Justin was silent.

  “Well, I wouldn’t,” Finchley said. “Lady Helena came to my office some days later. She wasn’t exactly what you had in mind in terms of a wife, but she was exceptionally fine. And an earl’s daughter, too. You can’t do much better than that. Except for a duke’s daughter, or the daughter of a marquess, I suppose. But there’s not many of them who’d consent to marry a man like you, I’m afraid.”

  “Helena was desperate.”

  “True. She’s also kind and intelligent and—”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard your recitations,” Justin said with a scowl.

  “My point is, you would never have been content with an average woman. Some part of you has always believed you were entitled to something more. It’s what’s driven you for the whole of our lives.” He paused for a long moment. “Besides, I think it would do you enormous good to successfully rescue a female from harm.”

  Justin glared at him. He didn’t know whether to be outraged or amused. “If rehabilitating my self-image was your goal, you might have chosen a female I’m actually capable of saving.”

  Finchley shrugged. “There’s some minor difficulty, certainly, but nothing that can’t be resolved if we employ a little ingenuity.”

  “Some minor difficulty? Is that what you call it?”

  “Yes, well…” A fleeting expression of embarrassment passed over Finchley’s face. “The fact is…I didn’t fully comprehend the extent of the business until after Lady Helena had already departed for Devon.”

  “What?�
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  “I was working on a case. Quite fascinating, really. A dispute over a right of way which turned on a novel theory of law. When Lady Helena arrived to meet with me, I was in the process of finishing my brief. I may have been a bit…distracted.”

  “Too distracted to ask why an earl’s daughter was answering a matrimonial advertisement?”

  “Give me some credit,” Finchley said. “I did ask. And Lady Helena’s answers—and those of her companion—seemed more than sufficient.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “That Lady Helena’s uncle was a brute. That he’d been rough with her. Trying to force her to sign some document. I understood there to be a substantial sum of money involved.”

  Justin’s jaw tightened. “Her uncle and that attack dog of his have been more than rough with her, Tom. They’ve terrorized her.”

  “Yes. I know that now.” Finchley sounded suddenly tired. “But, unfortunately, those particular details weren’t made clear to me until…er…two days ago.”

  Justin looked at his friend, but it was Helena that occupied his thoughts. His mind was flooded with images of her bruised arms and throat. Of her face, white with fear, as she gazed up at him from the cliff’s ledge during the storm.

  I’d rather die here, she’d said.

  A lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew what it was to be afraid. When he’d been hung up in Nana Sahib’s dungeon. When he’d been burned with a glowing hot poker across his bare chest, neck, and jaw. He’d been afraid then. He’d felt powerless. Toward the end, he’d even prayed for death. But he was a man. And—self-indulgence be damned—he’d deserved it. While Helena…

  She didn’t deserve this. She hadn’t harmed anyone. She hadn’t committed any crime.

  “Is there any chance her brother is alive?” he asked.

  “You’d know better than me,” Finchley said. “How chaotic was it during the rebellion? Could a man who was still alive be reported dead?”