The Matrimonial Advertisement Page 3

  “I’ll contact Finchley and we’ll see about the other responses to the advertisement,” Boothroyd said. “There were several, if I remember. I shall tell him to forward them all to me. And this time, when you find a suitable female, we’ll ask her to send her likeness or—”

  “I have no wish to meet any other women,” Justin said. “I’ve already made my decision.”

  Boothroyd frowned. “If you’ll forgive me, sir. Miss Reynolds is not at all the sort of person with whom a man in your position should align himself.”

  “No?”

  “For one thing, she’s too young.”

  “As you keep saying. But a female of five and twenty is hardly a fledgling. Indeed, some might even accuse her of having reached an advanced stage of spinsterhood.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And her age should be of no surprise to you. She admitted it to Finchley. And to me as well in her first letter. I don’t remember your voicing an objection then.” Justin stopped pacing and turned to face his steward. His eyes narrowed. “What is it about her that truly troubles you, Boothroyd? That she’s a fine lady? That a man like me will be the one to despoil her?”

  Boothroyd’s spine stiffened. “You do me wrong, sir,” he said, very much on his dignity. “It’s my job to apprise you of unwise investments and, for a man in your position, marriage to a female of Miss Reynolds’s sort would be very unwise indeed. First she’ll want a wedding trip. Then a larger staff, new gowns, and a carriage and four. Expenses which you can scarcely afford. And what comes next with a pretty wife? Flirtations? Cuckoldom? Scandal?”

  “Good God,” Justin muttered.

  “If you’ll but take the night to think it over, I’m confident that tomorrow, when you consider the matter with your head instead of your—”

  “Instead of my what?” Justin prompted, making no effort to hide his irritation. “Not my heart, I gather. We both know I haven’t one of those.”

  Boothroyd’s ears turned a dull red. “You appreciate my meaning, sir.” He cleared his throat. “Which is to say that this is all perfectly understandable. You’re a man in your prime and a man does have his needs, I can attest. But such a bride—though she may temporarily quench a base urge of nature—will make your life a misery. I’ve seen it time and time again with attractive young wives. While a woman of maturity—a woman who is, perhaps, not quite as handsome—will be content with whatever you have to offer—”

  Justin silenced Boothroyd’s sputtering with an impatient wave of his hand. The insinuation that he was acting solely out of some primitive need to couple with an attractive woman struck a little too close to home. “I’m in no mood to argue with you. I’m resolved to marry Miss Reynolds and that’s an end to it.”

  “But you know nothing about her, sir!”

  “Funny, I seem to recall your telling me that that’s what Finchley was for. To investigate the potential candidates and—how did you phrase it?—to weed out the bad apples.”

  “Yes, but I had not expected—”

  “No doubt,” Justin said. “We must all adapt, Boothroyd.”

  Boothroyd’s shoulders sagged in apparent defeat.

  Justin wasn’t fooled for a minute. Boothroyd was adept at getting his own way. It was one of the reasons Justin employed him. “A beautiful wife need not be a liability, you know. Recall how well it served Simon Harding.”

  Harding had been a partner in one of Justin’s earliest, and more successful, business ventures in India. To this day, Justin credited Harding’s wife, Rebecca, with the bulk of their good fortune. The daughter of a captain in the Indian army, she’d known everyone worth knowing.

  “We wouldn’t have had any investors if Mrs. Harding hadn’t first made friends of their wives,” he said. “And if not for her dinner parties, I would never have met Oliver Smithson, let alone invested my earnings in his cotton mills—the profits of which bought the Abbey, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Yes, yes, exactly as you say. The right sort of wife is an asset, both in business and in the community. Which is precisely why Finchley and I urged you to marry. And if Miss Reynolds were of the same class as Mrs. Harding, I would have no difficulty—”

  “You know nothing about Miss Reynold’s class.”

  “With respect, sir,” Boothroyd countered, “neither do you.”

  Justin shrugged. “I trust Finchley.”

  “As do I, but—”

  “He’s assured us both of her character. According to him, she’s a respectable gentlewoman with no outstanding debts, nor any problematic entanglements. A gentlewoman who is alone and unable to support herself.”

  “Her manner and bearing mark her as a lady of some refinement.”

  Justin raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t see that it matters. She has no family, no connections. Regardless of who her people once were, she is now no different from any other impoverished female trying to make her way in the world.”

  “By marrying a well-to-do gentleman,” Boothroyd sniffed.

  “Is that what I am now? A well-to-do gentleman?” Justin’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “You rate me too highly. If Miss Reynolds truly wished to marry well, she could’ve done far better for herself than an ex-soldier of no birth and little fortune.”

  “That may be so, sir, but the fact remains that she’s chosen you.”

  “You can credit that miracle to Finchley. He’s filled her head with some nonsense about my being a kindly and honorable man.” Justin’s smile faded. “With any luck we’ll be married before she discovers otherwise.”

  Helena peered out the window as she nibbled on the remainder of one of the cakes that had been sent up with her tea. From her room, she could see down to the inn-yard below. It was relatively empty except for the accommodation coach she’d arrived in and an antiquated carriage to which an ostler was presently hitching a team of four. She watched awhile longer, fully expecting to see a regal red-and-black-lacquered coach pull into the yard.

  It did not come.

  Which meant absolutely nothing. No one but a fool would drive all the way here when he could take the train instead. But the train to where? To Barnstaple, she supposed, and then the rest of the way by accommodation coach, the same method by which she’d arrived in King’s Abbot. She wondered how many days she had. Three, perhaps. Or possibly even four if she was lucky.

  With a sigh, she retired from her post at the window and began to undress. She stripped off her traveling dress, stepped out of her petticoats and heavy crinoline, and rolled off each of her stockings. A maidservant had brought up a ewer of water for her to wash with and she didn’t know how soon she’d have the opportunity to bathe again.

  Clothed only in her chemise, drawers, and corset, she stood in front of the wooden washstand. A small mirror was tacked to the wall above. She looked at herself only briefly as she soaked her sponge. She knew what she would see. A woman who was travel worn, exhausted, and afraid. A woman with bruises circling her throat and her arms.

  The worst of them had faded to a yellowish purple. The newer bruises, however, the ones that graced her upper arms and wrists, still bloomed a deep black and blue. They were sensitive to the touch. Even the brush of fabric from the sleeves of her gown was enough to make her wince. And when a woman on the train platform in London had elbowed past her, the pain had been so acute, Helena had nearly fainted.

  What was needed was ice and lots of it. Failing that, cool water would have to do.

  She wrung out her sponge over her right arm and then her left, repeating the procedure until the cold water began to soothe the deep ache in her limbs. Her eyes fell closed and, for one tired moment, she bowed her head, letting her forehead come to rest lightly against the mirror. She took a long, shuddering breath.

  Justin Thornhill was not the man she’d been expecting.

  Though what she
had been expecting, she really couldn’t say. She’d hoped he would be kind, of course. And intelligent and honorable and capable of keeping her safe—as Mr. Finchley had promised. But her hopes, such that they were, had never coalesced into the form and figure of a man. She’d never pictured a height, a hair color, or the shape of a chin or a nose. She’d certainly never dared to imagine that her future husband would be handsome.

  And Mr. Thornhill was handsome.

  Though not in the urbane, sophisticated manner of her elder brother and his friends or any of the other gentlemen Helena had met and admired during the course of her five-and-twenty years. Instead, with his rumpled black hair, sun-bronzed skin, and altogether too penetrating gaze, Mr. Thornhill rather resembled a swashbuckling pirate or one of the roguish antiheroes in the penny novels she’d been so fond of reading as a girl.

  A woman could easily become infatuated with such a man.

  Especially as Mr. Thornhill was not merely handsome. He was tall and powerfully made. Indeed, Helena couldn’t remember having ever encountered a gentleman of such majestic proportions. He was all broad shoulders and lean, masculine strength. She felt small and fragile by comparison. If he were to hurt her—to throttle her or shake her violently by the arms—she didn’t think she could survive it. He was far too strong. He could snap her neck as easily as breathing.

  She swallowed back a rising swell of panic. It wouldn’t do to succumb to her fears. Not after having come so far and risked so much.

  Yet how could she help but be uneasy after the vulgar things he’d said to her?

  She was almost too mortified to recall them. What sort of man spoke of covering a lady in their marriage bed? Not a gentleman, surely. And then to accuse her of being with child! As if she were some sort of deceitful wanton. She whose entire knowledge of the marital act consisted of passages read in medical manuals and a few scraps of overheard masculine conversation.

  Righteous indignation rose in her breast. It was a wonderful tonic for the nerves.

  Lifting her head from the mirror, she refilled the basin and proceeded to wash her face and body as thoroughly as she could.

  Her journey, though not terribly long, had been dusty and dirty. She could still feel the grit in her hair from when the wind had kicked up as she stood on the train platform at Barnstaple. She wished there was time to wash it. Instead, she unpinned it, brushed it out, and twisted it into fresh plaits that she secured at the base of her neck in a large chignon. She was fixing the last hairpin when someone scratched softly at the door.

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” a maidservant’s voice rang out. “The gentleman says to tell you they’ll be leaving in half an hour.”

  Helena’s pulse quickened. Mr. Thornhill and Mr. Boothroyd were taking her to see the Abbey. They had even engaged a serving girl to act as her maid during the journey. It was all perfectly proper and aboveboard—facts which did absolutely nothing to calm her quaking heart. “I’ll be down directly!”

  “Very good, ma’am. Shall I leave your boots at the door?”

  “Yes, thank you.” At least she’d have clean shoes, Helena thought as she began to dress. Earlier, she’d performed a quick spot clean on her traveling gown, but it still looked as if she’d been wearing it for two days straight. It needed to be properly sponged and pressed. But she couldn’t worry about any of that now.

  She fastened the final button at the neck of her gown and gave her voluminous skirts one last shake so that they fell gracefully over her crinoline. Her bonnet, gloves, and carpetbag were on the bed. As she moved to retrieve them, her eyes fell on the tea tray. There were three cakes remaining. She swiftly collected them and, after wrapping them in a clean handkerchief, thrust them into her carpetbag with the rest of her worldly belongings.

  If things didn’t work out with Justin Thornhill, she would need food for the final leg of her journey.

  Wherever that journey might take her.

  The antiquated coach gave a shuddering jolt as it ascended the cliff road. Bess, the young maidservant in the seat across from Helena, moaned low in her throat. Helena eyed her with concern. The girl’s face had gone from stark white to pea green in an astonishingly short span of time. “We’re quite safe, Bess,” she said again. “Truly.”

  Her words were instantly contradicted by an ominous rattle. It shook the carriage, causing them both to sway in their seats.

  She cast a quick glance out of the window. The carriage wheels were rolling along at the very edge of the cliff road. She could see stones crumbling and falling down to the foaming surf below. Beginning to feel a bit white about the mouth herself, she leaned back in her seat and offered Bess a bracing smile. “If you’re afraid, only imagine how poor Mr. Boothroyd feels riding up top with the coachman.”

  “Lord bless him, miss.” Bess pressed a hand to her mouth. Helena couldn’t tell if she was stifling a giggle or about to be sick. “If one of the horses loses its footing, he’ll be flung off into the sea.”

  “What a shame that would be,” Helena said dryly. A gurgle of laughter escaped from behind Bess’s hand.

  Mr. Boothroyd had done nothing to endear himself to either of them. From the moment Helena had come down the stairs at the inn, he’d been impatient, irritable, and—when compensating Bess for her time—he’d revealed himself to be surprisingly cheap.

  Helena wasn’t sure what she’d done to offend him. She knew she wasn’t what he’d expected, but she was beginning to think Mr. Boothroyd was somehow opposed to her marrying Mr. Thornhill. Even worse, she suspected that Mr. Thornhill was not entirely agreeable himself.

  And yet, despite his vulgar words and his gruff manner, Justin Thornhill had behaved with the utmost propriety since they left the inn. He’d even taken steps to safeguard her reputation during their visit to the Abbey. Not only had he arranged for Bess to accompany her, but neither he nor Mr. Boothroyd had ridden with them inside the carriage.

  “Reckon Mr. Thornhill’s safer than all of us on that horse of his,” Bess said.

  “Undoubtedly.” Helena looked out the window once more. There was no sign of Mr. Thornhill. He was likely far ahead of them by now, a single horse and rider being much better suited to the treacherous road than a carriage.

  Greyfriar’s Abbey was a good three miles from the King’s Arms and, as Mr. Thornhill had explained when handing her up into the carriage, the cliff road was the only point of access. It ascended along a track just wide enough for a coach and four, curving as it went beneath the branches of trees that seemed to grow at all angles from the cliff face.

  It took nearly half an hour to reach even ground. When they did, the horses picked up the pace, the poorly sprung carriage bouncing along behind them. It veered to the left through a sparse woodland and finally slowed to a rattling halt.

  Peering out the window, Helena saw that they had come to rest on a small plateau. The sky was thick and gray above, the rocky landscape equally as gray below. In the distance, with only a crumbling stone wall protecting it from the cliffside and the sheer drop down to the open sea, stood Greyfriar’s Abbey.

  Mr. Thornhill had described it in one of his letters as being a Gothic nightmare of a house and he hadn’t exaggerated. It had been built on the remains of a twelfth century monastery, some of which was still standing. There was a tower and a stone stable block which, despite their age, seemed to have needed only minor repairs. The rest of the structure, with its steeply pitched roof and high, pointed arches, appeared to be of a much later date. Helena saw evidence of recent construction, as well as piles of new stone and tools at the ready. She wondered how much of the Abbey’s restoration Mr. Thornhill had undertaken himself.

  “Have you been here before, Bess?” she asked.

  Bess’s eyes were very wide. “Oh no, miss,” she said in an awed whisper. “No one comes up here.”

  Before Helena could question Bess further, Mr. Thornhill
opened the carriage door. The roar of the sea fairly vibrated in the air around him, and she could hear the mournful cry of seagulls circling above. She lifted her heavy skirts in one hand as he assisted her down the carriage steps. The wind was so strong it nearly swept her off of her feet.

  He tightened his grip on her hand to steady her. “Careful.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped to the ground. “I’m all right now.”

  He nodded and turned to help Bess down.

  Helena didn’t know many gentlemen who would have troubled themselves with assisting a servant. That Mr. Thornhill did so now struck her as being further evidence of his exemplary character. Mr. Finchley had said he was a good man—a kind man. And, despite Mr. Thornhill’s gruff exterior, she was beginning to believe it.

  She moved back from the carriage, looking all around her. The wind whipped at her bonnet and the skirts of her gown. The cold air stung her face. She was a trifle breathless. Even more so when she felt a large, powerful hand rest briefly on the small of her back. She looked up with a start into Justin Thornhill’s smoke-gray eyes.

  “You were swaying like a reed in a storm,” he said.

  “Was I?”

  “Take care the wind doesn’t carry you away over the cliff.”

  An icy shiver of fear raced down her spine. The prospect of flinging herself from the cliffs had been at the back of her mind since she boarded the train in London. She didn’t know if she would ever have been brave enough—or foolish enough—to do something so rash, but the thought of it had given her comfort in her darkest moments. Now, so close to the jagged cliffs and the raging sea beneath, she couldn’t help feeling sick at what she had contemplated.