Page 112 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“Well,” Jenny murmured finally. “That was…chilling.”

“It was powerful,” Mr. Finchley said. “And very persuasive.” He folded the newspaper and set it aside. “But you’re right, Miss Holloway. It’s going to send a chill of fear through anyone with greedy relatives.”

Helena unclenched her fingers, flattening her hands onto her lap. Her palms were damp against the white cambric skirts of her morning dress.

“This is all precisely according to plan,” Justin assured her. “Nothing at all for you to worry about.”

She gave him a bleak look. What could she say? No gentleman could ever understand.

Jenny set her napkin beside her plate. “Is it your reputation that’s concerning you? Are you thinking it’s beyond repair?”

Helena’s gaze found Jenny’s. “I know it’s stupid.”

“Concerns about one’s reputation are never stupid.”

Mr. Finchley regarded Helena with concern. “If there had been any other course of action…”

“There wasn’t,” Justin said.

Helena knew Justin was right. There had been only one course available. “Yes, well…it’s too late for second thoughts, in any case. Everyone will have read it by now.”

“Don’t be silly,” Jenny said. “Half the ladies we know are still abed.”

“They’ll be awake soon enough. By luncheon, all of London will be buzzing about me.”

Jenny reached out to cover Helena’s hand with hers. “Please don’t refine on it, my dear. You know it was the only way. And so what if society shuns you? You never cared for their good opinion.”

“No,” Helena admitted. “But it’s easy not to care when one is in a position of strength.”

“You’re still in a position of strength,” Mr. Finchley said. “You’ve told the truth. What can be stronger than that?”

Since coming to reside in Half Moon Street, Helena had become accustomed to receiving callers between the hours of one and three o’clock in the afternoon. But on the day the editorial was published, nobody came. She sat in the parlor and waited as the little mantel clock delicately chimed one hour and then the next.

“Not even the shamelessly curious have dared show their faces,” she said tightly. “Do they suspect my uncle was right? That I might truly be mad?”

“They’re cowards,” Justin growled. He paced the room, too restless to sit with Helena and Jenny. “They won’t make a move until they see which way the wind is blowing.”

“Mr. Thornhill’s quite right,” Jenny agreed. “They’ll wait for someone suitably influential to visit and then they’ll follow after like lemmings.”

Helena acknowledged the truth of this. It was the way of polite society. There weren’t many who’d risk putting a foot wrong. They required a leader. Someone to set the fashion.

At a quarter to three, that someone arrived.

“The Earl of Wolverton,” Mrs. Jarrow announced.

Helena scrambled to her feet as Lord Wolverton entered the parlor. His face was set in stern lines, his keen eyes blazing. She crossed the room to greet him. “My lord.” She extended her hand.

He took it in his. “What’s the meaning of these allegations in the morning paper?” he demanded. His gaze flashed briefly to Justin’s face, his brows lowering in disapproval at the sight of all the cuts and bruises. “And what’s happened to you, Thornhill?”

Justin came to stand beside her. His posture was unwelcoming. “A minor altercation,” he said. “Nothing to speak of.”

“Please come and sit down.” Helena ushered Lord Wolverton into the parlor. He waited for her to resume her seat before lowering himself into a chair.

At his arrival, Jenny had withdrawn to a button-back chair near the fire with her needlework. She never participated in entertaining guests, preferring to take on the role of humble—and silent—companion.

Justin was equally silent, but he didn’t withdraw. He sank down in the chair opposite Lord Wolverton.

His lordship didn’t mince words. “Your father would be appalled, madam.”