Page 42 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Justin’s blood ran cold. “I don’t believe it.”

Hargreaves turned to Mr. Glyde. “Show him the documents, sir,” he said with some impatience.

Mr. Glyde reached into the interior of his overcoat and withdrew a packet of papers. He thrust it at Justin. “There’s your proof.”

Justin took the packet without a word. The topmost paper within was thin and yellowed with age. When he unfolded it, he saw what appeared to be a woman’s death certificate, the names and dates written in a spidery script.

“Honoria Reynolds, the late Countess of Castleton.” Mr. Glyde came close enough to jab his thick finger at the faded name on the death certificate. “Died in an asylum in 1844.”

Justin raised his gaze to Mr. Glyde’s face, looking first at him and then at Hargreaves. “What the devil does this prove?”

Mr. Glyde snorted. “It’s her mother, isn’t it? Madness is in the blood. His lordship’s doctors will attest. Here, you see. A report written by Dr. Philemon Collins, the earl’s personal physician. And another by Sir Luther Fortescue, from St. Andrews University.”

Justin skimmed the doctors’ reports. They’d both been written in the past year. And they were both oddly alike, using eerily similar turns of phrase to describe Helena’s condition. Words like hysteria and melancholia leapt out from the pages. One notation mentioned prolonged delusion. Another made reference to hydrotherapy and electrotherapy.

“First treatment a success,” Dr. Collins had written. “Patient greatly subdued.”

Justin’s jaw clenched as shock swiftly gave way to rage.

“A bad business, as I said.” Hargreaves struck a conciliatory note. “But we need take no more of your time with it, Thornhill. Simply fetch Lady Helena and we’ll be on our way.”

Boothroyd opened his mouth to speak, but Justin shot him a quelling glance. He could deal with this himself. And he would deal with it, for at last he understood the precise reason Helena had married him. “She is my wife,” he said.

Mr. Glyde snatched back his papers and returned them to the pocket inside his coat. “Lord Castleton will naturally have the marriage annulled. He’s even arranged a modest compensation for you. For your troubles, as it were.”

“Compensation,” Justin repeated. The word stuck in his throat.

“Small, but generous,” Mr. Glyde said. “You won’t find his lordship tightfisted. In exchange for your silence and cooperation, he’s prepared to advance you a sum of five hundred pounds, another five hundred to be paid upon the dissolution of the marriage.”

“Generous indeed,” Hargreaves remarked. “One thousand pounds would go a long way toward renovating the Abbey, aye, Thornhill?”

Mr. Glyde gave Justin a complacent smile. “His lordship has as much interest in keeping this scandal quiet as you do, sir. He has no wish to see his family name splashed across the broadsheets.”

“Is an annulment possible?” Boothroyd asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Hargreaves said. “We’ve managed to intervene before the wedding night. And with the marriage left unconsummated—”

Justin cleared his throat. “As to that…”

Three sets of eyes flashed to his, staring at him with varying degrees of alarm.

“There will be no annulment,” he said.

Hargreaves gaped. “Do you mean to say…?”

“Quite,” Justin replied.

“It’s a lie!” Mr. Glyde burst out. “You’ve had no opportunity—”

“I’ll not discuss my marriage with either of you,” Justin said. “Except to say that, if you doubt its validity, you may inquire at the registrar’s office in Abbot’s Holcombe.” He paused for effect. “If that isn’t sufficient, I direct you to The Stanhope Hotel, where my wife and I had the pleasure of sharing a room together after our wedding ceremony.”

“A hotel room?” Mr. Glyde was aghast. “In broad daylight?”

Hargreaves motioned for him to be silent. “See here, Thornhill. This changes the complexion of things. If the marriage has already been consummated, extricating you from this predicament won’t be as—”

“I have no wish to be extricated.” Justin glanced at Mr. Glyde. “You may tell the Earl of Castleton that Lady Helena is mine now. And I keep what’s mine.”

Mr. Glyde reddened with outrage. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are, sir?”