Page 8 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“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.