Page 85 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“That’s your plan?” Helena stared at Mr. Finchley, incredulous. “To keep my uncle tied up with legal documents until the newspaper article goes to print?”

She was seated next to Jenny on an overstuffed chintz sofa in the parlor. Mr. Finchley was in a chair across from them, the pomade in his dark brown hair gleaming in the light of the gas lamps. Only Justin remained standing. He leaned against the carved mantelshelf, idly turning a little lacquered box in his hand. Helena had no doubt but that he was listening to the proceedings with rapt attention.

“It’s not foolproof,” Mr. Finchley said. “Indeed, it’s rather flimsy on its face. Nothing has yet been submitted to the courts. At this stage it’s little more than a furious exchange of letters between Castleton’s attorneys and myself. The point is, they understand there’s a strong legal basis for our claim.”

Helena was at a loss. “What claim? I thought we weren’t going to engage my uncle in the courts.”

“We aren’t. But his attorneys don’t know that. As far as they’re concerned, the battle has been engaged.”

She gave him a bewildered look.

Mr. Finchley leaned forward in his chair. “Think of it like this. You are, essentially, a piece of property, the ownership of which is in dispute.”

A spark of indignation stiffened her spine. “I don’t care to think of myself as a piece of property, sir.”

“It’s not a personal aspersion, my lady. It’s a legal reality. In the eyes of courts, you’re the property of your husband. Your uncle’s only hope of gaining control of you—and thereby your fortune—is to first prove that your marriage to Thornhill is invalid. His attorneys strike me as competent fellows. They’ll have advised him to steer clear of you until the courts have had their say in the matter.”

“In other words,” Justin said, “your uncle shouldn’t be coming to our door with the magistrate anytime soon.”

“Or so we hope.” Mr. Finchley briefly removed his spectacles. “Unfortunately, it won’t stop him from sending one of his henchmen to abduct you and spirit you away to a private asylum somewhere.”

Justin returned the lacquered box to the mantelshelf. “Which is why you’re not, on any account, to leave this house unaccompanied.”

Helena compressed her lips. His property, indeed. But she wouldn’t dispute the sense of his edict. “You needn’t worry about that. I have no desire to go anywhere without you.”

Mr. Finchley’s legal stratagem didn’t make her feel very much safer. She still spent the evening pacing and peering out the window of her bedroom. Only by repeatedly reminding herself of Justin’s presence in the adjoining room and of Jenny’s presence down the hall could she finally get to sleep.

The next morning, Mr. Finchley returned to the house in Half Moon Street. He wasn’t alone. With him was a handsome dark-haired gentleman possessed of the bluest eyes Helena had ever seen.

“Lady Helena,” Mr. Finchley said. “May I present Mr. Charles Pelham?”

Helena shook Mr. Pelham’s hand. He was of a height with Justin, with a serious face and a gaze so penetrating it felt as if he were attempting to plumb the depths of her soul.

And perhaps he was.

“Shall we all repair to the parlor?” Jenny asked. “Unless you’d prefer to speak to Mr. Pelham alone.”

The notion of sharing the details of her ordeal in front of a room full of people made Helena slightly nauseated. But these weren’t strangers. They were her friends. People who cared for her.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said.

Justin’s hand found the small of her back as they all made their way upstairs. She hadn’t had a moment alone with him since they disembarked from the train. She missed him. Which was stupid, really. He hadn’t gone anywhere. At any given moment, he was no more than a room away. And yet…

Somehow, in a very short span of time, his presence had become essential to her happiness. To her sense of safety and well-being. She needed to be with him. To hear his voice and feel the touch of his hand holding hers.

Would he think less of her when he learned the full extent of the indignities to which she’d been subjected? Would he feel that it tainted her, somehow?

It was how she felt herself. As if she’d been stained with a foul substance that couldn’t be washed away.

Justin’s hand fell from her back when they entered the parlor. He stood nearby as she situated herself on the sofa, but he didn’t sit beside her. He would have had to displace Jenny. Instead, he strolled to the coal fireplace at the opposite side of the room and leaned against the carved mantelshelf as he had the previous evening.

Mrs. Jarrow brought them tea and Jenny poured. Helena’s hands were trembling too badly to hold the teapot.

Mr. Pelham took no more than a sip before he returned his teacup to the tray and withdrew a small notebook and pencil from an inner pocket of his coat. He looked at her steadily. “I can ask you questions, if you prefer, but it might be easier for you if you simply started your tale at the beginning.”

Helena moistened her lips. “Very well.”

The gilt-trimmed clock on the mantelshelf chimed eleven o’clock.