Page 94 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

Helena had almost said it to him. A stupid schoolgirl confession, which would have made them both dreadfully uncomfortable. Only the hansom cab’s timely arrival in Half Moon Street had stopped her.

She was glad she hadn’t told him. She’d much rather cling to the infinitely dear moment when he’d called her sweetheart, or the next when he’d promised once again to go to the ends of the earth for her. Either was preferable to seeing, again, the blank look he’d given her in the theatre box when she’d first mentioned love.

There would be time enough to sort out the complicated tangle of her emotions. For now, she needed to focus on the task at hand.

Mr. Pelham had said his editorial would be published in a week. He’d promised to send word before it went to print. It was little enough comfort. She still woke each morning with her nerves on edge, never knowing from one moment to the next if this would be the day her reputation would be ruined forever.

She expected the time spent waiting on the publication of the editorial to pass at an interminable rate. Instead, the next week flew by in a whirlwind of morning calls, afternoon drives in Hyde Park, and evening visits to theatres, operas, and musicales. With Justin ever at her side, Helena’s fears began to gradually abate. Even so, wherever they were, whether shopping for gloves in Bond Street or listening to a recital of Beethoven at the home of their neighbor, Lady Poole, Helena still looked diligently about her for any signs of her uncle or Mr. Glyde.

She never saw either of them.

However, news of her uncle was carried to her door with some regularity. Visitors to Half Moon Street delighted in discussing him over tea. His behavior in regard to the jewelry Helena had inherited from her mother was a particularly popular topic.

“An absolute villain,” Lady Leticia Staverley declared as she bit into one of the ginger biscuits Mrs. Jarrow had baked earlier that morning. “How dare he keep your jewels from you? Surely something can be done.”

Helena was seated across from Letty in the parlor. Jenny sat nearby, her attention appearing to be solely occupied with the bit of needlework on her lap.

“Why has Captain Thornhill not yet intervened?” Letty asked.

“We haven’t seen my uncle since our arrival in London,” Helena replied. As she sipped her tea, she wondered if she would ever be able to mention her uncle without the accompanying quiver of unease. The feeling was always more pronounced when Justin wasn’t nearby.

She wished he would join her when callers came to Half Moon Street, but he rarely did unless the caller was another gentleman. She supposed he didn’t deem the ladies to be a big enough threat to warrant his presence.

“You must confront him,” Letty said. “And I know just the place.” She pulled her little velvet-trimmed reticule onto her lap and began to rummage about in it. “My aunt Beatrice is having a ball on Friday at her house in Belgrave Square. Perhaps you’ve heard? Invitations went out long ago. It’s guaranteed to be a crush. She claims she can’t fit a single additional person inside her ballroom. But after a little wheedling…” Letty withdrew a thick, cream-tinted card from her reticule. “I managed to wrangle this out of her.”

Helena took the proffered card, quickly skimming over the engraved black script. “I’m obliged to you, Letty, but…” She scrambled for an excuse. “Friday? That’s only a few days from now. It leaves me no time to have a dress made.”

“Tosh.” Letty waved her hand. “You’ve lately married, and not very well, if you don’t mind my saying. No one will expect you to be in the first stare of fashion.”

Helena bristled. “Indeed, I do mind you saying so. I believe myself to have married very well.”

Letty only laughed. “How ardently you defend him. I knew it must be a love match. I’ve made a friendly wager with Lady Angeline Clement, you see. She said you’d married only because Captain Thornhill was a friend of Giles’s. As if any intelligent female would wed a stranger purely to honor the memory of her dead brother. The silly widgeon. I’ll call on her directly I leave here and collect my ten pounds.”

After Letty had gone, Jenny laid aside her sewing and rose to summon Mrs. Jarrow to clear away the tea things. “A silly widgeon,” she muttered after the housekeeper had exited the room with the tray. She sat down beside Helena on the sofa. “That’s the precise term I would use to describe Letty Staverley. And that’s only if I was being kind.”

“She doesn’t realize she’s being offensive.”

“Undoubtedly. The girl has about as much depth of character as a puddle.”

Helena handed Jenny the invitation. “Do you think Justin and I need attend?”

Jenny frowned. “I suppose people will want to see how you interact with your uncle.”

“Yes, but is it necessary? By Friday, the editorial will have been published. I know I’m meant to show myself afterward. To prove to the world that I’m not mad. But to attend a ball, where everyone in attendance has read about what’s been done to me…” Helena gave Jenny an anguished look. “Must I bear it?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Jenny said. “Mr. Finchley could better advise you. This is all part of his grand plan, isn’t it?” She set aside the invitation and, once more, rose to her feet. “I’ll invite him to dinner, if you like.” She went to the little walnut secretary in the corner and took out a sheet of paper. “Mr. Thornhill will welcome his presence, I daresay. He doesn’t enjoy having odd numbers.”

“He doesn’t mind it.”

“Nonsense. I’m a veritable thorn in his side. He’d much rather dine alone with you each evening.”

Helena wasn’t so certain. It seemed to her that their evening meals were largely informal affairs. They ate as a matter of course before departing for the opera or the theatre. That Jenny dined with them made little difference. It wasn’t as if she and Justin were sharing confidences at the table. Indeed, conversation was limited to the veriest commonplace.

Not that Justin had been behaving in a cool or indifferent manner toward her. Quite the reverse. He sometimes held her hand during performances. And, in the coach, on the journey home, he always offered her his shoulder.

It was during these short cab rides from the West End to Half Moon Street that the greater part of their intimacy took place. Though intimacy was a relative word. They weren’t sharing a bed, after all. And he hadn’t kissed her again, not since their time at the Stanhope Hotel. But his voice deepened when he spoke to her and his gray eyes regarded her with a possessive warmth that made her stomach quiver with the delicate flutter of butterfly wings.

They talked and laughed softly together. They shared humorous anecdotes about their childhoods, and not-so-humorous ones as well. She felt they were getting to know each other. To trust each other.