And Then She Fell

chapter Two



“Do you have any idea what the hell you’ve done?”

Henrietta started, then glanced over her shoulder—into soulful brown eyes that were, at that moment, not at all soulful. Indeed, the look on James Glossup’s face suggested he was contemplating murder.

Lips thin, his expression stony, he went on, “I’m sure it will come as no shock to you that Melinda Wentworth just handed me my congé, essentially refusing my offer before I’d even made it. After seeing you leaving Lady Montague’s last night in the Wentworths’ train, Melinda’s new attitude came as no great surprise—but that leads me to ask, again, if you have any notion—any concept—of just what, in this case, your meddling has achieved?”

His tone, condemnatory as well as accusatory, pricked Henrietta. She swung to face him. Her mother had insisted that together with herself and Mary, Henrietta had to attend Lady Campbell’s soiree, but there was little to interest her in her ladyship’s drawing room; most of those attending were of the younger set, young ladies only just out and young gentlemen only just come up to town, along with their mothers. But Lady Campbell was a close friend of her mother’s, so, after dutifully circling the room once, Henrietta had taken refuge in an alcove partly screened by a large potted palm, which was where James had found her.

Cornered her; she couldn’t get out unless he stepped back.

Not that that bothered her, but her pulse had sped up—she wasn’t sure why.

“All I did was tell Melinda the truth—that you need to marry to release part of your inheritance.” She narrowed her eyes in warning; she was not going to be held responsible for his shortcomings. “You hadn’t thought to inform her of that. Melinda has her heart set on a love-match, but although she asked, I specifically refused to comment on that aspect. I left that to her own judgment, and if you failed to convince her of the emotional foundation of your suit, I do not believe you can lay the blame for that at my door.”

He narrowed his eyes; normally so soft a chocolate brown that drowning in all that lusciousness wasn’t a silly thought, they currently resembled chips of adamantine agate. “As I thought—you have no notion of the havoc you’ve caused, not just for me, but for so many others.”

She blinked, frowned. “What do you mean?”

He seemed not to hear her; his eyes continued boring into hers, his face a mask of reined anger and frustration. “Simon had mentioned your interfering interest, of how you dabble and meddle in other people’s lives to keep yourself amused.”

His tone sent her temper soaring. “You aren’t in love with Melinda!”

“No, I’m not—but did I ever claim I was?”

He’d lowered his head so they were speaking face-to-face with only inches between them, his diction so clipped he all but flung his words at her as if they were darts, or possibly javelins.

She searched his eyes, the hard, austere planes of his face. His emotions were close beneath that rigid surface; anger and frustration reached her clearly, but so, too, did an underlying current of concern, of anxiety, worry, and trepidation. And underneath all lay a lick of fear, but it wasn’t fear for himself; there was a distracted quality to it that she recognized—his was fear for someone or something he viewed as in his care. Abruptly, she felt out of her depth. “What—”

“Did it never occur to you that some gentlemen might, just might, be subject to other pressures—reasons that have nothing to do with love—that might dictate that they have to marry? How the devil do you expect such gentlemen to proceed, matrimonially speaking, if they have to contend with the likes of you, meddling where you have no right to interfere?” He dragged in a breath, then even more forcefully, albeit quietly, ground out, “If you learn nothing else from the mess you’ve just created, if I can convince you to stop intruding in matters you neither understand nor that are any true concern of yours, at least I will have accomplished something.”

The look he cast her held an element of disgust, along with a degree of disappointment; he started to step back, to leave.

She caught his lapel. Curled her fingers and clamped them.

He froze, glanced down at her fingers locked in his coat, then slowly raised his gaze to hers and arched a supercilious brow.

She didn’t let go but belligerently met his gaze, returning his anger and frustration in full measure. “What,” she enunciated, the word as bitten off as his had been, “are you talking about?” She wasn’t about to let him cast such nebulous yet hurtful aspersions and then just walk away.

He held her gaze for a long moment, then glanced down at her hand. His anger had abated not one jot, yet with outward, almost languid calm, he said, “Given you’ve chosen to interest yourself in my matrimonial situation, perhaps you deserve to learn the full story.” Raising his gaze, he met her eyes. “And the full scope of the problems your ill-advised interference has caused.”

A burst of laughter from the other side of the palm had them both glancing that way; a group of young people were gathering beyond the palm, eagerly swapping secrets.

“But not here.” James looked back at her.

Releasing him, she boldly met his eyes. “Where?”

He shifted, glanced around the room, then tipped his head to the right. “This way.”

He led her out of the drawing room, through a side hall and down a corridor. She followed, walking quickly, keeping pace just behind his right shoulder.

Somewhat to her surprise, the necklace—the amethyst beads and especially the rose quartz pendant hanging just above her décolletage—felt oddly warm. Mary, of course, had checked to make sure she was wearing it, and Henrietta suspected her little sister had been whispering in Hannah’s ear; her maid had gone searching through all her gowns to find the creation she was presently wearing—a well-fitted gown in the palest pearlescent pink silk with a sweetheart neckline—purely to properly frame the blasted necklace. The flaring skirts of the gown swished about her legs as she followed James down the corridor and into another.

Finally pausing by a door, James held a finger to his lips, then turned the knob and quietly opened the door. The room beyond was his lordship’s study. A lamp on the table had been left burning, but turned low. They both looked in, searching, but the room was empty.

James waved Henrietta in, then followed and shut the door.

He wasn’t surprised when she went straight to the chair behind the desk and sat. It was an admiral’s chair, and she swiveled to face him as he walked to the fireplace to the left of the desk and fell to restlessly pacing. In his present mood, sitting held little appeal; he wanted to rant and berate, but beneath the roiling surface of his anger ran a disturbingly swelling well of helplessness. What the devil was he going to do?

And why was he wasting more of his steadily shrinking time explaining anything to Henrietta Cynster? To Simon’s younger sister?

He honestly wasn’t sure, but something about her interference had pricked him on the raw. On some level he saw her actions as a breach of trust—more, as a disloyal act. He’d expected better from his best friend’s sister. He might not know her well, but surely she knew what sort of man he was, namely one who followed the same creed as her brother. He was irritated and disturbed that her actions could only mean that she viewed him in a dishonorable light. That she thought he would have lied to Melinda, or at least tried to pull the wool over her eyes, that he wouldn’t have made his situation clear. Instead, Melinda had dismissed him before he’d had a chance to explain said situation.

“So.” Henrietta fixed her blue-gray eyes on his face. “What in all this don’t I understand? What is your ‘full story’?”

He met her gaze for an instant, then, still pacing, replied, “My grandaunt, as you clearly know, died not quite a year ago—on the first of June last year, to be precise. I was her favorite of all the family and she wanted to ensure that I married. That had always been a goal of hers, one she pursued as well as she could over the last decade and more. However, she then learned she was dying, and so in her will, she left me her estate—a country house and surrounding grounds and various farms in Wiltshire, and a large house in town, all staffed and in good order. She also left me the income for upkeep of same—but for a year only. Beyond that, in order to access the continuing income needed to keep the houses and farms and all the rest operational”—he halted and met Henrietta’s eyes—“my dear grandaunt stipulated that I have to marry within the year following her death, which means before the first of June this year.”

Henrietta blinked, then her eyes searched his face. “What happens if you don’t?”

“The estate, houses, farms, and all, remain mine—my responsibility—but there is no way in all the heavens that I could possibly fund them from my own pocket, without access to the income. A fact my grandaunt well knew.”

“So what would happen?”

“What would happen is that I would have to let all the staff go—close up the houses, perhaps keep caretakers, no more, and as for the farms, I have no idea what I might be able to keep functioning, but it won’t be much. Oh, and in case you imagine I might sell any part of the estate to keep the rest going, my grandaunt made sure I can’t.”

“Ah.” She paused, apparently working through the reasoning, then said, “So in order to continue to support all the people dependent on your grandaunt’s estate—your estate now—you have to marry by June the first?”

He didn’t bother answering, just curtly nodded.

Still considering him, she frowned slightly. “You’ve left it a trifle late, haven’t you?”

The look he bent on her held no patience at all. “In leaving me a year to find a suitable bride and tie the knot, what my grandaunt didn’t allow for was, first, the change in social mores that has occurred since she was a young lady—in her day, all marriages within the ton were arranged on the basis of material concerns, and love never entered into the equation. So she imagined me finding a suitable bride was simply a matter of me looking and offering, and not very much more. She also failed to allow for the period of mourning my father and grandfather felt the family should observe, or for the months it took to sort out the current state of affairs with respect to the estate. Although it’s in Wiltshire, not that far from Glossup Hall, and I’ve visited there many times over the years, I had no notion she intended to leave the whole to me, and so I haven’t in any way been trained as to how the estate functions . . .”

Unable to stand still any longer, unable for some reason to continue to conceal his agitation, he ran a hand through his hair and fell to pacing once more. “Do you have any idea what a mess this now is?” He flung out a hand. “I spent a month looking into all the likely candidates, and Melinda Wentworth stood out as the best—the most likely to accept an offer that wasn’t couched in love. She wasn’t, as far as I could see, enamored of anyone else. She’s twenty-six, and must be fearful of being left on the shelf. And she’s sensible, too—a female I could imagine having by my side, working alongside me in managing the estate. I spent the last month and more courting her.”

He swung back and trapped Henrietta’s gaze. “But now that’s all gone—useless wasted effort, wiped away.” He gestured broadly, sweeping a slate clean. “Which leaves me with a bare four weeks in which to find and woo a suitable young lady as my oh-so-necessary bride.”

Halting before Henrietta, he looked down at her. “And the blame for such a fraught situation, one that could dramatically and adversely affect the livelihoods of so many innocent people, lies equally as much at your door as it does at mine.”

A chill washed through Henrietta. Eyes locked with his, burning with anger, shot with concern, all she could think of to say was, “Oh.”

The control he’d maintained shattered. Incredulous, he stared at her. “Oh? Is that all you can manage? Oh?”

Swinging violently around, he paced away from her, then paused, whirled, and came charging back. “But no—it’s worse.” He looked truly appalled as he halted before her, staring down at her. “I just realized—everyone in the ton, certainly all those with marriageable young ladies under their wing, will now know that on the issue of Melinda Wentworth’s hand, you’ve passed judgment on me and found me wanting. Found me not worthy.” Sinking both hands into his hair, he ran his fingers back through the dark locks, clutching with both hands as he turned away. “Aargh! What the devil am I to do? How in all Hades am I to find my necessary bride now?”

Silence greeted his questions. He started pacing away from her.

“I’ll help you.”

She hadn’t even known she was going to say the words; they formed and fell from her lips without conscious direction.

Purely in response to what she’d heard, what she could see—what, inside, she knew.

His back to her, he halted. Several more heartbeats of silence ensued, then he slowly turned his head and, frowning slightly, looked at her. “What did you say?”

She moistened her lips, and stated more definitely, “I said I’ll help you.”

He slowly turned to face her fully. His frown deepened. “In case you didn’t know, you’re known as The Matchbreaker. You break up matches of which you disapprove, just as you did with me and Melinda.”

“No.” She drew breath and evenly said, “I only tell young ladies who’ve asked me to learn the truth about their prospective fiancés what I find. For your information, I confirm as many matches as I disrupt, and contrary to the generally held belief, not all those matches I confirm are love-matches.” She held his gaze levelly. “Not all young ladies wish to marry for love. These days most do, but not all.”

She hesitated, studying his eyes, his face; neither gave all that much away, but she thought she detected a glimmer of hope, which was encouragement enough for her to say, “I didn’t know your situation, but now I do . . . I can help. I can tell you which young ladies might suit, and if the ton’s ladies see me assisting you, they’ll know that the reason Melinda drew back was not in any way a reflection of any substance on you, but rather lay in her expectations, her wants and wishes. In other words, that she and you didn’t suit in that regard, but my . . . championing of you will lay all other adverse speculation to rest.”

Pausing, she tipped her head, regarding him steadily as she considered. “I admit it’ll be a challenge—finding you a suitable bride in barely four weeks—but if I work with you, we might just manage it.”

It was his turn to tip his head as he regarded her, in his case through slightly narrowed eyes. “You’d do that?”

Righting her head, she nodded decisively. “Yes, I would. I’m not apologizing for disrupting your pursuit of Melinda, because such a match wouldn’t have worked, but given your situation and, as you correctly point out, the implications of my involvement over Melinda, and you’ve always been a good friend to Simon, too, then given all those circumstances, helping you to find your necessary bride seems the least I should do.”

He stared at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d said, and didn’t know how to reply. Eventually, he ventured, “So The Matchbreaker will turn matchmaker?”

She tipped up her chin. “I only disrupt matches that won’t work, but, assuming you can leave that aspect aside, if we work together, we might just have a chance to meet your deadline.”

He studied her for a moment more, then he slowly nodded. “All right. So . . . where do we start?”

They arranged to meet in Hyde Park the next morning.

Handsomely garbed in a walking dress of sky-blue twill, Henrietta was waiting some yards inside the Grosvenor Gate, not far from her parents’ house in Upper Brook Street, when James came striding along Park Lane and turned in through the pillared gateposts.

At the sight of him, her heart tightened and an inexplicable band constricted about her chest, restraining her breathing. The effect was so marked, and with no one else about she couldn’t pretend it wasn’t occasioned by him. Which was nonsensical.

Admittedly, he was dressed in his usual impeccable fashion and was therefore the epitome of an elegant ton gentleman; his coat of Bath superfine was exquisitely cut, his waistcoat of blue and muted silver stripes a study in understated elegance, and his superbly tied cravat would doubtless engender envy in all the younger blades. Nevertheless . . . faintly irritated by such missish susceptibility—she was twenty-nine, for heaven’s sake, too old to be affected by the sight of any man—she bundled the sensations aside, and when that didn’t work, banished all awareness of them from her mind.

Spotting her, he strolled across, his stride all long-limbed predatory grace; joining her, he smiled and inclined his head in response to her polite nod. “Good morning.”

“Indeed. I thought we could sit on that bench over there.” Keeping a firm grip on her wayward senses, with her parasol she indicated a park bench, presently unoccupied. “We’ll be far enough from the fashionable areas to ensure we won’t be interrupted.” Starting for the bench, she continued, “I need to get a better idea of the sort of young lady you’re looking for, and then we need to devise our campaign to locate her.”

Large, lean, and powerful, he strolled beside her. “I can see the sense in the latter, but as to the former, I suspect beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Nonsense!” Reaching the bench, with a swish of her skirts she sat, and frowned up at him. “You’re a Glossup—you can’t marry just anyone.”

The expression in his eyes suggested he wasn’t so sure about that. “I’m desperate, remember?” He sat beside her and looked out over the manicured lawns.

“Desperate time-wise, perhaps, but not, I fancy, desperate choice-wise.”

“I bow to your greater knowledge of my options. So”—he glanced at her—“where do we start?”

Henrietta paused to consider. She’d spent half the night wondering why she’d offered to help him—why she’d felt such a compulsion to do so. Yes, she’d felt obligated, given that the difficulty he now faced was a situation her actions, albeit wholly justified, had inadvertently contributed to. Yes, he was Simon’s best friend, and she felt another form of obligation on that score, but she’d finally decided that the greater part of what had moved her had been simple guilt. She’d misjudged him, in her mind even more than via her actions; she’d failed to recognize, let alone credit him with, any sort of honor, yet as a Cynster she knew honor was a sterling quality that not only men valued—ladies, if they had any sense, valued it, too.

And it was very easy to see that the greater part of what was driving him—the primary source of his desperation—was his unquestioning devotion to the welfare of people whose well-being was an obligation he’d unexpectedly inherited. He didn’t have to take up that burden, yet he had, and from all she could see, it hadn’t even occurred to him to shrug it aside, even though, in reality, he could. His grandaunt’s estate aside, he was wealthy enough in his own right to walk away, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought of it. It was difficult to get much more honorable than that.

Although she wasn’t, even now, totally certain as to the entirety of her motives, guilt had, at the very least, weighed heavily in the scale.

Settling more comfortably on the bench, she commanded, “Tell me what traits you don’t want, or alternatively that you specifically require, in your bride.”

His gaze on the trees and lawns before them, he took a moment to think, then replied, “No flibbertigibbets, no ninnyhammers. And preferably not anyone too young. Whether she has a dowry or not is of no consequence, but as you observed, she should be of good family, preferably of the haut ton. If she can ride, that’s a bonus, but social aptitude is, I suspect, a must.” He paused, then asked, “What else?”

Henrietta’s lips quirked. “You forgot the bit about her being at the very least passably pretty, if not a diamond of the first water.”

“Ah—but you already knew that.” From under heavy lids, he slanted her a glance. “You know me so well.”

She humphed. “I know your type well enough, that’s true.” She mentally reviewed his responses, then asked, “Are there any physical characteristics you prefer? Blond rather than brunette, tall rather than short—that sort of thing.”

Dark brown hair, taller than average, soft blue eyes—rather like you. James kept the words from his lips and substituted, “In all honesty I’m more interested in the substance than the package—on what’s inside, rather than outward appearance.” He glanced at her. “In the circumstances, it’s more important that I marry a lady of sound character who accepts me as I am, and accepts the position that I’m offering for what it is, and is willing to devote herself to the position of my wife.”

She’d caught his gaze; she searched his eyes, then inclined her head and faced forward. “That’s an admirable attitude and an excellent answer.” After a moment, she blew out a breath. “So we know what manner of lady we’re looking for.”

“Now, how do we find her?”

“Did you bring your invitations as I asked?”

He fished in his pocket and drew out the stack of cards he’d received.

She took them, placed them in her lap, and started leafing through them . . . and stopped, frowning. “These aren’t sorted.”

No . . . “Should they be?”

She glanced at him, perplexed. “How do you keep track?” When he blinked, not quite sure what she meant, she huffed and waved. “No—never mind. Here.” She regathered the stack and gave it back to him. “Sort them by date, starting with tonight. And we’re only including events at which marriageable ladies of the ton will be present.”

“Hmm.” That cut out a good half of the invitations he held. Somewhat reluctantly laying the others—the invitations to dine with friends at clubs and the like—aside, he combed through the untidy sheaf, extracting and ordering as she’d instructed.

Meanwhile, she opened her reticule, rummaged inside, and drew out a medium-sized calfskin-bound book. She opened it, smoothed the page, then set it in her lap.

He glanced over and realized the book was her appointment diary. It was roughly five times the size of his and, he noted, had roughly five times the entries for each day.

She waited—with reined patience—for him to reach the end of his sorting. “Right, then,” she said as he neatened the pile. “Let’s start from this evening.” She tapped an entry in her diary. “Do you have an invitation to Lady Marchmain’s rout?”

He had. They progressed through the next two weeks, noting those events she deemed most useful for their now-shared purpose for which he already had invitations; where that wasn’t the case, she made a note to speak to the relevant hostess. “There’s not a single hostess who will refuse to have you, especially if she suspects you’re bride-hunting.”

“Ah . . .” A horrible vision flooded his mind. “We’re not going to make any public declaration of my urgent need for a bride, are we?”

“Not as such.” She looked at him—as if measuring how much to tell him, or how best to break bad news. “That said, as you’ve already been courting Melinda but have parted from her, most will know, or at least, as I said, suspect that you’re actively looking about you, but as long as you’re with me, under my wing so to speak, I seriously doubt you’ll be mobbed.”

“Oh—good.” He wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured or not. After a moment, he added, “I purposely haven’t let it get about that I’m under any time constraint. I imagine that if I let my desperation become known, I won’t be able to appear in public without attracting a bonneted crowd.”

She chuckled. “Very likely. Keeping your deadline a secret is indubitably wise.” Returning to her diary, she flipped through the next weeks. “But as to that, as I didn’t learn you had a deadline even though I learned the rest, I can’t imagine any other lady will readily stumble on the information, so you should be safe on that score.”

He nodded, then realized she hadn’t seen. “Thank you.”

She glanced at him, her soft blue eyes glowing, her delicately sculpted, rose-tinted lips curved in an absentminded smile, and he felt a jolt strike his chest, reverberating all the way to the base of his spine, even as he realized just how deeply he’d meant the words.

He trapped her gaze. “And thank you in the broader sense, too. I honestly don’t know what I would have done—how I would have forged on—if you hadn’t offered to take me and my campaign in hand.”

Her smile deepened, her lovely eyes twinkled. “Well, it is something of a challenge, and a different challenge to boot.” Shutting her diary, she slipped it into her reticule, then nodded across the lawns. “Now we’ve defined the essential elements of our campaign, we should make a start on assembling a short list.”

He rose as she did. He would have offered his arm, but she lifted her parasol, shook it out, then opened it, angling it to shade her face. Then she looked at him and arched a brow, distinct challenge in her eyes. “Shall we?”

He waved her on, then fell in beside her, strolling bravely, with no outward sign of his inner trepidation, across the lawns toward the Avenue and the carriages now crowding the verges, and the surrounding hordes of fashionably dressed young ladies and elegantly garbed gentlemen chatting and taking the air.

He paced slowly, adjusting his stride to hers. While some wary part of his mind still found it difficult to accept that she—The Matchbreaker—really had agreed to help him, she was indeed there, and was indeed helping him, and he was absurdly grateful for that.

Regardless, he hadn’t expected to dream about her last night, yet he had. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed about a specific woman, rather than a womanly figure, yet last night it had definitely been Henrietta in his dreams; it had been her face, her expressions, that had . . . not haunted, but fascinated. That had held his unconscious in thrall.

The dream—dreams—had not been salacious, as most of his dreams of women were. Which was just as well; Henrietta was his best friend’s sister, after all. But the tenor of the dream had puzzled him and left him just a tad wary, a touch wondering. His attitude in the dream had felt worshipful, but perhaps that had simply been his gratitude manifesting in a different way.

Assuring himself that that was most likely the case, he focused on the rapidly nearing crowds. Dipping his head closer to hers, he murmured, “What should I do?”

“Nothing in particular.” She shot him an assessing glance; he appreciated that she was taller than average, so he could easily see her face. “Just relax and follow my lead.”

Her tone made him smile. Raising his head, he looked forward. “As you command. Onward—into the breach.”

As it transpired, the interactions, the exchanges, flowed more easily than he’d anticipated. Henrietta was so well known she could claim acquaintance with virtually all the older ladies and matrons present, and could thus introduce him, in turn gaining him introductions to the ladies’ unmarried charges.

The next hour passed in steady converse. As they were walking between two barouches, temporarily out of hearing of others, Henrietta tugged his sleeve; when he glanced her way inquiringly, she tipped her head toward a knot of people gathered on the lawn twenty yards away. “That’s Miss Carmichael. She would have been a good candidate, at least for you to consider, but the latest on-dit is that Sir Peter Affry has grown very particular in his attentions. That’s him beside her. As you don’t have time to spare, I see no sense in wasting any on Miss Carmichael—I suspect we’ll have enough candidates to assess without chasing after one some other perfectly eligible gentleman has all but settled on.”

Curious, James looked over Henrietta’s dark head, peering past her parasol’s edge at the group in question. A fair-haired lady with an abundance of ringlets stood surrounded by a bevy of gentlemen, a much less well-favored young lady by her elbow. The gentleman on the fair beauty’s other side was presently scanning the Avenue, but then he looked down at her and smiled. He was a touch older than most of the gentlemen strolling about and had a striking, dark-featured face. James faced forward. “Even I’ve heard of Affry. Up-and-coming Whig, by all accounts.”

“Indeed, but he is only an elected member, after all.” Henrietta frowned. “I’m really not sure what all the fuss is about him, but he does seem quite charming.”

“Ah, well—charming is as handsome does, or however that saying goes.” With a wave, James indicated the group they were approaching. “So, centurion, who do we have here?”

Henrietta smothered a laugh and told him. She continued to guide him about the various groups and was favorably impressed by his behavior and his style. He made charm seem effortless, and his attitude was all relaxed urbanity, polished to a gleam. She might have made the mistake of thinking him a superficial sophisticate—and indeed, that had been her previous, half-formed view—but in the times in between, when they left one group and traveled to the next, he dropped his mask. As they compared impressions of the young ladies they’d encountered, his comments revealed a dry wit and a keenly observant eye, both of which struck a chord with her. Regardless, he was never unkind, not by word or implication, and his behavior never strayed from what she mentally characterized as the quiet, honorable, gentlemanly type.

He had depths she hadn’t known he possessed.

Which was distracting enough, but nowhere near as disturbing as the continued insistence of her senses on registering and dwelling on every little nuance of his physical presence. She could only hope that the effect would ease on further acquaintance.

If she’d thought he was in any way affecting her on purpose, she would have cut the connection and left him to find his own bride. But he wasn’t doing anything—the silly susceptibility was all hers—and despite his excellent performance that morning, he definitely needed her help.

And, all in all, despite the unsettling repercussions, she was enjoying herself—enjoying the challenge of finding him a bride, and simply enjoying being in his company.

After several further forays into the groups of young ladies parading about the Avenue, they headed for Upper Brook Street. It was half past eleven, and she had a luncheon to attend at noon, and James, apparently, was meeting Simon and their mutual friend, Charlie Hastings, somewhere in the city.

As they turned into Upper Brook Street, she said, “I believe we’ve made an excellent start.” She glanced at James. “Did you see any young lady who you think might be suitable—anyone we should put on your short list?”

Yes—you. Keeping his eyes forward, James scratched his chin and wondered where the devil those words had come from. After a moment, he offered, “Miss Chisolm seems a good sort. And Miss Digby wasn’t too far from the mark.”

“Hmm. You don’t think Miss Digby might be too . . . well, giggly? She does giggle, you know.”

“Good God—I hadn’t noticed. Strike Miss Digby. But what about Miss Chisolm?”

Henrietta nodded. “On the face of it, I agree—I know nothing about Miss Chisolm that would count against her.” She glanced at him. “So Miss Chisolm should go on the short list?”

He hesitated, then forced himself to nod. “Just Miss Chisolm for the nonce.” Miss Chisolm was a buxom, good-natured young lady with, he judged, few false notions of life. That said, she wasn’t . . . anywhere near as engaging as the lady currently walking by his side.

They reached Lord Arthur Cynster’s house, and with a suitable smile and an elegant bow, James parted from Henrietta, promising to meet her that evening at Lady Marchmain’s rout. He stood on the pavement and watched her go inside; when the door closed behind her, he turned away and, sliding his hands into his pockets, started strolling toward Grosvenor Square.

As he walked, he consulted his feelings, not something he often did, but in this instance it wasn’t hard to define the uncertainty that was itching just under his skin. He really would like to find some way to suggest Henrietta put her own name on his very short short list, but . . . he was deeply aware of just how beholden to her he was. If she took it into her head to take offense at his suggestion and withdrew her support, he’d never find his necessary bride, of that he had no doubt. That morning’s excursion had proved beyond question how far out of his element he was in the matter of conventional bride-hunting; if Henrietta had not been there, he’d have managed to gain perhaps two introductions, while with her beside him, he’d lost count.

And he only had four more weeks to find his bride and get the knot tied.

He grimaced. “No—in this, sadly, I have to play safe.”

Raising his head, drawing his hands from his pockets, he lengthened his stride. Given he’d spent most of the morning by Henrietta’s side, he really should explain to Simon just what he was doing with his younger sister.

“She’s what?” Simon Cynster stared across the table at James, then burst out laughing.

Beside Simon, Charlie Hastings chortled, valiantly attempting to stifle his laughter, then he caught James’s long-suffering look and lost the battle; Charlie laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.

Seated at their regular table tucked away in an alcove toward the rear of the main room of the Horse and Whip tavern off the Strand, James waited with feigned patience for his friends’ mirth to subside. He’d expected as much, and he could hardly claim to be surprised that his news had been greeted thus.

Eventually catching his breath, Charlie gasped, “Oh, my giddy aunt! Or in this case, your grandaunt.”

Still grinning, Simon added, “Who would have believed The Matchbreaker would consent to turn matchmaker—your powers of persuasion, dear boy, continue to impress.” Simon raised his ale mug in a toast, then sipped.

“Yes, well.” Turning his own mug of foaming ale between his hands, James grimaced. “I suppose you could say my situation is now so desperate, and what with me being so relatively helpless, my appeal engaged her sympathy.”

“Hmm.” Simon pulled a face as he considered. “I wouldn’t have said Henrietta had much sympathy to spare, at least not for gentlemen of the ton.”

So James had gathered from the references Simon had made over the years to his younger sister, only two years younger than Simon’s thirty-one yet still unwed, which, now James thought of it, for a Cynster miss was nothing short of extraordinary. Simon himself had married two years ago, when he’d been the same age as Henrietta was now.

The waitress brought the platters they’d ordered, and they settled to eat. Companionable silence reigned for several minutes.

Charlie broke it, glancing up from his pie to confirm, “So it’s all off with Melinda, then?”

James nodded. “Completely and utterly. Nothing further for me there. Seemed she was set on a love-match, so, as Henrietta pointed out, we really wouldn’t have suited.”

Simon nodded. “A lucky escape, then.” He chewed, swallowed. “So what has Henrietta suggested?”

James inwardly sighed and told them.

They guffawed again.

James rolled his eyes and thought of how much more they would laugh if he confessed to the rather more particular thoughts he’d started to entertain regarding The Matchbreaker.

But even after Simon and Charlie sobered, neither suggested that following Henrietta’s plan was unwise.

Simon waved his fork. “There is, after all, the time element.”

“Indeed.” Charlie nodded. “You can’t afford to dither, and Henrietta, at least, will have no burning desire to steer you in one direction over any other.”

Simon nodded, too, looking down at his plate. “She’ll have no particular agenda of her own.”

Which was precisely the point James would like to alter. While they turned their attention to cleaning their plates, he revisited all Simon had ever let fall of Henrietta’s attitude to gentlemen of the ton.

By all accounts, she held a rather low opinion of gentlemen like him, albeit in general, rather than specifically. However, he’d already shown her he was the sort of gentleman who would approach marriage cold-bloodedly, and, despite her agreement to help him, she’d viewed his approach to Melinda as him being less than truthful. Although he’d had sound reasons for that, not all of which he’d explained, the die had been cast; Henrietta’s view of him was now likely fixed. As for her own expectations, being a Cynster, and regardless of her revelations of having supported non-love-matches for others, for herself Henrietta would want what all Cynster young ladies wanted—a marriage based on love.

Cynsters married for love. That was, apparently, an unbending law of fate, one that could not be, and never had been, broken. Simon, for instance, was very definitely in love with his erstwhile social arch-nemesis, now his wife, Portia. Even James had known that Simon had long been in love with Portia; only Simon and Portia had apparently failed to notice, and it had taken them years—and two dead bodies and a murderer—to open their eyes.

Simon stirred and pushed aside his empty plate. Charlie followed suit; James had already set his plate aside. Without a word, they drained their mugs, then rose, paid their shot at the bar, tipped the smiling waitress, and strolled out into the early afternoon sunshine.

They ambled along the Strand, back toward Mayfair. They’d been friends for so long that they didn’t need to talk constantly; their silences felt comfortable to them.

Sauntering along shoulder to shoulder with Simon, James let his gaze roam while inwardly weighing his options. He understood, or at least he thought he did, what Henrietta’s view of him currently must be. Was there any way he could rescript that view and get her to see him in a better light?

A light sufficiently flattering that she might entertain an offer from him to fill the position he had vacant?

At least she already knew all the details, and as she was a Cynster, he could trust that she would be reasonable and amenable to rational persuasion, but . . . the not-so-small hurdle of falling in love remained.

No more than the next man did he have any idea how one accomplished that—how one fell in love—but given it was Henrietta who, even among the competing claims of the hordes of young ladies along the Avenue, had remained the unwavering focus of his attention, he was increasingly inclined, admittedly recklessly, to give love a try.

Who knew? It might suit him.

It might get him where he wanted to go, might gain him what he most truly wanted of life but had thought—given his grandaunt’s will—that he no longer had any hope of attaining.

For all he knew, the possibility might be there.

If only he could fathom how to make her look at him—truly look at him and see him for what he was—and then fall in love with him . . .

Who was he deceiving now? She wouldn’t fall in love with him, not spontaneously, not unless he made an obvious push to gain her regard, but in doing that, in making such a push, he would risk losing her help with his quest, his search for his necessary bride.

Simon glanced at him. “So how do you feel about this latest tack?”

“Stymied.” He didn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

Charlie clapped him on the shoulder. “Never mind—it’ll all work out. You’ll see.”

James hoped so, because, regardless of all else, he had the futures of a small army to ensure.