And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (4 page)

“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?”

T
hey 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?”