Page 117 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

She closed the box. “My dear, you might have said something.”

Justin turned his face away from her, his gaze fixing out the window. She had the impression she’d upset him, but she couldn’t imagine how.

Perhaps he was suffering from more than a slight headache? He’d not been given much time to recover after his fight with Mr. Glyde. She would have to insist that he rest.

“Shall we forget the bank and go straight back to Half Moon Street?” She touched his arm only to feel it tense beneath her fingers.

“No,” he said. “Let’s finish this today. Let’s put an end to it.”

The rest of the week was spent in very much the same manner as the previous weeks, except now, instead of being on Justin’s arm, she was on the arm of Mr. Finchley or Lord Wolverton. On Tuesday evening, Lord Wolverton escorted her to a performance of Shakespeare’s Othello and on Thursday evening to a supper party at the home of his eldest daughter. During the day, Mr. Finchley accompanied her and Jenny on trips to museums and shopping excursions in Bond Street.

There had been no other invitations. Not to parties or dinners or musicales. Mr. Pelham’s editorial was still the talk of London. And, though no one dared give her the cut direct while she was under the patronage of Lord Wolverton, no ladies had the courage to call on her in Half Moon Street. Indeed, she counted herself lucky to receive a subdued greeting from them in the street.

“The scandal will pass,” Lord Wolverton promised. “As all scandals do.”

In the meanwhile, she had to continue moving about in society with her spine straight and her head held high. Given time, she was confident she could weather the storm.

She’d be even more confident with Justin at her side. Unfortunately, his bruised face was still not fit for public view. While she was out and about in fashionable London, he remained in Half Moon Street, dealing with correspondence and, occasionally, sending and receiving telegrams. Whenever she queried him, he said it was merely business, but Helena had never known him to be so distracted. Indeed, he scarcely looked at her anymore.

Something between them had fundamentally changed. She could feel it as well as see it. The following Friday, she arrived back from a trip to the British Museum determined to confront him.

Mr. Finchley had tried to prolong their outing. He’d kept them busy studying the antiquities in the Egyptian Room and admiring the marbles in the Elgin Saloon. Each time she professed her intention to return home, he’d found another reason to keep them there. And when, at last, she’d insisted they leave, he hadn’t appeared at all pleased. As their carriage pulled up in front of the little house in Half Moon Street, she finally understood why.

A hansom cab was parked outside, the jarvey waiting patiently on his perch. Mr. Jarrow was loading Justin’s luggage into the cab.

Helena didn’t wait for Mr. Finchley to hand her down from the carriage. She opened the door herself and stumbled out, her skirts nearly tangling in her legs. She didn’t stop to query Mr. Jarrow. Instead, she ran straight into the house. She was only vaguely aware that Jenny and Mr. Finchley had remained behind. The sound of Jenny’s voice—hot and fierce—floated after her.

“How dared you,” she was saying to Mr. Finchley. “What sort of man are you?”

Helena didn’t look back. Her heart was thumping at an extraordinary rate. The hall was empty of everyone save Mrs. Jarrow. Helena passed her without a word as she swiftly climbed up the stairs.

She found Justin in the parlor. He was standing over the little walnut desk in the corner, applying a red wax seal to a letter. His back was to the door, but she knew that he heard her enter the room. He went still for a moment, his shoulders tensing beneath the lines of his black frock coat.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He slowly turned to face her. His expression was shuttered, but there was no disguising the hard set of his jaw and the grim resolution lingering at the back of his gaze. “I must return to Devon.”

“Did something happen to Neville? Or Mr. Boothroyd?”

“No. They’re both well. But I’ve been away far too long. I must go back.”

“Yes, of course. Only allow me two minutes to pack a valise.”

“No.” There was steel in his voice. It stopped her where she stood.

“It won’t take a moment.”

“It doesn’t matter how long it takes. You’re not coming with me.”

Helena stared at him in incomprehension. “You wish me to come later? After I’ve closed up the house?”

“No.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. He turned back to the desk. “You’re not coming at all. I’m traveling back alone. I was meant to go this morning, while you were at the museum. Finchley thought it would be best for all concerned. But I couldn’t do it. Not without taking proper leave of you.”

“I don’t understand. Are you returning to London directly? Is that it?” There was hope in her question, but the hope in her heart was rapidly disintegrating to dust. She went to him and touched his arm. “Won’t you look at me?”

He grudgingly obliged her. But when his eyes met hers, her stomach sank with realization. His face was harder and more inscrutable than she’d ever seen it. He looked an absolute stranger. Cold and impatient. She knew then—she simply knew—that he was leaving her and never coming back.

“I wrote you a letter,” he said. “It’s here along with the legal documents he’s drawn up.”