Page 52 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“Out of the way you motherless beggars!” Sir Oswald had bellowed.

Justin had been standing in the drive with Finchley, Archer, and Neville. Sir Oswald had swung his crop to disperse them. The leather tassel had cracked against Archer’s cheek. Justin had had to grab his friend by the arm and haul him out of the path of the horse.

Finchley, meanwhile, hadn’t moved an inch. He’d been the smallest and thinnest of them, but was then, as now, possessed of an unnatural steadiness of the nerves. He’d squinted at Sir Oswald’s retreating figure through the second-hand spectacles he wore perched on his nose. “Who’s that?”

“The king,” Neville had said.

“It’s not the king,” Archer had retorted. “The king is an old man.”

Justin had watched the tall, impeccably clad gentleman dismount at the entrance to the three-story stone building where the orphans of Abbot’s Holcombe were housed. “Maybe it’s someone’s father,” he’d said. “Come to fetch him home.”

It felt like a lifetime ago. That brief morning encounter that had set the events of the next two decades in motion. All because they’d been fascinated by the appearance of a fine gentleman. Because they’d been dazzled by wealth and rank.

But if Justin was dazzled by Helena, it had nothing to do with her wealth and aristocratic lineage. How could it? He hadn’t known about either of them until the appearance of Hargreaves and Glyde. Up until then he’d known only that she was a lady. A woman of quality.

She was too good for him by any measure. Anyone could see it. But touching her didn’t feel presumptuous. It felt natural and right. As if she’d been specially fashioned to lie in his arms.

He bent his head to her hair and inhaled deeply.

She didn’t stir. Not even when he released her and slowly extricated himself from the bed. She’d said she hadn’t slept well since she left London. And, considering what she’d been through, he didn’t doubt it. After yesterday’s events, he was feeling a little tired himself.

But there wasn’t time to linger.

He kindled a fire for her in the hearth and then, after collecting a few articles of clothing from the dressing room, withdrew to the bath. Within fifteen minutes, he was washed, shaved and dressed. He tossed a change of clothes into an old leather portmanteau and headed downstairs.

Boothroyd was in the kitchen, just as he always was at this time of morning. He sat at the wooden table, his napkin tucked into his shirt as he spread jam on a piece of toast. Neville was seated across from him, finishing off a plate of eggs and bacon. Paul and Jonesy milled at his booted feet.

At the sight of Justin, Boothroyd stilled. His eyes fell to the portmanteau. “You’re going, then.”

“I think I must,” Justin said.

Boothroyd returned his toast to his plate. He tugged the napkin from his collar and tossed it onto the table. “For how long?”

“It shouldn’t take above two days.”

Neville looked up from his breakfast. “It’s still raining, Justin.”

“So, it is.” Justin strode across the flagstone floor to join them at the table. He poured himself a cup of tea and drank it standing. “Not to worry. I won’t melt.”

“Do you think it wise to leave, sir?” Boothroyd asked.

“Wiser to do it now than when the road dries out.” Justin said. “I’ll hire a carriage to take me to Barnstaple. I can catch a fast train from there to London.”

“And how do you propose to get down to King’s Abbot?”

Justin shrugged. “The same way I always do when the cliff road washes out.”

Boothroyd pursed his lips. “Forgive me for saying so, sir, but one of these days you’re going to break your neck.”

“Justin won’t fall,” Neville said. His brow creased. “Will you, Justin?”

“Indeed I will not.” Justin shot a warning glance at Boothroyd. There was no reason to alarm Neville. The truth was, though the cliff road was impassible by horse or carriage, someone who knew the terrain—someone who was both fit and exceedingly careful—could navigate his way down on foot. It was a touch risky. But it was less than three miles. And it wasn’t as if he’d be scaling down the cliff face.

“You’ll be all over mud by the time you arrive in King’s Abbot,” Boothroyd said.

Justin’s finished his tea. “Very likely.” He turned to Neville, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I have a special task for you, Neville.”

Neville sat up taller in his chair. “What is it?”