Page 56 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“That Lady Helena’s uncle was a brute. That he’d been rough with her. Trying to force her to sign some document. I understood there to be a substantial sum of money involved.”

Justin’s jaw tightened. “Her uncle and that attack dog of his have been more than rough with her, Tom. They’ve terrorized her.”

“Yes. I know that now.” Finchley sounded suddenly tired. “But, unfortunately, those particular details weren’t made clear to me until…er…two days ago.”

Justin looked at his friend, but it was Helena that occupied his thoughts. His mind was flooded with images of her bruised arms and throat. Of her face, white with fear, as she gazed up at him from the cliff’s ledge during the storm.

I’d rather die here, she’d said.

A lead weight settled in the pit of his stomach. He knew what it was to be afraid. When he’d been hung up in Nana Sahib’s dungeon. When he’d been burned with a glowing hot poker across his bare chest, neck, and jaw. He’d been afraid then. He’d felt powerless. Toward the end, he’d even prayed for death. But he was a man. And—self-indulgence be damned—he’d deserved it. While Helena…

She didn’t deserve this. She hadn’t harmed anyone. She hadn’t committed any crime.

“Is there any chance her brother is alive?” he asked.

“You’d know better than me,” Finchley said. “How chaotic was it during the rebellion? Could a man who was still alive be reported dead?”

“Probably, but it’s less likely to have happened with an officer. Even less so for one sporting a title. Whoever reported her brother’s death would have had to recognize him.”

“And his body?”

Justin shook his head. He truly didn’t know. At that time, in that place, anything was possible. “It might have been burned on a pyre with the other dead. It might have been dismembered or left out in the sun to rot. Chances are there wasn’t enough left of him to send home to England.”

“Then we must proceed on the assumption that Giles Reynolds, 6th Earl of Castleton is not coming back to save the day. Which means—”

“Which means,” Justin said grimly, “I must prepare to fight an unwinnable legal battle with a member of the peerage.”

“Not necessarily.” Finchley looked thoughtful. “There’s a chance—a very small chance—this battle won’t have to be fought in the courts.”

Justin met Finchley’s eyes. A weighted look passed between them. An unspoken acknowledgement of all the untenable situations in their past that had been resolved through Finchley’s intellect and Justin’s daring. “What do you advise?” he asked.

They spent the next thirty minutes talking. Or, rather, Finchley did the talking. Explaining the legal whys and wherefores, as Helena would have called them. He was so focused on the intricacies of his plan he didn’t notice the passing of the time until the little clock on the mantle delicately chimed the hour. At the sound of it, he looked up with a start.

“Damnation, is that the time?”

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“No, but I was supposed to send for her shortly after you arrived.” Finchley grimaced. “It’s been a full hour. She’ll be thinking I’ve forgotten. Or worse, that I’ve decided to exclude her.”

“Who the devil are you talking about?”

“Miss Holloway. Haven’t I mentioned her?” Finchley moved to rise. “Blast it. You know how forgetful I am once I start discussing the law.”

At that very instant, the parlor door opened. A woman stepped through. She was tall and slim, clad in a prim black day dress with a lace collar. Her thick hair was twisted into intricate plaits at the back of her head.

Her thick auburn hair.

Justin shot Finchley a sharp glance as the two of them stood. His friend had long had a weakness for auburn-haired females. Up until now, he’d never indulged it. As far as Justin knew, the only mistress Finchley had ever had was his work.

“I beg your pardon,” she said to Finchley. “But I’ve been waiting for some time.”

Justin regarded the woman with mild annoyance. He had urgent matters to discuss with Finchley and had no intention of discussing those matters in company. Least of all in the presence of the man’s mistress.

But this woman didn’t sound like anyone’s mistress. Quite the opposite. Her words were brisk and businesslike, her voice as crisp as a fresh apple.

Finchley crossed the room to meet her. “My apologies, ma’am. The hour got away from me.” He ushered her into the parlor. “Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Justin Thornhill.”

The woman fixed Justin with an appraising stare. She appeared to take in his face, his frame, and his burns in one comprehensive, and rather cool, glance.