Page 83 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“What do you mean?” Justin asked. He was seated beside her on the forward-facing seat.

Mr. Finchley sat across from them. He was wearing a handsome wool overcoat and carrying a silver-topped walking stick. He looked a great deal more fashionable than when Helena had seen him last. “There was some difficulty in finding a house to let,” he said. “But it’s nothing to concern yourselves with. Not when there’s a perfectly suitable residence available in Half Moon Street.”

“With Jenny?” Helena’s mood brightened a little.

“If that’s acceptable to all parties.” Mr. Finchley exchanged a glance with Justin. “It’s a genteel enough address for our purposes, and there’s plenty of room. I’ve hired a skeleton staff. People I know and trust.”

Mr. Finchley’s idea of a skeleton staff was a stern-faced married couple of middle years who looked like they’d seen a fair bit of hardship. The husband was to act as both butler and footman, and the wife was to perform the duties of a cook-housekeeper.

Helena hardly noticed them. When they arrived at the little house in Half Moon Street, she went straight to Jenny, enfolding her friend in a fierce embrace.

Jenny hugged her tightly. “You reek of cheap scent,” she said with a laugh. “But how well you look.”

Helena took a step back to examine her friend. Jenny was wearing a sensible, unflounced poplin skirt and a black velvet caraco. The loose, thigh-length jacket nipped in at her waist and flared down over her hips. She didn’t look any the worse for her altercation with Uncle Edward, but Helena knew that looks could be deceiving. “Are you well?”

Jenny smiled. “He didn’t touch me. I promise.”

Helena saw nothing about which to smile. “It’s quite enough that he shouted at you and turned you out.”

“I’ll admit, it wasn’t pleasant. But I’m not made of spun sugar. You know that. Besides, I was far more worried about you.” Jenny held out her hand. “Come upstairs with me. I have something to show you.”

Helena looked back at Justin. He and Mr. Finchley were talking quietly with each other, their faces serious. He caught her gaze and smiled slightly.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Must you ask his permission?” Jenny inquired in a low voice as they climbed up the stairs to the third floor.

“No. Of course not. But I’ve been clinging to him awfully since we left Devon. I’m amazed he has any circulation left in his arm.”

“You do like him then?”

“I do,” Helena said. “Rather too much.”

“There’s no such thing as too much, is there? Unless he doesn’t like you back. In which case, you must at least try to appear indifferent.” Jenny drew Helena into one of the bedrooms. “Look.”

It was a large room with an equally large curtained bed. On the opposite wall, a tall pier-glass mirror was mounted between two windows draped in chintz. On the left an oil lamp with a cut-glass shade reposed on a marble-topped walnut chiffonier. On the right was a dressing table and an oversized burled walnut wardrobe. The doors of the wardrobe were open, revealing a profusion of muslin, fine woolens, and silk.

Helena’s jaw dropped in amazement. “My clothes!”

“They were delivered yesterday,” Jenny said. “Everything but your jewels. Lord Castleton has taken to keeping those in his safe.”

“But how…?” Helena went to the wardrobe, her gaze skimming over the familiar petticoats, bodices, and skirts. Some articles of clothing hung on pegs installed at the back of the wardrobe, others were folded on the wardrobe shelves, each item carefully separated by tissue paper. “Uncle Edward can’t have allowed it.”

“Heavens, no. It was Mrs. Butterfield who arranged it. She had Martha and Maisy pack everything in trunks while your uncle was at his club. Two of the footmen carried the trunks down and put them in a hired carriage.”

Mrs. Butterfield had been the housekeeper at the Earl of Castleton’s residence in Grosvenor Square for many long years. She’d served Helena’s father and then her brother and had seemed happy to continue in service to Helena’s uncle when he ascended to the title. She’d never once indicated, neither by word nor deed, that she disapproved of Uncle Edward’s cruelties.

“I wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Butterfield would take such a risk,” Helena said. “She’s never been anything but loyal to my uncle.”

“Mrs. Butterfield is loyal to all the Earls of Castleton. That doesn’t mean she’s without a conscience.”

Helena refrained from commenting. Her final months living in her uncle’s house had been a living nightmare. She couldn’t recall any of the staff being remotely sympathetic. Indeed, most of them—including Mrs. Butterfield—had been unable to look her in the eye.

“I’ve put most of your things away,” Jenny said. “I’ll finish unpacking for you this afternoon. I intend to play lady’s maid, you know.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I’m in dead earnest. Do you think Mrs. Jarrow has the first inkling of how to arrange a lady’s hair? She can cook, though, I’ll give her that. And she’s a dab hand at the mending.” Jenny straightened one of the little glass cosmetic pots on the dressing table. “Mrs. Jarrow and her husband would do anything for Mr. Finchley. He saved their son from going to prison.”