And Then She Fell Page 2

  James was still watching her, but his eyes had narrowed; the austere planes of his handsome face seemed harder, his expression almost harsh.

  Henrietta met his gaze, held it for an instant, then she turned and walked out of the ballroom.

  On the other side of the room, James Glossup softly swore.

  What I’ve learned is that Mr. Glossup needs to marry in order to release additional funds from his grandaunt’s estate.” Ensconced in an armchair by the drawing room fire in the Wentworths’ Hill Street house, Henrietta paused to sip the tea Mrs. Wentworth had insisted they all required.

  Seated in the armchair opposite, with his daughter and wife on the chaise to his left, Mr. Wentworth frowned. “So he’s not a fortune hunter after Mellie’s dowry?”

  Setting her cup on its saucer, Henrietta shook her head. “No—he has funds enough, but to release the balance of his grandaunt’s fortune he has to marry. As I understand it, the old lady wanted to ensure that he did, so she made it a condition of her will.”

  Mr. Wentworth snorted. “I suppose that’s one way an old lady can force a whelp to the altar, but not with my girl.”

  “No, indeed!” Mrs. Wentworth agreed, then, clearly recalling that it was Melinda’s opinion that, in this instance, carried the real weight, turned to her daughter. “That is . . . Mellie?”

  Cup and saucer held in her lap, Melinda had been staring into the fire. Now she blinked, glanced at her mother, then looked across at Henrietta. “He’s not in love with me, is he?”

  Henrietta adhered to the absolute truth. “That I can’t say. All I can tell you is what I know.” She held Melinda’s gaze, then gently said, “You would be a much better judge of that than I.”

  Melinda stared back for several moments, then her lips firmed. She shook her head. “He likes me, but no—he doesn’t love me.” She paused and took a long sip of her until-then neglected tea. Lowering the cup, she went on, “Truth be told, that’s why I asked you to learn what you could of him. I already suspected from the way he behaved that there was some motive other than love behind his approach . . .” Lips twisting, Melinda waved and looked away.

  Henrietta drained her cup, then set it on the saucer and shifted forward to place both on the low table before the chaise. “I should go. There’s nothing more I have to add, and you’ll want to think things through.” She rose.

  Melinda set down her cup and saucer and rose, too, as did her parents. “I’ll see you out.”

  “Thank you again for being such a good friend to Mellie.” Mr. Wentworth gruffly patted Henrietta’s hand.

  Henrietta took her leave of the senior Wentworths and followed Melinda into the front hall. As soon as the butler shut the drawing room door, Henrietta murmured, low enough that only Melinda, just ahead of her, could hear, “I’m truly sorry to be the bearer of such tidings.”

  Halting, Melinda swung to face her. Meeting her eyes, Melinda smiled, albeit weakly. “I admit I was hoping to hear I’d misjudged him, but, truly, you’ve been a godsend. I don’t want to marry a man who doesn’t love me, and all your information has done is confirm what I already suspected, and for that I’m truly grateful. You’ve made my decision so much easier.”

  Clasping Henrietta’s shoulders, Melinda touched cheeks, then drew back and continued, “So yes, I’ll be glum for a day or two, but I’ll come around soon enough—you’ll see.”

  “I hope so.” Henrietta smiled back.

  “I know so.” Melinda sounded more certain with every passing minute. “You’ve helped so many of us now, and I’m sure none of us know what we would have done without you. You’ve saved countless young ladies from disappointing marriages—quite honestly, you deserve an award.”

  Henrietta humphed. “Nonsense. I just have better-than-average sources of information.” And, although in the present circumstances she wasn’t about to mention it, she’d confirmed countless other matches as being soundly based on love.

  She allowed the butler to settle her cloak about her shoulders, then he opened the front door.

  Melinda accompanied her out onto the front step, and immediately shivered as a chill breeze whipped up the street.

  Henrietta caught her hand and pressed it. “Go inside. You’ll catch your death—and my carriage is right there.” She nodded across the street to where her parents’ second town carriage stood waiting by the curb.

  “All right.” Melinda squeezed back. “Take care. No doubt we’ll meet again soon.”

  Henrietta smiled, waited until Melinda retreated and shut the door, then, still smiling to herself, reassured by Melinda’s ready acceptance that she truly hadn’t been in love with James, either, she started down the steps.

  While she might have no faith in finding love herself, she was staunchly in favor of love-matches per se; to her mind, love was the one protection that guaranteed a lady a happy and contented married life—

  A man barreled into her, moving at shocking speed. The collision sent her reeling.

  “Oh!” She would have fallen, but the man whirled and grasped her shoulders, holding her before him, steadying her.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a silver-mounted cane grasped in one gloved hand, registered that the glove was exquisitely made, of soft, pliable leather. She blinked and glanced at the man’s face, but he was wearing a cloak with the hood up; with the streetlights behind him, his face was shrouded in shadow.

  All she could see was the tip of his chin. As she watched, it firmed.

  “My apologies. I didn’t see you.” The man’s voice was deep, the diction clipped, but cultured.

  Catching her breath, she replied, “I didn’t see you either.”

  He paused; she sensed he was studying her face, her eyes.

  “Miss! Are you all right?”

  She raised her head; the gentleman glanced over his shoulder. They both saw her groom dropping down to the street, intent on hurrying to her aid.

  Even as she called out, “It’s quite all right, Gibbs,” the gentleman looked back at her, released her, brusquely nodded, then swung away and strode quickly on down the street, disappearing into the gathering fog.

  Henrietta mentally shook her head, briskly straightened her skirts and cloak, then crossed to where her groom stood waiting to hand her into the carriage.

  The instant the door shut, she sighed and sank back against the leather seat. The carriage rocked into motion; Upper Brook Street was only minutes away.

  Relaxing, expecting to feel the usual uplifting swell of satisfaction at another motivation-investigation successfully concluded, she instead found her mind unexpectedly focusing on something else entirely.

  On the image of James Glossup standing in Lady Montague’s ballroom, watching her intently. On his expression as he’d realized she was following his intended out of the room.

  He was Simon’s friend; he would know her reputation.

  She wondered what he was thinking now.

  Chapter Two

  “Do you have any idea what the hell you’ve done?”

  Henrietta started, then glanced over her shoulder—into soulful brown eyes that were, at that moment, not at all soulful. Indeed, the look on James Glossup’s face suggested he was contemplating murder.

  Lips thin, his expression stony, he went on, “I’m sure it will come as no shock to you that Melinda Wentworth just handed me my congé, essentially refusing my offer before I’d even made it. After seeing you leaving Lady Montague’s last night in the Wentworths’ train, Melinda’s new attitude came as no great surprise—but that leads me to ask, again, if you have any notion—any concept—of just what, in this case, your meddling has achieved?”

  His tone, condemnatory as well as accusatory, pricked Henrietta. She swung to face him. Her mother had insisted that together with herself and Mary, Henrietta had to attend Lady Campbell’s soiree, but there was little to interest her in her ladyship’s drawing room; most of those attending were of the younger set, young ladies only just out and y
oung gentlemen only just come up to town, along with their mothers. But Lady Campbell was a close friend of her mother’s, so, after dutifully circling the room once, Henrietta had taken refuge in an alcove partly screened by a large potted palm, which was where James had found her.

  Cornered her; she couldn’t get out unless he stepped back.

  Not that that bothered her, but her pulse had sped up—she wasn’t sure why.

  “All I did was tell Melinda the truth—that you need to marry to release part of your inheritance.” She narrowed her eyes in warning; she was not going to be held responsible for his shortcomings. “You hadn’t thought to inform her of that. Melinda has her heart set on a love-match, but although she asked, I specifically refused to comment on that aspect. I left that to her own judgment, and if you failed to convince her of the emotional foundation of your suit, I do not believe you can lay the blame for that at my door.”

  He narrowed his eyes; normally so soft a chocolate brown that drowning in all that lusciousness wasn’t a silly thought, they currently resembled chips of adamantine agate. “As I thought—you have no notion of the havoc you’ve caused, not just for me, but for so many others.”

  She blinked, frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He seemed not to hear her; his eyes continued boring into hers, his face a mask of reined anger and frustration. “Simon had mentioned your interfering interest, of how you dabble and meddle in other people’s lives to keep yourself amused.”

  His tone sent her temper soaring. “You aren’t in love with Melinda!”

  “No, I’m not—but did I ever claim I was?”

  He’d lowered his head so they were speaking face-to-face with only inches between them, his diction so clipped he all but flung his words at her as if they were darts, or possibly javelins.

  She searched his eyes, the hard, austere planes of his face. His emotions were close beneath that rigid surface; anger and frustration reached her clearly, but so, too, did an underlying current of concern, of anxiety, worry, and trepidation. And underneath all lay a lick of fear, but it wasn’t fear for himself; there was a distracted quality to it that she recognized—his was fear for someone or something he viewed as in his care. Abruptly, she felt out of her depth. “What—”

  “Did it never occur to you that some gentlemen might, just might, be subject to other pressures—reasons that have nothing to do with love—that might dictate that they have to marry? How the devil do you expect such gentlemen to proceed, matrimonially speaking, if they have to contend with the likes of you, meddling where you have no right to interfere?” He dragged in a breath, then even more forcefully, albeit quietly, ground out, “If you learn nothing else from the mess you’ve just created, if I can convince you to stop intruding in matters you neither understand nor that are any true concern of yours, at least I will have accomplished something.”

  The look he cast her held an element of disgust, along with a degree of disappointment; he started to step back, to leave.

  She caught his lapel. Curled her fingers and clamped them.

  He froze, glanced down at her fingers locked in his coat, then slowly raised his gaze to hers and arched a supercilious brow.

  She didn’t let go but belligerently met his gaze, returning his anger and frustration in full measure. “What,” she enunciated, the word as bitten off as his had been, “are you talking about?” She wasn’t about to let him cast such nebulous yet hurtful aspersions and then just walk away.

  He held her gaze for a long moment, then glanced down at her hand. His anger had abated not one jot, yet with outward, almost languid calm, he said, “Given you’ve chosen to interest yourself in my matrimonial situation, perhaps you deserve to learn the full story.” Raising his gaze, he met her eyes. “And the full scope of the problems your ill-advised interference has caused.”

  A burst of laughter from the other side of the palm had them both glancing that way; a group of young people were gathering beyond the palm, eagerly swapping secrets.

  “But not here.” James looked back at her.

  Releasing him, she boldly met his eyes. “Where?”

  He shifted, glanced around the room, then tipped his head to the right. “This way.”

  He led her out of the drawing room, through a side hall and down a corridor. She followed, walking quickly, keeping pace just behind his right shoulder.

  Somewhat to her surprise, the necklace—the amethyst beads and especially the rose quartz pendant hanging just above her décolletage—felt oddly warm. Mary, of course, had checked to make sure she was wearing it, and Henrietta suspected her little sister had been whispering in Hannah’s ear; her maid had gone searching through all her gowns to find the creation she was presently wearing—a well-fitted gown in the palest pearlescent pink silk with a sweetheart neckline—purely to properly frame the blasted necklace. The flaring skirts of the gown swished about her legs as she followed James down the corridor and into another.

  Finally pausing by a door, James held a finger to his lips, then turned the knob and quietly opened the door. The room beyond was his lordship’s study. A lamp on the table had been left burning, but turned low. They both looked in, searching, but the room was empty.

  James waved Henrietta in, then followed and shut the door.

  He wasn’t surprised when she went straight to the chair behind the desk and sat. It was an admiral’s chair, and she swiveled to face him as he walked to the fireplace to the left of the desk and fell to restlessly pacing. In his present mood, sitting held little appeal; he wanted to rant and berate, but beneath the roiling surface of his anger ran a disturbingly swelling well of helplessness. What the devil was he going to do?

  And why was he wasting more of his steadily shrinking time explaining anything to Henrietta Cynster? To Simon’s younger sister?

  He honestly wasn’t sure, but something about her interference had pricked him on the raw. On some level he saw her actions as a breach of trust—more, as a disloyal act. He’d expected better from his best friend’s sister. He might not know her well, but surely she knew what sort of man he was, namely one who followed the same creed as her brother. He was irritated and disturbed that her actions could only mean that she viewed him in a dishonorable light. That she thought he would have lied to Melinda, or at least tried to pull the wool over her eyes, that he wouldn’t have made his situation clear. Instead, Melinda had dismissed him before he’d had a chance to explain said situation.

  “So.” Henrietta fixed her blue-gray eyes on his face. “What in all this don’t I understand? What is your ‘full story’?”

  He met her gaze for an instant, then, still pacing, replied, “My grandaunt, as you clearly know, died not quite a year ago—on the first of June last year, to be precise. I was her favorite of all the family and she wanted to ensure that I married. That had always been a goal of hers, one she pursued as well as she could over the last decade and more. However, she then learned she was dying, and so in her will, she left me her estate—a country house and surrounding grounds and various farms in Wiltshire, and a large house in town, all staffed and in good order. She also left me the income for upkeep of same—but for a year only. Beyond that, in order to access the continuing income needed to keep the houses and farms and all the rest operational”—he halted and met Henrietta’s eyes—“my dear grandaunt stipulated that I have to marry within the year following her death, which means before the first of June this year.”

  Henrietta blinked, then her eyes searched his face. “What happens if you don’t?”

  “The estate, houses, farms, and all, remain mine—my responsibility—but there is no way in all the heavens that I could possibly fund them from my own pocket, without access to the income. A fact my grandaunt well knew.”

  “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 fun
ctioning, 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.”