Until he’d grown so particular in his attentions to Melinda that his intention to offer for her hand could not be doubted. At that point, Melinda, with her parents’ approval, had turned to Henrietta for, as they’d termed it, “clarification of James’s motives.”
From her early twenties, Henrietta had found a calling in assisting her peers, the other young ladies of the haut ton, to discover the answer to the critical question every young lady had of the gentleman who sought her hand: Does he love me, or is there some other reason he wishes to marry me?
It wasn’t always easy to tell, or, sometimes, to discover the true answer. Henrietta, however, born into the powerful Cynster clan, with all the connections and associations that afforded her, had long ago learned the ways of finding out almost anything.
She wasn’t a gossip; she rarely told anyone anything they hadn’t specifically asked to know. But she’d always been observant, and her acuity had only sharpened with the years, with constant application and the resulting experience.
While mamas, matrons, and chaperons guided their charges through the ton’s shoals, acting as matchmakers for those young ladies, Henrietta provided a countering service. Indeed, certain disgruntled gentlemen had labeled her “The Matchbreaker,” but to the female half of the haut ton, she was the person young ladies set on marrying for love turned to for reassurance as to their would-be fiancés’ matrimonial motivations.
With tonnish sentiment over recent years shifting in favor of love-matches, Henrietta’s insights and expertise had been much in demand.
It was entirely possible that her extensive experience was the reason behind the nebulous niggle in her brain, the suspicion that something about James Glossup’s situation didn’t quite fit. But Melinda had asked, and Henrietta now knew, so despite that niggling but irritatingly unspecific reservation, she would oblige and tell her friend the truth.
Watching James turn elegantly with the music, surveying his broad shoulders, his long, lean frame, the ineffable grace with which he moved, his impeccable and stylishly subdued attire and fashionably ruffled brown hair, and the smile of true gentlemanly gentleness he bestowed on Melinda, Henrietta wondered yet again why he’d decided to take the tack he had and marry merely to secure extra funds, rather than searching for some lady to love.
He could, of course, simply be a coward too wary of love to take the risk, yet to Henrietta that explanation didn’t ring true.
As an acknowledged wolf of the ton, James had prowled the salons shoulder-to-shoulder with Simon, but since the summer of Simon’s marriage two years ago, James had drawn back and been little seen in London, not until the beginning of this Season. Regardless, as one of the Dorsetshire Glossups, one of Viscount Netherfield’s grandsons, there were any number of suitable young ladies who would be entirely agreeable to falling in love with him, but instead he’d fixed very quickly on Melinda.
And Melinda was one of Henrietta’s friends.
The measure concluded. James bowed; Melinda curtsied, then rose. Melinda glanced toward her parents, saw that Henrietta had arrived and, albeit with due courtesy and smiles, dismissed James, parting from him to thread her way through the crowd.
As Melinda drew near, Henrietta schooled her features into an expression of uninformative blandness, but after one good look at her face, Melinda glanced at her mother’s—and knew.
Melinda’s face fell. “Oh.” Halting in front of her parents, she took her mother’s hand, then looked at Henrietta. “It’s not good news, is it?”
Henrietta grimaced. “It’s not the news you wanted to hear.”
Melinda glanced over her shoulder, but James had melted into the crowd and was no longer visible. Drawing in a breath, Melinda clutched her
mother’s hand more tightly and, head rising, faced Henrietta. “Tell me.”
Mrs. Wentworth glanced meaningfully at the other guests. “This really might not be the best place to discuss this, dear.”
Melinda frowned. “But I have to know. How can I face him again otherwise?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Wentworth suggested, “we might return home to discuss the matter in private.” He looked at Henrietta. “If we could impose on Miss Cynster to oblige?”
Henrietta hadn’t intended to leave the Montagues’ house until later, but faced with three earnestly entreating expressions, she inclined her head. “Yes, of course. I have my parents’ carriage. I’ll follow you to Hill Street.”
She trailed the Wentworths as they made their way to Lady Montague’s side. While Melinda and Mrs. Wentworth thanked her ladyship for the evening’s entertainment, Henrietta stood back and idly scanned the crowd. There were few present she did not know, few she couldn’t immediately place in terms of family and connections.
She was absentmindedly surveying the heads when her gaze collided with James Glossup’s.
Standing across the room, he was watching her intently.
The Wentworths took their leave and moved toward the door. Wrenching her gaze from James’s, Henrietta smiled at Lady Montague and made her farewells, then followed the Wentworths.
She told herself not to look, but she couldn’t resist glancing back.
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.