And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

“Yes, well.” Turning his own mug of foaming ale between his hands, James grimaced. “I suppose you could say my situation is now so desperate, and what with me being so relatively helpless, my appeal engaged her sympathy.”

“Hmm.” Simon pulled a face as he considered. “I wouldn’t have said Henrietta had much sympathy to spare, at least not for gentlemen of the ton.”

So James had gathered from the references Simon had made over the years to his younger sister, only two years younger than Simon’s thirty-one yet still unwed, which, now James thought of it, for a Cynster miss was nothing short of extraordinary. Simon himself had married two years ago, when he’d been the same age as Henrietta was now.

The waitress brought the platters they’d ordered, and they settled to eat. Companionable silence reigned for several minutes.

Charlie broke it, glancing up from his pie to confirm, “So it’s all off with Melinda, then?”

James nodded. “Completely and utterly. Nothing further for me there. Seemed she was set on a love-match, so, as Henrietta pointed out, we really wouldn’t have suited.”

Simon nodded. “A lucky escape, then.” He chewed, swallowed. “So what has Henrietta suggested?”

James inwardly sighed and told them.

They guffawed again.

James rolled his eyes and thought of how much more they would laugh if he confessed to the rather more particular thoughts he’d started to entertain regarding The Matchbreaker.

But even after Simon and Charlie sobered, neither suggested that following Henrietta’s plan was unwise.

Simon waved his fork. “There is, after all, the time element.”

“Indeed.” Charlie nodded. “You can’t afford to dither, and Henrietta, at least, will have no burning desire to steer you in one direction over any other.”

Simon nodded, too, looking down at his plate. “She’ll have no particular agenda of her own.”

Which was precisely the point James would like to alter. While they turned their attention to cleaning their plates, he revisited all Simon had ever let fall of Henrietta’s attitude to gentlemen of the ton.

By all accounts, she held a rather low opinion of gentlemen like him, albeit in general, rather than specifically. However, he’d already shown her he was the sort of gentleman who would approach marriage cold-bloodedly, and, despite her agreement to help him, she’d viewed his approach to Melinda as him being less than truthful. Although he’d had sound reasons for that, not all of which he’d explained, the die had been cast; Henrietta’s view of him was now likely fixed. As for her own expectations, being a Cynster, and regardless of her revelations of having supported non-love-matches for others, for herself Henrietta would want what all Cynster young ladies wanted—a marriage based on love.

Cynsters married for love. That was, apparently, an unbending law of fate, one that could not be, and never had been, broken. Simon, for instance, was very definitely in love with his erstwhile social arch-nemesis, now his wife, Portia. Even James had known that Simon had long been in love with Portia; only Simon and Portia had apparently failed to notice, and it had taken them years—and two dead bodies and a murderer—to open their eyes.

Simon stirred and pushed aside his empty plate. Charlie followed suit; James had already set his plate aside. Without a word, they drained their mugs, then rose, paid their shot at the bar, tipped the smiling waitress, and strolled out into the early afternoon sunshine.

They ambled along the Strand, back toward Mayfair. They’d been friends for so long that they didn’t need to talk c

onstantly; their silences felt comfortable to them.

Sauntering along shoulder to shoulder with Simon, James let his gaze roam while inwardly weighing his options. He understood, or at least he thought he did, what Henrietta’s view of him currently must be. Was there any way he could rescript that view and get her to see him in a better light?

A light sufficiently flattering that she might entertain an offer from him to fill the position he had vacant?

At least she already knew all the details, and as she was a Cynster, he could trust that she would be reasonable and amenable to rational persuasion, but . . . the not-so-small hurdle of falling in love remained.

No more than the next man did he have any idea how one accomplished that—how one fell in love—but given it was Henrietta who, even among the competing claims of the hordes of young ladies along the Avenue, had remained the unwavering focus of his attention, he was increasingly inclined, admittedly recklessly, to give love a try.

Who knew? It might suit him.

It might get him where he wanted to go, might gain him what he most truly wanted of life but had thought—given his grandaunt’s will—that he no longer had any hope of attaining.

For all he knew, the possibility might be there.

If only he could fathom how to make her look at him—truly look at him and see him for what he was—and then fall in love with him . . .

Who was he deceiving now? She wouldn’t fall in love with him, not spontaneously, not unless he made an obvious push to gain her regard, but in doing that, in making such a push, he would risk losing her help with his quest, his search for his necessary bride.

Simon glanced at him. “So how do you feel about this latest tack?”