Mary’s smile didn’t waver, but she halted. “Because I’m thrilled that Henrietta will now be able to pass on the necklace to me, and I’ll be able to get my search for my own hero properly underway.”
“Ah.” Louise nodded. “Well, in the meantime, I believe you should accompany us to St. Ives House—your aunt Helena will want to be informed straightaway, as will Honoria—so go and fetch your bonnet and cloak.”
“Yes, Mama.” Her exuberance undimmed, Mary rushed up the stairs.
Henrietta watched her go, and wondered. Mary rarely if ever lied, not outright, but she was a past master at deflection, and even though, as Henrietta understood it, Mary already had her hero in her sights, who knew what her little sister meant by “properly”?
Henrietta turned to her mother to hear Louise confirm for Hudson that “Miss Henrietta is, indeed, engaged to Mr. Glossup.” Her mother went on to sketch their current thoughts on the engagement ball and the wedding.
Hearing the words—words she’d heard so many times before about others, about her older twin sisters, her numerous female cousins—and knowing that this time those words referred to her, Henrietta again felt a species of amazement well.
The Matchbreaker had met her match, and was getting married.
It suddenly occurred to her that it was a very good thing that their wedding would take place as soon as could be. She seriously doubted her patience would bear with the quips and comments that would inevitably rain down upon her; luckily she would only have to grin and bear it for at most three weeks.
Not for the first time, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks for James’s Grandaunt Emily and her farsighted will.
On leaving the Cynster house, James drove his curricle the short distance to the mews behind the house in George Street he’d inherited from his grandaunt. Handing horses and curricle into the care of his grandaunt’s stableman—now his—he crossed to the house and found replies from both Simon and Charlie Hastings already waiting.
Reading the short notes, James snorted. He wasn’t surprised by the alacrity expressed; his request for them to meet with him at Boodles to discuss a major development had been intriguing enough, and the fact that his messages had been delivered by Lord Arthur’s footmen would have made the lure irresistible. Folding both missives, he quickly climbed the stairs; he needed to wash away the dust and change before showing his face in Boodles.
Earlier that morning, while he’d been dressing prior to leaving Henrietta’s room, she’d asked him not to tell her father about her “accidents.” While he’d wanted to oblige—she’d asked, and his first impulse was, apparently, to grant her whatever was in his power to grant—the application of a little thought had forced him to admit that he didn’t feel able not to inform her father of all that had happened, and, more, of what he now feared.
What she now feared, too, yet she’d argued her point, opening his eyes to the likely outcome seen from her perspective, one he’d never before considered. They’d ended discussing the pros and cons at some length. Eventually, he’d agreed to consider carefully how he presented the subject to her father, while she’d reluctantly conceded that he couldn’t conceal the matter entirely.
The drive from Ellsmere Grange to London had afforded him plenty of time for cogitation. Once ensconced with her father in his study, he’d told Lord Arthur all—he couldn’t ask the man to trust him with his daughter and her future while keeping the very real threat to both back—but he’d also explained Henrietta’s understandable reaction to the prospect of being so hemmed in by protectiveness that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy said future. She’d made a strong case that as the victim of the attacks, it was unfair to force her to bear the consequences, especially as they could not know when, or even if, another attack would come.
Lord Arthur had been understandably concerned, and James had made no bones about his own agitation over Henrietta’s safety. Perhaps because Lord Arthur had seen that James’s concern was, if anything, even more acute than his, his lordship had suggested that, for the moment, they might proceed with a simple protective strategy, one Henrietta might not even notice.
As soon as he’d repaired the damage that travel had wrought on his person and changed into attire better suited to St. James, James quit the house, hailed a hackney, and rattled off to Boodles.
Simon and Charlie were already there, waiting at a table tucked away in an alcove at the rear of the club’s dining room. They rose as James arrived; the three shook hands, Simon’s and Charlie’s gazes examining every tiny facet of James’s expression for some clue as to his news.
He’d expected that, and wore an expression of utter inscrutability, even though his lips were impossible to force straight.
Waving them back to their chairs, he sat, too, met Charlie’s gaze across the table, then looked at Simon. “I’ve just come from your parents’ house. I’ve offered for Henrietta’s hand and been accepted.”
Simon’s slow grin broke across his face. “Henrietta’s accepted you?”
That, James had to admit, was a pertinent clarification. He nodded. “We spent the last few days at Ellsmere Grange, and . . .” He shrugged. “We decided we would suit.”
“Wait, wait.” Charlie, although beaming, also managed to look confused. “I thought she was helping you find your necessary bride? That you’d persuaded The Matchbreaker to turn matchmaker?”
“That was how it started,” James allowed, “but the more time she spent in my scintillating company, the more she came to understand that she wanted to marry me herself.”
Both Charlie and Simon made rude, scoffing sounds.
Simon noticed the head waiter passing, hailed the man, and ordered a bottle of the club’s best burgundy, a wine the three of them preferred. Turning back, he said to James and Charlie, “To celebrate.” Looking again at James, Simon, still grinning delightedly, shook his head. “God knows how you did it, but you do realize, don’t you, that you’re going to be the toast of the ton’s gentlemen? Ah.” Simon turned as the head waiter proffered a bottle for inspection, then, at Simon’s nod, poured three glasses.
After passing the filled glasses around, the waiter set down the bottle and withdrew.
Simon raised his glass. “To James—the man brave enough, with fortitude enough, to beguile The Matchbreaker into matrimony.”
“To James,” Charlie echoed, raising hi
s glass, too. “The Matchbreaker’s fate.”
“The Matchbreaker’s mate,” Simon offered, setting his glass to Charlie’s.