And Then She Fell(13)

“She’s what?” Simon Cynster stared across the table at James, then burst out laughing.

Beside Simon, Charlie Hastings chortled, valiantly attempting to stifle his laughter, then he caught James’s long-suffering look and lost the battle; Charlie laughed until tears leaked from his eyes.

Seated at their regular table tucked away in an alcove toward the rear of the main room of the Horse and Whip tavern off the Strand, James waited with feigned patience for his friends’ mirth to subside. He’d expected as much, and he could hardly claim to be surprised that his news had been greeted thus.

Eventually catching his breath, Charlie gasped, “Oh, my giddy aunt! Or in this case, your grandaunt.”

Still grinning, Simon added, “Who would have believed The Matchbreaker would consent to turn matchmaker—your powers of persuasion, dear boy, continue to impress.” Simon raised his ale mug in a toast, then sipped.

“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 constantly; their silences felt comfortable to them.