And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (23 page)

Henrietta patted Melinda’s hand absentmindedly; in something of a stunned daze, she went through the motions of farewelling the Wentworths, thanking her aunt Celia for hosting the event, and climbing into her mother’s carriage for the journey back to Upper Brook Street.

With a contented sigh, Louise settled back against the squabs. “That went well, I thought.”

Mary, seated opposite Louise and already engaged in looking out at those strolling the pavements, made a sound of agreement.

“Hmm.” Seated alongside her mother, Henrietta stared unseeing at the empty seat opposite while her mind raced, juggling possibilities . . .

By the time the carriage halted outside her parents’ house, she’d worked out enough to realize she needed to speak with James as soon as she possibly could.

M
uch to Henrietta’s disgust, what with the demands of her day and, apparently, his, she and James didn’t manage to meet until she walked into the front hall of St. Ives House that evening and found him waiting.

Smiling with his customary charm, debonair and, to her at least, riveting in his evening clothes, he lifted her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to Webster, Devil’s butler, then, capturing her hand, raising it to his lips and trapping her gaze, James pressed a kiss she felt to the tips of her toes on the backs of her fingers.

Then he smiled into her eyes. “My butler told me you’d sent a footman with a message while I was out. What did you want to see me about?”

She’d lectured herself that maintaining an appropriate façade throughout the evening, and allowing herself to genuinely enjoy the informal family dinner party Honoria and the others had arranged to celebrate their betrothal, was essential, but every time she thought of what Melinda had told her, maintaining her smile and her air of pleased delight required significant effort . . . and once she told James what she’d learned, she had little doubt that he would find enjoying the evening appropriately while concealing his reactions near impossible. So she smiled back and murmured, “Not now. I’ll tell you later.”

He studied her eyes, trying to decide if he should push.

She arched a brow, then, sliding her hand into his arm, she turned to the archway leading to the drawing room. “Come along—it’s our moment to face the family.”

He humphed, but obliged, and walked by her side into the drawing room, into the waiting storm of congratulations and felicitations, smiles and good-natured laughter.

The evening went well, a comfortable, relaxed gathering of the immediate Cynster family, all those presently in London coming together to do what they most enjoyed doing—celebrating another alliance, another, as Devil put it in his toast, twining of branches on two old family trees that would, in the fullness of time, lead to new buds and more branches in the future.

The company drank to their health. Several times.

James was entirely at ease in this milieu. It helped that, just as he was Simon’s oldest and closest friend, other members of his family, both male and female, were longtime friends with their Cynster peers; the Glossups and the Cynsters numbered among the oldest families in the ton, so the connections were many, and solid and sound.

He had no difficulty navigating these waters; in many ways, he felt more at home among the socially active Cynsters than in his own family, who had largely retreated from the wider ton.

After due discussions with Lord Arthur, and subsequent meetings with both James’s and the Cynsters’ men-of-business, the settlements had been decided on, and after a day James deemed well-spent, he and Lord Arthur could join with Louise and Henrietta to announce to the assembled company the date for their official engagement ball, which, in keeping with Cynster tradition, would be held in the ballroom of St. Ives House.

Seated around the long table, the family cheered and applauded, then cheered even more when Lord Arthur added that the wedding would follow on the thirtieth of May, two days before James’s grandaunt Emily’s deadline.

Later, when the company returned to the long drawing room, with Henrietta on his arm, James went from group to group, renewing acquaintance with those Cynsters he knew less well.

“I gather,” Henrietta confided as they left one group, “that all the others not in London are on their way. Most—like Lucifer and Phyllida—will be here in time for the engagement ball, but those further north might not be able to reach town in time. We’re hoping Richard and Catriona, at least, will be here for the wedding, but, of course, no one’s heard back as yet, and Celia and Martin are hoping very much that Angelica and Dominic can make the journey.”

The following hour passed in cheery, often jovial conversation. Henrietta bided her time; there was no sense in disrupting their evening by telling James of her unnerving discovery prematurely. She was safe in St. Ives House, surrounded by family; no matter who the gentleman-villain was, he wouldn’t be able to reach her there . . . and she definitely didn’t want to risk being overheard and the disquieting information spreading to the rest of the family—not until she’d had time to discuss the situation and how to deal with it with James.

At last, the company started to thin. On James’s arm, she weighed her options while James and Simon chatted. Soon, her mother would summon her and she would have to leave with her parents; she couldn’t afford to wait much longer, but Simon and James showed no signs of parting—indeed, from what she’d overheard, they intended to leave together to meet with Charlie Hastings at some club.

Did she really care if Simon learned about what was going on?

Even as the question formed in her mind, she realized that—with James and Simon being so close—it was more than likely that Simon already knew about her three “accidents.”

Seeing Louise leave Helena and glide over to speak with Honoria, Henrietta drew breath and turned to join James’s and Simon’s conversation.

Both looked at her; both sensed she had something momentous to say.

Simon wrinkled his nose at her. “Do I have to leave?”

Henrietta narrowed her eyes. “You can stay if you promise to be good.”

Simon’s smile flashed. “I’m not sure I can promise that, but”—he gestured encouragingly—“do tell.”

She shot him a warning look, then transferred her gaze to James. “I met Melinda Wentworth this morning.”

“Oh.” James’s expression blanked. He swiftly searched her eyes. “Was she difficult?”

Henrietta shook her head dismissively. “No, not at all. That isn’t it.” She paused to draw breath and order the revelations in her mind. “She told me that on the evening I visited the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street to tell Melinda and her parents my findings about you, Lady Winston, a widow who lives—lived—next door, was murdered.”

Both James and Simon visibly stiffened. His expression abruptly sober, James nodded. “Go on.”

“As one might expect, Melinda doesn’t know much—just that the murder was thought to have been committed sometime that evening, and most likely by the gentleman Lady Winston was in the habit of entertaining in secret. She habitually sent her staff away for the night, so no one knows who said gentleman is.”

A pause ensued while James and Simon digested that. It was Simon who, frowning, said, “I don’t see how that involves you.” He sent a swift glance around, confirming no one else was near enough to overhear, before he met Henrietta’s eyes and said, “I’m assuming you think this has something to do with the recent attacks?”

So James had told Simon, which meant Charlie most likely knew, too. Tight-lipped, Henrietta nodded. “I’m coming to that.” She switched her gaze to James’s eyes. “It was cold and foggy, but my carriage was waiting just across the street. Melinda saw me out, and I told her to go in and shut the door—the groom and coachman were there and watching—then I went down the steps . . . and a gentleman ran into me. He would have knocked me over, but he caught me and steadied me. I think he did that instinctively. He had on a cloak, and the hood was up. He apologized—his voice, his diction, was exactly what I expected from his clothes. Then Gibbs—my groom—called out, and the gentleman released me, nodded, and walked quickly off. I thought nothing more of it . . . until Melinda told me about the murder.”

Neither James nor Simon was slow. Both shifted, but, glancing around, immediately reined their reactions in. James’s gaze refixed on her face. “You think he was the murderer?”

Henrietta met his gaze steadily. “I’m almost certain he was. There was one thing I registered at the time, one thing I didn’t understand, but subsequently I forgot about it.”

“What thing?” Simon asked.

“When I started down the steps, I glanced around—instinctively, as anyone would—and the pavement was clear. Yet mere seconds later, the man nearly mowed me down, so where did he come from? Why hadn’t I seen him when I looked?” When James and Simon frowned, understanding the point but not immediately realizing the answer, she gave it to them. “He had to have erupted, moving at speed, from the area steps of the house next door—the one in which Lady Winston died. That was why he didn’t see me, and why I didn’t see him. He was running away from what he’d done.”

Both men stared at her, and she stared back. She could see in both pairs of eyes trained on her—one pair warm brown, the other sharply blue—that they were putting things together, linking the facts.

Lips thin, James said, “He thinks you can identify him.”

“But,” Simon put in, “you can’t, can you?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Since this morning, I’ve gone over those seconds countless times in my mind, but there was nothing I saw that could in any way tell anyone who he was.”

James’s expression grew to be the definition of grim. “But he, unfortunately, doesn’t know that.”

“I suspect not.” Fingers instinctively tightening on James’s arm, Henrietta looked at Simon. “Which I suppose means my accidents were, indeed, not accidental at all.”

“No. But that also suggests,” Simon said, his face now coldly expressionless, “that he believes that you do know but haven’t yet realized the significance of what you know. He must be living in fear that you’ll hear about the murder, and suddenly realize . . . and expose him.”

James had been thinking. Now he looked at Simon. “I haven’t heard anything about this murder, have you?”

Simon shook his head. “Not a whisper.” Raising his gaze, he looked across the room. “Which means Portia hasn’t heard of it, either.”

“Melinda said her mother had told her not to speak of it,” Henrietta said.

“Perhaps the authorities are, for some reason, holding back the news.” Simon shrugged.

“Possibly so they don’t scare the horses,” James cynically said. “Can you imagine the outcry such a crime in Hill Street, in the heart of Mayfair, will provoke?”

Simon grimaced. “Very true. So . . .”

“How can we learn more?” James asked. “Clearly, if that is the reason behind the attacks on Henrietta, then there’s no reason to suppose the blackguard will stop.”

Not until she’s dead
didn’t need to be said.

Henrietta shivered anyway. James closed his hand over hers on his sleeve.

Simon humphed. “Barnaby Adair, and through him, Inspector Stokes.” Simon met James’s gaze. “You’ve met Adair, haven’t you?”

James nodded. “Here and there, and I already know Stokes from that time at Glossup Hall.”

“Not something I’m likely to forget,” Simon said. “But Adair and Stokes joined forces, so to speak, in another matter later, and subsequently they’ve often worked together, with the higher-ups’ blessings, whenever there’s a difficult serious crime within the haut ton.”

“I remember,” Henrietta said. “Stokes was the policeman who helped Penelope and Barnaby with that matter about the orphan boys going missing.”

Simon nodded. “Yes—and that case was a social and political mess, which is where the Adair and Stokes combination comes into its own. Stokes isn’t just any old policeman. He understands enough about us—the haut ton—to know how to navigate our shoals, and Barnaby’s father has significant political clout.”

Increasingly grim, James said, “This murder has the hallmarks of just such a case.” He looked at Simon. “Can you speak with Adair?”

Simon nodded decisively. “He’ll be interested, I’m sure. I doubt we’ll find him out tonight, but I’ll invite myself to breakfast tomorrow—such useful things, family connections—after which I’ll bring him around to Upper Brook Street.” Simon met Henrietta’s eyes. “He’ll want to hear everything from your lips.”

She nodded. “I’ll stay in.”

James squeezed her hand. “I’ll call and wait with you.”

Simon said, “Barnaby will want to hear all about the accidents, too.”

They all spotted Simon and Henrietta’s aunt Horatia sweeping regally down on them; the three exchanged glances, then turned and smiled welcomingly.

Horatia halted before them, eyes scanning their faces. “Now what are you three planning?”

“A wedding, as it happens,” Henrietta said. “Do you think Simon will do as James’s best man?”

It was the perfect distraction, and then the evening was over. Those still present gathered in the front hall, confirming plans for the next days and making their farewells.

They were the last to leave; Henrietta quit the house with her parents and Mary, while James left with Simon to hunt down Charlie Hastings, then put their heads together and revisit the now even more urgent necessity of keeping Henrietta safe.

From a murderer who, in order to escape justice, was apparently convinced he needed to murder again.

I
t was ten o’clock the following morning, and Henrietta was pacing, restless and distracted, before the windows in the back parlor in Upper Brook Street.

Leaning against the back of the sofa, James watched, and otherwise worked at maintaining an outwardly calm façade. He had no idea how long breakfast in the Adair household might take, much less if Adair would be free to speak with them today—

The door opened; James turned and saw Simon walk in. His friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law presumably still had a latchkey to this house, his childhood home. A gentleman with curly fair hair, whom James recognized as the Honorable Barnaby Adair, followed Simon through the door.