And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (25 page)

Barnaby nodded; his expression had grown even grimmer. “And I agree—I’d take my oath all the staff, including her ladyship’s dresser, told us everything they knew—which in terms of identifying the villain amounted to nothing.”

“But,” Stokes said, “two days later, her ladyship’s dresser—she’d gone to stay with her sister in Clapham—was murdered, too. Same way as her ladyship—beaten near to death, then strangled. Her sister went out just before noon and came home later in the afternoon, and found her.”

Quiet horror engulfed the room, then Simon said, “So he killed her, too, in the same god-awful way, even though she knew nothing?”

Stokes’s lips tightened. “It’s possible she did know something and had contacted him—tried to blackmail him—but . . .” He glanced at Barnaby. “Neither Adair nor I think that’s the case. The woman—the dresser—was an honest sort. She was devoted to her ladyship—had been with her from when her ladyship was a bride. If the dresser had known anything about this beast, she would have tripped over her own tongue to tell us.”

“So yes,” Barnaby said, “Stokes and I, at least, feel certain this blackguard killed her just in case. Just to make sure there was no chance she knew something she hadn’t yet thought of.”

Stokes nodded grimly. “He’s covering his tracks, regardless of whether he actually needs to or not. Which brings us to the attacks on Miss Cynster.”

James glanced at Henrietta, tightened his grip on her hand. “He thinks you know something—”

“Or that you might know something even if you haven’t realized it yet,” Barnaby put in.

“Or,” Simon said, his tone hard, “that you might have seen enough of his face that if you see him—come upon him at some event—you’ll recognize him then.”

“Any or all of those.” Stokes shut his notebook. “It won’t matter to him. He wants you dead, and the fact that you haven’t any information that might identify him won’t stop him.”

“He views you as a potential threat.” Barnaby met Henrietta’s gaze. “And he’ll keep on until he succeeds in silencing you.”

James felt the moment grow heavier as they absorbed that apparently incontestable fact. After a moment, he said, his tone cold, “To return to my earlier question—why no hue and cry? How on earth are we to find this villain without going after him?”

Stokes looked at Barnaby.

Barnaby leaned forward, speaking to Henrietta, James, and Simon. “There’s been discussions aplenty at the highest levels about how to handle this case. The excuse of not wanting to cause panic in Mayfair, at the height of the Season no less, is true enough, but that’s a more minor consideration. The truth is that laying hands on this villain is not going to be easy—we knew that after investigating Lady Winston’s death and finding nothing to identify him—but when he murdered her ladyship’s dresser, he told us one thing we hadn’t known before.”

Barnaby met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “To wit, he intends to stick around. He intends to remain a part of the ton—the haut ton, almost certainly—and has no intention of quitting the scene. That’s why he’s now turned his sights on you—and, more, is trying to make your death look like an accident, or at least the result of an attack not specifically aimed at you. He doesn’t want to create more noise within the ton, or to focus attention on you—on why someone might want you dead. But if, at this point, we raise a hue and cry and openly try to pursue him . . . we have nothing. He simply has to sit tight and wait us out, and if he’s wary of you, simply avoid you for a time—which, all in all, would be easy enough.”

“But ultimately he wants to be able to move freely among the upper echelons of the ton,” Stokes said, “so at some point, when he feels safe again, he’ll come after you again. He isn’t going to let you live, even if he has to be careful for a time.”

James held Stokes’s gaze. A moment passed, then he said, “What you’re saying is that the only way to keep Henrietta safe—permanently safe—is to conceal the fact that we’re aware of this gentleman-villain, aware of his intention to kill her, and to . . . what? Let him have a chance at her?”

“Not exactly,” Barnaby said. “We need to keep Henrietta safe and thoroughly protected—that goes without saying—but we need to play our hand quietly, stalk this man silently, and let him think it’s safe enough to have another try at her. But when he does, we’ll be there, and then we’ll have him.”

“As it stands,” Stokes said, “regardless of what any of us might wish, the only way we can permanently ensure Miss Cynster’s continued health is to identify and catch this man. And the only way we can do that is to let him think it’s safe enough to step out of the crowd and show us his face.”

Chapter Eleven

T
hey spent the rest of the morning discussing the most pertinent question, namely how to keep Henrietta safe. To James’s relief, his lady love, once she’d recovered her composure and her customary poise, deigned to agree with him and the others; they were given to understand that, in light of the seriousness of the situation, she was willing to suspend her usual independence and endure being guarded, essentially twenty-four hours a day.

After defining ways to achieve that, and agreeing over who needed to be apprised of the situation, Stokes and Barnaby departed.

Along with James, Simon stayed for luncheon. As luck would have it, both Lady Louise and Lord Arthur were also lunching in; over the dining room table, James, Henrietta, and Simon shared all they knew, and, after the inevitable shock and exclamations, outlined how they all needed to proceed.

Lord Arthur wasn’t happy, but he accepted that their plan was the only sure way forward.

Lady Louise was eager to support any move by Henrietta to repair to the safety of the country—to Somersham Place, perhaps—but was reluctantly persuaded by Henrietta, who most effectively capped her argument by reminding her mother that, aside from avoiding being murdered, she had an engagement ball coming up, and a wedding shortly thereafter.

Mary, also present, listened to the tale wide-eyed, then, in typical Mary fashion, swung the discussion to the subject of how best to organize everyone into doing what they needed to do.

While James would normally have found Mary’s bossy nature trying, in this case, he was grateful. She soon had her mother and father organized to spread the word; they’d decided to limit the information, at least in the first instance, to members of the family and the staff of the Upper Brook Street house. Between those two groups, along with Charlie Hastings, Barnaby, and Penelope, Henrietta could be sure of always having others about her. That she readily accepted the need for being so constantly guarded was balm to James’s soul.

He, of course, was designated as Henrietta’s most frequent guard, a role Mary glibly assigned to him and with which he had no argument at all. In that capacity, once luncheon was over and Lord Arthur left to hunt down his brothers and his nephews, Simon left to find Charlie and later speak with Portia, and Lady Louise and Mary set out for Somersham House to speak with Honoria and from there to spread the word, to keep Henrietta amused James suggested that he and she do something useful with their afternoon and visit his house in George Street. “You can take a look around and see what you might like to have changed.”

With very real gratitude, Henrietta agreed. Although James’s house was only a few blocks away, she bowed to his request and ordered the smaller town carriage, the one she usually commandeered, to be brought around.

As Hudson, and via him the rest of the staff, had already been informed of the need to keep her constantly guarded, she wasn’t surprised to discover not only Gibbs and the coachman on the box but also Jordan, one of the footmen, up on the step behind.

She merely nodded at the trio, all stern-faced and looking watchfully around, and allowed James to hand her up into the carriage.

The house in George Street was a surprise; she’d expected a narrow town house, but instead James led her up the steps of a substantial older house with wide windows on either side of a porticoed front door. The front door itself was painted to a high gloss, and the brass knocker gleamed; James opened the door with a latchkey and held it wide . . . stepping over the threshold, eyes widening, she looked around, drinking in the elegant sweep of the staircase, the detailed moldings around the doors and arches, the oak half-paneling, and the paintings—lush landscapes—that hung on the green-papered walls.

“My grandaunt Emily’s, but I rather like them.” Closing the door, James came to stand by Henrietta’s side. Head tipping, he tried to see the scene through her eyes. “The paintings have grown on me.”

“They suit the place.” She swiveled in a circle. “This has a nice feel, a nice sense of balance. Elegant, but not overdone.”

He smiled, then the door at the rear of the hall swung open and his butler, Fortescue, came through.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Fortescue saw Henrietta, and his ageing eyes lit.

James introduced Fortescue; his staff knew of his betrothal and were eager to meet the lady who would be their new mistress.

Somewhat rotund, but turned out in impeccable style, with a regal demeanor and an innate stately air, although well past his prime Fortescue had forgotten more about butlering than most butlers ever learned; his low bow was nicely judged. “Welcome to this house, miss. The rest of the staff and I look forward to serving you in whatever way we may.”

“Thank you, Fortescue.” Henrietta looked questioningly at James.

“I’m going to take Miss Cynster on a tour of the house, but I suspect, this time, we’ll restrict ourselves to the principal rooms.” Meeting Henrietta’s gaze, James reached out and twined his fingers with hers. “We’ll start with the reception rooms on the ground floor, and then head upstairs.” He looked at Fortescue. “Perhaps you would warn Mrs. Rollins—we’ll have tea in the drawing room when we come down.”

“Indeed, sir.” Fortescue bowed to them both, then walked back to the staff door.

Retaining his hold on her hand, James drew Henrietta to the double doors to the right of the hall. “Mrs. Rollins is the housekeeper. Like Fortescue, I inherited her. Indeed, other than my man, Trimble, all the staff date from Grandaunt Emily’s day.”

“Fortescue appears perfectly personable, and he seems assured and experienced.”

“He is, as are the rest.”

“In that case,” Henrietta met his eyes and smiled, “they’ll do nicely. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find experienced staff in London?”

“None at all.” Releasing her hand, James opened the double doors and set them wide. He waved her in. “Behold—your future drawing room.”

Over the next hour, he learned that while his bride-to-be projected the image of a young lady sometimes distressingly practical, with no overt liking for the usual feminine fripperies, there was another Henrietta lurking inside; as he showed her around his grandaunt’s house—now his and soon to be theirs—another side of her emerged, one he found enchanting.

Henrietta was delighted—far more than she had thought she would be—with the house. The house she was soon to be mistress of; doubtless that fact sharpened her interest and made her more aware, certainly more prepared to be critical, yet, instead, she found herself walking by James’s side through rooms that, in a nutshell, felt like home.

Like
her
home.

They inspected the formal drawing room, neither overly large, nor cramped in the least, but a perfect blend of comfort allied with fashionable formal simplicity. Clean lines dominated, with Hepplewhite furniture arranged on a silky Aubusson rug spread over mellow oak boards, and the green and ivory color scheme met with her complete approval.

The dining room behind it was impressive in its richly paneled, restrained sumptuousness, while the long library, and the smaller connected parlor that lay at the back of the house, its windows overlooking the rear garden, were simply a delight.

Standing before the window looking out into the lushly planted garden, she spread her arms wide and, with a thoroughly silly smile on her face, spun in a slow circle. “I can see us here.” Even she heard the happiness in her voice. “You in the library, sitting at the desk working on your papers, and me, here, sitting at that escritoire and writing letters.”

James smiled back, one of his lazy, charming smiles. “I can pop in and visit whenever I wish—or you can come and interrupt me.”

She grinned back. Hand in hand, they returned through the library to the front hall and started up the curving staircase. The balustrade was smooth, polished wood; there was not a speck of dust to be seen, even though the house had lacked a mistress for nearly a year. “How many staff are there?”

“As well as Trimble, Fortescue, and Mrs. Rollins, there’s Cook, two maids, a footman, a kitchen boy and a scullery maid. But we can hire more staff if you wish.”

She shook her head. “That sounds ample, at least to start with. I’ll bring my maid, Hannah, with me, of course.” She glanced at him as they stepped into the gallery. “Did your grandaunt spend much time here?”

“Actually, she spent almost half the year here—she was always in town for the full Season, and she would return for the Autumn Session. She was quite interested in politics, strange to say, and kept abreast of everything going on.”

Henrietta insisted on looking into all the rooms on the first floor. “It will be helpful if I have some idea of the accommodations in case we need to put up any extra guests for the wedding.” She halted in the corridor and looked at James. “Do your parents have a house in town? Or will they and your brother put up here, with you?”

“They have a house in Chesterfield Street, and although it’s been more or less shut up for several years, I think my brother, if not my parents, need an excuse to use it again, so I’m not going to offer to put them up here. Besides”—James caught her eye—“if you and I are to return here after the wedding, then we won’t want to have houseguests.”

“Ah.” Lips lifting, she nodded. “I take your point.” Then she flashed him a grin, whirled, and walked on to the last door at the end of the corridor. “What’s in here?” Opening the door, she crossed the threshold into what was clearly the master bedroom.