And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (29 page)

He still didn’t know how he’d come to agree to it—to agree to stage a disagreement with Henrietta of sufficient intensity to support the fiction of them parting, of her storming into the crowd and him turning on his heel and stalking off in the opposite direction.

Facing forward, Henrietta added, “And don’t forget Stokes and his men waiting outside.”

James wasn’t about to forget that the nearest the police could get was the outside of the building. If anything, Stokes liked their plan even less than James did, but, like James, he’d been largely helpless to prevent it being carried out, so had elected to lend his support as best he could. With a small cohort of his junior detectives and several eager constables, Stokes had set up a continual watch on all the exits from the building. If something occurred and the villain attempted to flee, he would run into the waiting arms of the Metropolitan Police.

James glanced at Henrietta. She appeared entirely calm, her attention focused outward, exchanging smiles and nods with others in the crowd.

Only he was near enough to detect the wary watchfulness lurking in her soft eyes; only he could feel, through her hand lying on his sleeve, the tension thrumming through her. She was wound as tight as he.

They reached the head of the reception line, and Sir Thomas greeted them with jocular good cheer. After exchanging the usual brief pleasantries, and receiving Sir Thomas’s congratulations on their engagement, James led Henrietta in Louise, Arthur, and Mary’s wake. All of them looked about them as they walked, tacking around other couples and groups likewise caught in admiration of the elegance of a room reputed to be the finest in all of London.

The gallery, built to house the King’s library, was three hundred feet long; over most of that length, it was thirty feet wide, but the central section, delineated by four spectacular columns of polished Aberdeen granite, was said to be nearly double that width.

“Just look at that ceiling.” Head tipped back, Henrietta stared upward at the ornate plasterwork in creams, pale yellows, and gold. “That must be at least forty feet high.”

“At least.” Grasping her hand, James wound her arm in his and started them on a course separate from her parents and sister. “Those balconies all around will afford an excellent view of the room.”

“Hmm.” Henrietta glanced his way, caught his eye. “Anyone on them, up there above the crowd, will also be in easy view of anyone watching them.”

James’s lips twisted. “Precisely my thought.” He dipped his head to murmur, “Up there would be the perfect place to stage our disagreement. We should keep an eye out for the stairs leading up.”

Henrietta nodded. The balconies in question ran above the bookcases lining the long sides of the room; about halfway up the forty-foot-high walls, the balconies formed narrow walkways that ran over the top of the deep bookcases and in front of the long windows set in the upper halves of the walls. Delicate, gilded, rail-type balustrades gave the balconies an airy appearance, as if they were suspended over the body of the room.

“According to Adair,” James said, “there are only two doors—the one we came in and another at the far end of the room.” They paused beside one of the beautiful polished desks situated along the room. Examining it, then the marble statue beside it, James shook his head. “I can’t believe this room is intended purely for the use of scholars, and the wider public wasn’t supposed to ever get a chance to appreciate it.” He glanced around as they started off again. “I can see why they’ve claimed it’s the finest room in London.”

Still engrossed in drinking in the architectural magnificence, Henrietta nodded, then added, “Which, I suppose, all but guarantees that whoever we’re after, they will be here.”

They were nearing the middle section, where the room doubled in width. Glancing back toward the door through which they’d entered, Henrietta saw the polished oak and mahogany floor fast disappearing beneath a tide of elegant skirts as the rest of the guests poured in. “How long do you think we should wait before we enact our scene?”

“Adair and Devil both pushed for us to wait a full hour—all of the guests should be in the room by then.”

“All right.” Plastering on a brighter smile, Henrietta tightened her arm around his. “In that case, we can mingle freely and forget about the plan until then.”

They did precisely that, stopping to chat with others, receiving congratulations on their engaged state with appropriate modesty. Nevertheless, as they promenaded around the central section, then continued down the long room, both continued to assess the possibilities the room afforded in terms of carrying out their plan.

When they reached the other end of the room, James drew Henrietta aside, into one corner. Dipping his head, he spoke quietly; the room was now so crowded, the guests so densely packed, that despite the cacophony of a thousand voices they needed to be wary of being overheard. “I’m sure Adair will send some of those watching you up onto the balconies.” Barnaby had been delegated to oversee that arm of the plan—those of their company delegated to watch over and ultimately protect Henrietta while the rest of her family pretended obliviousness.

“I can already see Dillon and Pris up there, on the right, nearer the middle.” Henrietta nodded at the pair. “Pris is expecting, so Dillon won’t leave her, but they’re both very sharp eyed.”

“Doubtless Adair is standing at some point from where he can see all the watchers, so they can alert him to anyone approaching you.”

Henrietta quelled a shiver; the only way she was going to get through the evening was to
not
think about the man who wanted to murder her. Hannah had dressed her hair to conceal the wound along the side of her head, but she could still feel it, a constant reminder of the pistol ball tearing through her skin. “Is it time yet?”

James consulted his fob watch, then tucked it back into his pocket. “At least another fifteen minutes.”

“Lady Holland mentioned that the first entertainment to be offered was to be that Italian soprano from Milan. I assume she’ll perform beside the grand piano in the middle section, and as her ladyship said the soprano was the first of three acts, then I assume she’ll perform soon, most likely on, or just after, the hour.” Henrietta met James’s eyes. “Should we wait until after she performs, or enact our scene before?”

“Just before, and staged on the balcony above the piano will gain maximum attention, but . . .” James grimaced, then met Henrietta’s eyes. “There’s no reason the entire ton needs to witness our ‘disagreement.’ If our man is here, and he should be by then, he’ll be watching you anyway—we don’t need to make a major production out of it, so after the soprano’s performance might be better.”

Henrietta nodded decisively. “Yes, it will be—aside from anything else, making too big a show of it might tip the blackguard off. I wouldn’t be so gauche, and neither would you. We can’t act out of character and make our parting too obvious—it has to be believable.” She met James’s eyes. “Quite literally a temporary disagreement and nothing more.”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But I still think we should make it easy for him to see us disagree and part.” He looked up and along the balcony running above the left wall of the section they were in. “We could position ourselves toward the end of this balcony, just above the piano, above where the soprano will stand.”

Henrietta turned to the delicate spiral staircase that led up to the balcony in question. “We can go up here and promenade along, then take up position to listen to the singer.” She glanced at James. “That will look entirely natural.”

With a nod, he followed her to the nearby stairs, then up them. Gaining the balcony, he retook her arm, and they commenced a slow promenade back toward the central section of the room.

They found the perfect spot at the end of the balcony, where another spiral stair led down to the gallery’s floor just a little way from one of the four massive granite columns that supported the ceiling of the long room’s central section. The piano was being positioned at the foot of that column.

Henrietta stood beside the balustrade, one gloved hand on the smooth rail, and looked down, watching as five liveried staff muscled the piano around under the direction of a dapperly dressed but currently harassed-looking individual. She glanced at James, beside her. “I think that’s Sir Thomas’s secretary.”

James, who had been scanning the room below them, focused on the poor man, then snorted. “I don’t envy him his job. Bad enough having to organize all this, but on top of that to have to deal with temperamental artistes . . . I can’t imagine there’s many lining up for that honor.” Gossip had painted the soprano who was to perform as having the voice of an angel and the temper of a demented devil.

“I gather he—the secretary—has been with Sir Thomas for years, so no doubt he’s grown accustomed to the drama.” Henrietta leaned further over the railing to peer down.

James had to quash a sudden impulse to seize her and drag her back; he was already so tense, so much on high alert, that his instincts were searching for any excuse to drag her into his arms.

To seize her and keep her safe, to remove her from any danger. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself of his role and that, from his instincts’ point of view, the evening was going to get significantly worse before it got any better.

“Good!” Henrietta said. “Here’s the soprano now.”

James heard the barely restrained impatience in her voice, and also the underlying tension. There was nothing worse than waiting to act, holding off putting their plan into motion, but now the moment was nearly upon them. . . .

In the crowd below, he saw many of their company—those pretending to obliviousness as well as the others who were hanging back and very much more surreptitiously keeping their eyes glued on Henrietta.

The accompanist took his place at the piano, and with word quickly spreading, the crowd shifted and re-formed the better to hear and appreciate the performance. The pianist ran his fingers over the keys, then paused, and the soprano swept dramatically forward as if she were on a stage. Taking up position before the piano, she nodded to the pianist, then visibly drew in a breath, opened her mouth, and sang.

Her voice was so powerful that it filled the room, reaching to the furthest corners. The rise and fall of the music, the song, was captivating, and effortlessly held the audience spellbound. James toyed with the notion of staging his and Henrietta’s charade right then—while all those below were distracted—but even as the thought formed, he discarded it; the singer was so very good there was a definite chance the murderer might be distracted, too, and might miss their performance.

So he waited. Even though the singer was so engaging, he couldn’t appreciate her talent; he was too on edge, too focused on what he and Henrietta had to do next. On the image they had to successfully project.

When the soprano concluded her performance, the applause was thunderous. As it faded, Sir Thomas stepped forward to announce that a celebrated tenor would perform for the gathering in half an hour, and then later in the evening, the diva and the tenor would return to send the attendees home with a duet.

After further accolades and applause, the soprano retreated, along with the pianist and the secretary, and the guests returned to their previous occupation. Noise rose in a wave and crashed over the scene.

Her expression reflecting something akin to rapture—a common enough expression on many ladies’ faces at that precise moment—Henrietta turned to James, met his gaze. “We do it now.” Her expression altered, sobering—as if he’d said something to bring her jarringly back to earth.

He nodded curtly, lips already a thin line. “So we’re having an argument.”

She tipped up her head. Chin firming, lips tightening, she flatly stated, “Yes. You’ve said something horrible—God only knows what.”

They’d rehearsed through the afternoon, but that hadn’t been in their script. He narrowed his eyes, tipping his face downward to meet her militant gaze, an aggressive frown hovering over his face. “Don’t you dare make me laugh.”

In response, she tipped her nose higher and all but tossed her head. “Nonsense. A laugh will do you good.”

He scowled blackly; it was easy to make light of what they were doing—their “disagreement” charade. This was the simple part of the plan; what came next was the bit neither of them felt the least inclined to do.

“So I’m going,” she pronounced, turning away, but pausing, as if to allow him one last chance to apologize, or to otherwise say the right thing.

“Take care.” He had to grip the balustrade to stop himself from reaching out to her.

She swung fully away with an almost violent flounce and, her back to him, head high, took the two steps to the spiral stair and, nose still elevated, went very deliberately down.

Stone-faced, jaw clenching, he tightened his grip on the balustrade, then, forcing himself to slowly let go, he turned on his heel and stalked, slowly, rigidly, back along the balcony.

It took effort, real effort, not to turn and glance back at her; it took almost as much effort not to check on the others, especially those who would, by now, he hoped, be trailing her, sticking close by as she made her way through the crowd. They’d reasoned the murderer, unless he had studied the family’s connections, wouldn’t realize the link between, for example, Gerrard Debbington and Henrietta Cynster.

Gerrard and Charles Morwellan were two of those who would shadow Henrietta wherever she went in the crowded room, waiting to see if any gentleman approached her. They’d hypothesized that if the murderer saw her, his target, believably alone, he wouldn’t be able to resist and, under cover of the crowd, would approach and seek to inveigle her out of the room.

So now James had to wait on tenterhooks, wait and suppress every instinct he possessed, all of which, knowing Henrietta was swanning into danger, were desperately urging him to react, to go after her, protect her, to do his all to keep her safe. . . .

Sadly, in this instance, keeping his distance and playing out their charade was the only way he could, ultimately, ensure her safety. Only through capturing her would-be murderer would she ever be safe again.