And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (30 page)

He paused on the balcony, swiftly scanned the crowd below, then walked down the spiral stair at the balcony’s end, far from where Henrietta had joined the crowd near the room’s center. He’d noted several friends with whom he could pass the time, as he’d be expected to do had their disagreement been real. To preserve the fiction, he would speak with his friends and avoid all members of her family, which was what he proceeded to do.

Of course, all his acquaintances had heard of his engagement and wanted to meet his fiancée. He had a glib answer prepared—that she’d paused to speak with some elderly relatives and would no doubt catch up with him soon.

The effort it cost him was more than he’d expected, yet he held to his role, stayed at that end of the room, and doggedly fought the impulse to search the crowd.

Henrietta, meanwhile, made her way through the throng milling in the room’s center. It was easy to stop and chat, and even to accept the felicitations on her betrothal. Even though James was not by her side, people were so accustomed to her drifting through ton ballrooms alone that few remarked on his absence, and those who did were easily deflected. If they’d just had an argument in reality, she would behave with a high hand and allow no signs of any disturbance to mar the façade she presented to the world.

But as the minutes ticked by and James did not come after her, she might be expected to seek out a quiet place to stop and think. To take stock.

After half an hour of chatting inconsequentially, noting the members of their company who were close by in the throng, she started easing toward the edge of the crowd, slipping toward the rear of the wider central section that was opposite the piano.

When the tenor came out to sing, and the crowd re-formed and focused their collective attention on the diminutive man, she was able to step back, into the relative shadows at the rear of the throng, into a space that was far less crowded.

She stood facing toward the tenor, but more or less alone. The nearest couple was standing in front of her, their backs to her. There was clear space on either side of her, the best invitation she could manage for a gentleman to approach her, especially with everyone else absorbed with the tenor, transfixed by his soaring voice.

As she stood there, waiting, fighting not to allow any of her nervousness to show, she was acutely conscious of feeling exposed. What if he’d brought a gun, or a knife . . . but no. They’d discussed those possibilities, and everyone had agreed that trying to kill her in the gallery itself would be futile; the murderer would never be able to get out, get away, without being recognized.

Which was precisely the reason he wanted to kill her, to protect his identity, so . . . he would approach her, and, one way or another, get her to leave the gala with him.

One part of her mind wondered in an academic sort of way what arguments he might use to accomplish that, but most of her nerves were dancing, taut, twitching and twisting with an unnerving blend of impatience and fear.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gerrard and Jacqueline Debbington at the rear of the crowd to her right, their gazes and their full attentions fixed, supposedly, on the tenor.

Ahead and a little to her left, further into the crowd, stood Jeremy and Eliza Carling, but they, too, had their backs to her.

Rather closer to her left stood a gentleman and lady she’d met but didn’t know well, Rafe and Loretta Carstairs. There were others, too; she wasn’t alone, yet her lungs tightened and she had to fight not to grip her reticule overly tightly.

She waited. Waited.

The tenor ended his performance, and no gentleman had approached her. Stifling a sigh, she forced herself to plaster on a smile and move into and through the crowd again. She chatted with friends, smiled and nodded to acquaintances as she made her way across the wider central section of the room. Several gentlemen, spotting her alone, halted and smiled and passed the time, but all were known to her, and none made any attempt to engage with her other than in mundane social ways.

Eventually, she circled back behind the pillar opposite the piano, as if seeking refuge from the constant chatter and press of bodies; when the soprano and tenor came out together for their final duet, she was standing in the lee of the pillar, as concealed from the body of the crowd as she could get even had said crowd not been focusing on the singers. Once again, everyone’s back was to her.

Once again, she waited.

Waited.

And, once again, no gentleman or, indeed, anyone else, approached her.

“I don’t believe it,” she muttered beneath her breath as the tenor and soprano ended their aria and the crowd again burst into thunderous applause. Grimacing faintly, she put her hands together and politely clapped, but the truth was she’d heard not a single note.

The crowd started to shift, to drift, its focus dissipating; presumably the singers had departed.

Henrietta looked around. “What now?” she whispered. They’d been so sure the murderer wouldn’t be able to resist her as bait that his refusing the lure was the one eventuality for which they hadn’t planned.

As if in answer to her question, Sir Thomas raised his voice, thanking all for their attendance, then informing them that, as this was the museum and the event was at an end, they were now free to leave via the doors at either end of the room.

The crowd started to break up. People searched for others of their party, then headed toward the doors. As the bodies thinned, Henrietta dithered, unsure, then she heaved a sigh, marched around the pillar to the side fronting the central part of the room, and, somewhat glumly, took up station there, waiting again, but this time for James. He, she had no doubt,
would
come for her.

James didn’t know what he felt as he realized the gala had come to an end and no disturbance of any kind had marred the evening. Disbelief, relief, and frustration all vied for dominance in his mind; jaw setting, he stepped free of the stream of guests heading for the nearer door and turned back up the room, scanning for someone who could confirm their failure.

Devil saw him first and hailed him. James waved and they met, Devil with Honoria on his arm, by one side of the room.

“Nothing.” Devil bit off the word; he looked as disgusted and deflated as James felt. “Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t here.” Devil tipped his head toward the furthest of the four granite pillars. “Henrietta’s waiting at the base of that pillar. I’d suggest you make it appear as if you’ve both come to your senses and wish to make up, rather than allow whoever this cursed villain is to guess that we’d planned anything.”

“We’re holding a debriefing in Upper Brook Street.” Honoria smiled faintly, then stretched up and planted a kiss on James’s cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” Drawing back, she nodded regally. “We’ll expect to see you soon—don’t dally.”

James’s lips twisted wryly and he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Then he turned toward the far pillar.

Henrietta was, as Devil had said, standing at the base of the pillar, waiting. What Devil hadn’t said was that she was looking lost, even forlorn.

That made his own approach—and the fiction Devil wanted them to promulgate—rather easier.

Smiling ruefully, he approached. Eyes on hers, he halted, then, after a moment, held out his hand. “Pax?”

“Yes, please.” Henrietta placed her hand in his, then shifted closer as he twined her arm with his, then she sighed and tipped her head so it rested fleetingly against his shoulder. “That was one hellish waste of time.”

A
ll their supporters who had attended the gala congregated in the drawing room in Upper Brook Street. Tea was dispensed and distributed, along with sweet biscuits. Everyone partook, putting off revisiting their failure for as long as they could.

But Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, arguably the one person there most experienced in such intrigues, cut directly to the heart of the matter. “So it didn’t work, but I fancy I know why.”

Devil narrowed his eyes at Royce. “Why?”

Royce’s lips twitched, but he immediately sobered. “Your plan was sound, but it was a plan designed to catch a different type of villain.” Across the room, he met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “A different sort of murderer. If our villain in this instance had been a typical ton gentleman who had, for whatever reason, found himself murdering not just Lady Winston but then her dresser as well, and now attempting to kill Henrietta, all out of panic, out of blind fear of his identity becoming known . . . then he would have, almost certainly, approached Henrietta at the gala. Even if he made no move to harm her there, or to remove her, because he hadn’t planned it, nevertheless he would have approached her and spoken with her and assessed his chances, maybe tried to establish himself as someone she might, next time they meet, trust.” Royce set down his cup. “But he didn’t do any such thing.”

“But can we be sure he was there?” Gabriel said.

“Oh, I think so.” Royce steepled his fingers before his face. “I do think the assumption that he would have been there was sound, but you can check that by comparing the guest lists from Marchmain House and tonight.”

“I know Sir Thomas quite well,” Horatia said. “I can ask him for his list.”

Royce inclined his head. “Please do. At this stage, we need every little piece of intelligence we can gather.” He glanced around the room. “Because I have to warn you that the fact the murderer didn’t take the bait tonight does not bode well.”

Silence hovered for several seconds, eventually broken by Lucifer’s growled “How so?”

Royce paused, then said, “Because I don’t think he saw through our plan.” He looked at James and Henrietta, seated on the sofa opposite. “Your charade was”—Royce smiled faintly—“exquisitely gauged. It was not too much, not too obvious. You kept in character. No one who was watching, as I was, would have thought anything other than what you intended them to think—so that wasn’t the reason he didn’t act.”

Letting his gaze travel the room, Royce went on, “And I watched everyone else, too—we all played our roles to perfection. No one gave our game away.”

“So why didn’t he take the bait?” Barnaby asked.

Royce glanced at Devil, then looked at Barnaby. “I believe the reason he didn’t act was because he evaluated the possibility and found it wanting. He walked through it, both in his mind and at least in part in actuality. As you’d theorized, he couldn’t murder Henrietta in the gallery itself—he had to get her to leave with him.
But
, and you couldn’t have known this before we arrived there tonight, there are only two doors to that room—and because of the valuables stored in the gallery, the doors were manned by museum staff. There were at least six staff at each door throughout the evening. In addition, because of the gala and the peculiar structure of the room with the doors being at either end, none of the guests were going in and out. Hardly any left during the event, only at the end.

“So there was no way our man could have left the room with Henrietta and not have been seen, not have been noted.” Royce paused, then added, “It was too great a risk. He wanted to take the bait, but he resisted because he evaluated the chance and decided the odds weren’t in his favor.”

Once again, Royce looked around the small crowd disposed about the drawing room. “And that,” he continued, “is what’s so disturbing. A murderer who, despite his most desired bait being dangled before him, can resist acting, more, can resist reacting at all, is a very dangerous man.”

“Ah.” Barnaby grimaced. “So we have ourselves an
intelligent
murderer.”

Royce glanced at Barnaby. “As I said, a profoundly dangerous man.”

I
f they’d felt deflated before, that realization, one no one could dispute, cast a further dampener on the debriefing.

As no one had any further insights to offer, much less any new and better plan, and it was already late, the gathering soon broke up. The key players agreed to meet, not the next day but the morning after, to plot their next move; Henrietta promised to, in the meantime, take all reasonable care.

Both she and James stood in the front hall to farewell all those who had answered their call, thanking them for their help, unproductive though the evening had been. Her disappointment was somewhat ameliorated by the unwavering resolution universally displayed, reflected in Amanda’s staunch reassurance, “Don’t worry. We’re not going to stop until we catch this blighter.”

With a swift, hard hug and a kiss on Henrietta’s cheek, Amanda allowed her husband, Martin, to escort her down the steps to their waiting carriage.

They were among the last to leave. Minutes later, Arthur waved Hudson to close the door, then turned to his wife and daughter. He smiled a trifle wearily, but before he could speak, Louise did, squeezing Henrietta’s hand as she said, “Amanda put what we all feel into words. Don’t lose heart, my dear. We’ll find this blackguard, and catch him, too.”

Releasing Henrietta’s hand, Louise patted her cheek, then smiled at James and patted his shoulder as she passed on her way to the stairs. “Come along, Arthur. Leave the two of them to their good-byes.”

Arthur snorted, leaned down, and bussed Henrietta on the cheek, clapped James rather more vigorously on the shoulder, then followed his wife up the stairs.

Leaving Henrietta facing James, looking into his lovely brown eyes; he looked as tired as she felt.

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, then his lips lightly lifted. “We’re both wrung out—it was all that tension. I’ll head home. I want to let everything settle in my mind overnight.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face and kissed her.

A gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.

Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes, then released her and stepped back. “Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll come by in the morning. A turn about the park might do us both good.”

She managed a smile. “That would be refreshing—I’ll look forward to it.”

Rather than summon Hudson, who had discreetly withdrawn to give them privacy, she opened the front door herself. With a last, lingering brush of his fingers over hers, James stepped out, went quickly down the steps, then strode away into the night.