And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (33 page)

“Well!” Penelope looked simultaneously shocked and intrigued. “That certainly is a development.” She paused, then said, “Do you mean to tell me he saw through our plan last night, and rather than fall into our trap, refashioned it for his own use?”

Henrietta nodded decisively. “That, indeed, is how it appears.”

Penelope blinked. “How very impertinent.” She refocused on Henrietta. “So tell me all.”

Henrietta proceeded to do so, punctuated by various belligerent and militant comments from the other four. She concluded with, “So we’ve come to you for advice and any help you can give.”

“We walked from Upper Brook Street and through Grosvenor Square,” Portia put in, “all the while making it appear that we were dragging Henrietta along for an outing, and that diverting here was purely an impulse, a spontaneous female family call.”

Penelope was nodding. “Excellent. You’ve done exactly as I would have—exactly as you should have.”

Henrietta caught Portia’s eye and, despite all, struggled to keep her lips straight; they all understood that from Penelope, the words “exactly as I would have” were high praise indeed. It was widely accepted that in a family well-endowed with intelligence, Penelope nevertheless took the cake.

“We thought,” Amanda said, “that, clearly, Henrietta has to go to this rendezvous and meet with the villain.”

“And she has to go along with whatever he says until she learns where James is being held,” Mary added.

Penelope looked around the circle of faces, at the last considered Henrietta, then nodded. “I agree. I can’t see any way around that—not if we want to rescue James, and, of course, we do.”

“Yes, but we can’t just let Henrietta swan off all alone to meet this murderer who wants to kill her,” Amelia said, “but equally we have to make it appear that she is, indeed, all alone.”

“And more,” Amanda said, “we cannot allow even the slightest whisper of this to reach our male cousins, or the elders, who will promptly refer it to said male cousins.”

“Oh, no.” Penelope waved a hand. “I quite agree. Telling them, or letting them learn of it, would be entirely counterproductive in this case.”

“So . . .” Eyes on her younger sister’s face, Portia gestured for her to go on. “How do we manage it—what should we do?”

Penelope gazed unseeing at the narrow table between the sofas for several moments, then she looked up and met the others’ eyes. “We’re going to have to recruit a small and highly select army—those we can trust to do what we need them to do and to keep quiet while they’re about it. We need sufficient numbers, but we also need a degree of expertise.” She paused, her gaze resting on Henrietta, then said, “I would strongly advise that we involve Barnaby, of course, but also, through him, Inspector Stokes. Both already know of the murderer and his previous attempts on your life. I believe if we present this correctly to them, both will see the necessity for secrecy, and the sense in the plan we propose.”

Mary opened her eyes wide. “We have a plan?”

Penelope smiled intently. “We will have by the time they arrive.” She looked at Henrietta. “In the circumstances, it’s your decision, but I know Barnaby and Stokes are at Scotland Yard at this moment, and I can send word and have them come here via the mews and the back door.”

Henrietta knew she needed help, and this was the sort of help she’d come there to find. She nodded. “Yes, please do send word. And meanwhile”—she glanced at her sisters, sister-in-law, then at Penelope—“perhaps we can work on our plan.”

Penelope nodded and rose to tug the bellpull.

B
y the time Barnaby Adair led Inspector Stokes into the drawing room, the five ladies had settled on the bare bones of their plan.

After performing the necessary introductions for Stokes, then waiting while both men fetched straight-backed chairs from by the wall and joined the gathering, Penelope stated, “Before we can tell you anything, you must swear to hold everything we say in the strictest confidence, to be revealed only to those others we agree need to be informed.”

Now seated, both men stared at Penelope for an instant, then exchanged a long glance weighted with unvoiced male communication. But, eventually, both reluctantly nodded and gave their word, Barnaby with his customary urbanity, Stokes in a rumbling growl.

Penelope smiled approvingly at them both, then invited Henrietta to relate the day’s developments.

She did. When he heard of what had occurred and read the villain’s letter, Barnaby looked grave.

Stokes looked blackly grim.

Before either man could speak, Penelope said, “What we’ve decided must happen is this.” She proceeded to outline their plan.

Henrietta watched as both men digested Penelope’s words. She’d expected them to argue, but neither did; that, she supposed, was one benefit in recruiting Penelope, a lady with established credentials in the dealing-with-dangerous-blackguards sphere. There could be no doubt that Stokes as well as Barnaby treated the situation, them, and their plan seriously, and gave each aspect due consideration. That was apparent in both men’s expressions as they followed the outline of their plan to its, at present rather nebulous, conclusion.

When Penelope fell silent, both men remained silent, too, transparently thinking, assessing and evaluating.

Eventually Barnaby stirred and refocused, first on his wife, then he glanced at the other ladies. “I agree we need to do something along those lines, but . . . frankly, this puts both me and Stokes in a difficult position. You insist that Devil and your other cousins can’t know, and”—he held up a hand to stay their comments—“I understand and agree entirely that we can’t afford to allow them to know, much less be involved with this. However, to ask me, and even more, Stokes, to assist you without anyone—any male—of the family knowing . . .” He looked around at their faces and grimaced. “You can see my point, can’t you?”

Portia, Amanda, and Amelia all grimaced back. “Sadly,” Amanda said, “yes. I see your difficulty.”

“But,” Mary said, sitting up in her corner of the sofa opposite Henrietta, “as long as one relevant adult male of the family knows and approves”—she looked at Stokes, then Barnaby—“that would do, wouldn’t it?”

Stokes frowned. “Who . . . ?”

“Simon.” Portia met Mary’s eyes and nodded. “We can tell Simon and make him understand. He might not like it, but he will understand—he knows how the others will react as well as we do.”

“That would be enough for you, wouldn’t it?” Amanda looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Simon is, after all, Henrietta’s older brother.”

Barnaby nodded decisively. “Yes, and I’m sure he’ll agree with us—with your reasoning as to why this has to be kept secret from Devil and the rest.”

Stokes had raised his brows, considering; now he, too, nodded. “Miss Henrietta’s older brother’s involvement would absolve me of having to inform His Grace.”

“Well,” Mary said, “that’s a relief.”

Which summed up everyone’s reaction.

Penelope and Portia arranged for a message to be sent to Simon.

By the time Simon arrived, also entering via the back door and bringing Charlie Hastings with him, their plan had evolved considerably, with Stokes adding a great deal, not only from his extensive experience but also by way of the personnel he could command.

Simon and Charlie sat, and Simon listened as Henrietta related what had occurred since the previous evening, then Barnaby explained the outline of their plan, and Stokes filled in various details of how the plan would have to be executed.

Amanda then explained the dilemma they faced in that they could not allow any of the above to come to the attention of Devil and the older members of the Cynster clan.

Henrietta concluded their arguments with, “We have to remember that it’s not only my life at risk in this, but James’s, too, and at present he’s in this blackguard’s hands.”

Simon met her eyes, blue meeting blue of a similar shade, for a long-drawn moment, then he sighed. Nodded. “You’re right. If we let the others know, James’s life will be at even greater risk than it already is. It might even be forfeit due to their reactions, and that we cannot have. And the truth is, if we’re successful in laying hands on this villain and rescuing James, while they’ll grumble and grouse about not being told, it’ll be more in the vein of not being involved and so missing out on the excitement, but beyond that they won’t really care. Just as long as we all come out of this with a whole skin and in good health, that’s all they’ll truly care about.”

Amanda nodded. “Well said. So”—she looked about the gathering—“let’s get down to sorting out the details. First point—who else do we need to inform and involve?”

Barnaby drew out a notebook, as did Stokes, and the company settled to walk through the entire plan, from the preparation necessary to ensure Henrietta could respond to the villain’s summons when she received it, to the ultimate end of what was, as Charlie put it, “Rather like a treasure hunt of sorts.”

They discussed and drafted in more husbands and others to help; when they paused for refreshments, Henrietta glanced around the group. And felt hope well; with so many behind her—the small, select army Penelope had decreed—she was starting to feel the first seeds of confidence that by the end of the night, all might be well.

A dangerous confidence.
The whisper slid through her thoughts. She took due note of it, acknowledged that Lady Winston’s murderer was far too intelligent, and far too cold-blooded, to be taken lightly, yet . . . she had to cling to hope.

Turning back to the discussion, raging still, she gave herself up to their plan to rescue James.

As long as she got him back, nothing else mattered.

J
ames had dozed throughout the day, waking to shift as much as he could, easing cramped muscles as far as he could, which, with respect to his arms and torso, hadn’t been very far at all.

But he was awake, and wondering, when he heard muffled footsteps approach the basement door, then the bolts were drawn back and the door swung inward.

Judging by the quality of the light slanting through the small windows, it was early evening. James watched as the man he assumed to be Lady Winston’s murderer came down the stairs. Studying the man closely, he confirmed that the man was the one who had left him in the basement the previous night—the same height, the same build, the same gait. Today the villain wore a plain black suit, with a black cloak over all, and with his head and face concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the lower half of his face further masked by a black silk scarf.

Other points of difference were the sharp knife the man held in one fist, and the pistol he held in the other.

James watched as the villain strolled toward him, then halted several yards away. The villain’s eyes fixed on him, studying him with a certain dispassion. Dark, perhaps black, brows, brown eyes paler than James’s; that was all James could see.

After a long moment, unable to help himself, he arched a weary brow.

Behind the scarf, the villain’s lips shifted. “Indeed. I fear you must have been atrociously bored. My apologies.” What little expression had been discernible in his eyes leached to blankness. “But it’ll all be over soon.”

The man’s voice had lowered, growing both softer and harsher, more rasping. James quelled a sudden shiver.

The blackguard stirred, paused, then said, “I’m here to move you upstairs. I’m going to undo the ropes tying you to the chair, and then you’re going to stand.” Slowly, keeping his distance, he started to pace around the chair. “You will not turn around. Once you’re steady on your feet and I give the word, you will walk, slowly and steadily, over to the stairs and up them. I’ll give you directions from there.” He passed out of James’s field of vision. “I’ll be walking behind you, far enough that you won’t have any chance to reach me before I pull the trigger, but also close enough that should you try to make a bolt for it, I’ll have no difficulty shooting you, and then, if necessary, finishing you off with the knife.”

Now standing behind James, the man continued, in the same calm, deadly tone, “While I’m sure by now you realize the futility of your position, I’m equally sure you’ll do everything—cling to every hope—of living to at least see your betrothed alive and well, and to try to get her free. Your best chance of doing that is to cooperate in moving to the room upstairs—the room to which I intend bringing her, regardless of whether you are alive to see it or not.” He paused, then, voice hardening, asked, “Do I make myself clear?”

James pressed his lips tight, holding back the various responses that leapt to his tongue. Rather than trust himself to speak, he nodded.

“Excellent.”

He sensed the murderer draw closer, then felt the rope about his chest tighten and tug as the blackguard undid the knots.

Then the rope loosened and the murderer stepped back, drawing the rope away. “There. You can stand.”

Slowly, feeling his balance teeter, his joints and muscles realigning, James eased upright. Eventually, he straightened to his full height; he closed his eyes in blessed relief as he stretched his spine as well as he could, given his hands were still lashed behind his back.

The murderer gave him a few moments to ease his back and properly regain his balance, then ordered, “Start walking. To the stairs and up them.”

James obeyed. Climbing the stairs, he was curious to see what he could of the building as they moved through it; the more he could learn about the house or whatever it was the better—who knew what might happen once Henrietta arrived?

“Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

Following that and subsequent directions, James walked through a long-deserted kitchen, down a corridor, and into a narrow front hall wreathed in cobwebs. Through various open doorways, he saw that although the place was clearly abandoned, some furniture still remained. As, at the murderer’s direction, he started up the narrow stair, he asked, his tone purely curious, “As I understand your plan, you want to make it appear that Henrietta and I both came here willingly, but why on earth would we be meeting here?”