And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (34 page)

“For a tryst, why else? You certainly can’t share any intimate interludes at her parents’ house, and for what will appear to be your . . . shall we say, esoteric tastes?—your own house would be too dangerous, so you and your fiancée have been meeting here.” After a moment, the villain added, his voice holding a darker note, “Trust me, I know how to set a stage.”

James wondered what he meant by that—how the comment could possibly relate to Lady Winston’s or her dresser’s murder, neither of which had been made to appear as anything but the violent if not frenzied attacks they were—but had reached no conclusion by the time he gained the top of the stairs and the villain directed him along the gallery, then told him to stop.

James did, then heard the door he’d already walked past being opened.

“Turn to your right, toward the wall, and so, slowly, turn around, then walk back to the open door and go in.”

James did as he was bid, noting that the murderer circled behind him as he turned. A grimy skylight high above the stairwell let in light, more light than he’d yet had; clearly the murderer was taking no chances of him getting any reasonable look at the man’s face. Even now. Even though the villain planned to kill him in just a few hours.

A cautious beggar to the last, James mused.

Walking through the open doorway, he found himself facing a large four-poster bed. The room was of reasonable size, but not huge. If this was the main bedroom of the house, it was a terrace house, not a mansion. That fitted with what he’d seen of the front hall and stairs.

The room was clean, the bed made, but without any counterpane. The curtains over the windows were drawn. A swift glance around confirmed that the furnishings included a washstand and basin, as well as various other little touches that reinforced the image of this being a place currently in use for intimate trysts.

A straight-backed chair had been set to the right of the bed, three yards away and facing it. A stout rope lay coiled behind the chair. A lamp had been lit; turned very low, it sat atop a tallboy set against the wall immediately to the right of the door.

James halted.

“Further.” The end of the pistol barrel prodded his spine. “Walk to the chair and halt, facing it.”

James did, wondering. The villain again told him to turn slowly, this time to his left, allowing the blackguard to circle behind him, confirming that the man was taking extraordinary care to ensure that James saw as little of his face—his largely concealed face—as possible.

Which, James concluded, meant that, if he did get a clear view of the devil’s face, he would know him.

“Sit.”

James did; a second later, the rope looped about him and cinched tight, then looped around him again, lashing him very effectively to the chair.

He waited, saying nothing, trying to think if there was anything more he might ask, might hope to learn. There was really only one more piece of information he needed.

After testing the rope, and that his hands were still securely bound, the murderer stepped back, then walked to the door, showing James nothing but the back of his cloak.

But on reaching the door, with his hand on the knob, the villain turned. And told James what he wanted to know. “I’m off to arrange to meet with your fiancée, and then . . . I’ll bring her here.”

Although he couldn’t see the man’s lips, James knew they were curved when the blackguard added, “And then I’ll bring this whole sorry tale to an end.”

The murderer’s pale eyes gleamed briefly in the lamplight, then he opened the door and went out, closing the door gently behind him.

James stared at where the man had stood. By the door, the lamplight had been strong enough for James to clearly see that part of the blackguard’s face above the band of the black silk scarf. . . . “He’s right.” James frowned. “If I could see more of his face, I would know him—would recognize him.” As it was . . . he knew he’d seen the man before, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.

Setting the puzzle of the man’s identity aside, James waited—counseled himself to patience even though his instincts were urging him to act, and act swiftly.

Presumably the man would send a note to Henrietta and she would come to rescue him. She would accompany the murderer back here, to this house, to this room, and then . . . if James read the man and his ghastly intentions aright, the blackguard would violate her and beat her to death in front of James, and then kill James, staging his murder to appear to be suicide driven by anguished remorse.

“Well,” he muttered, “if Henrietta did die like that trying to save me, I
would
kill myself out of anguished remorse.”

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Once the devil’s footsteps had receded, then died away down the stairs, after the front door had closed and remained closed for, James judged, long enough to be sure that the fiend wasn’t about to have second thoughts and for whatever reason come back to check his bonds, he carefully eased the long glass shard down from its position under his cuff.

Gripping it carefully between his fingers, he started sawing.

H
udson was waiting to deliver the second note from Lady Winston’s murderer when Henrietta walked out of the dining room after dinner that evening.

As they’d arranged that afternoon, dinner had been transformed into an impromptu family gathering, with Amanda and Martin, Amelia and Luc, and Simon and Portia joining Mary, Henrietta, Louise, and Arthur about the table.

Arthur and Louise had been delighted to have their family all together, the only minor blemish being that, as Henrietta had explained, James had had a prior engagement that had prevented him from joining them.

Expecting the murderer to have been as good as his word, after an hour and a half of concealing her fraught state, assisted by the others, who had done their best to keep her parents’ attention fixed elsewhere, Henrietta led the exodus from the dining room, leaving Martin, Amanda, Luc, and Amelia to delay Louise and Arthur enough for her to accept the note, swiftly read it, then tuck it away in her pocket.

Looking up, she met Simon’s eyes; he and Portia had followed her and Mary from the dining room. Simon arched a brow. “As expected?” He kept his voice low.

Raising her head, Henrietta nodded. “Just a place and a time, and some instructions. Nothing more.”

The rest of the company joined them; they all stood milling in the front hall, talking of the engagements they were about to leave to attend.

Arthur held Louise’s evening cloak for her.

Shrugging into it and settling the folds, Louise glanced at Henrietta. “You’re coming with me and Mary tonight, aren’t you? I know James is otherwise engaged, but—”

“Actually, Mama,” Mary cut in, “I’m feeling rather queasy.” She grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach. “It must have been something I ate.”

Louise was at once solicitous, but Henrietta stepped in to say, “I’ll stay with Mary. I’m really not enthused by the prospect of another night socializing—I could do with a quiet night in. And I know you’re looking forward to seeing Lady Hancock, and you really can’t cry off Mrs. Arbuthot’s soiree.”

Louise grimaced. She glanced at Mary, then nodded. “All right. You two girls have a quiet night and get to bed early.” She looked inquiringly at the twins and their husbands, at Portia and Simon. “So where are you all bound for? Can I drop any of you off on my way?”

The others all had their stories rehearsed; Martin, Luc, and Simon were off for an evening at Boodles—not White’s, wither Arthur was bound. Amanda, Amelia, and Portia were supposedly planning to attend a ball at Hilliard House, but on hearing of Mary’s indisposition, and Henrietta’s, too, the three elected to spend an hour with them before heading out for the evening.

“Very well.” Turning to the door on Arthur’s arm, Louise waved to them all. “Have a pleasant evening, and we’ll catch up with you all tomorrow at the meeting at St. Ives House.”

They all called their farewells; poised about the front hall, on the tiles, on the lower steps of the stairs, they all watched, smiles in place, as Hudson opened the door, then Arthur swept Louise out, waved a cheery farewell, and escorted Louise down the steps to the waiting carriage.

As Arthur shut the carriage door on his wife, then headed for the hackney summoned earlier, Hudson closed the front door and turned. He surveyed all those remaining in the front hall, none of whom made any attempt to move, listening, as they all were, to ensure that Arthur’s carriage as well as Louise’s was well away and unlikely to turn back.

A puzzled frown in his eyes, Hudson studied Henrietta, then, as if making some decision, turned to Simon. “What would you like me to do, sir?”

Simon met his eyes. “They’re not coming back, are they?”

“I wouldn’t expect your parents to return until the end of their evenings.”

“Good.” Simon glanced at the others. “In that case, Hudson, you’re delegated to hold the fort here, and otherwise don’t pass on anything you see or hear, not unless asked directly.”

“Naturally not, sir.” Hudson gave a small bow. “Like the best of my breed, I will endeavor to be deaf and dumb while seeing and hearing all.”

That drew chuckles and grateful smiles from all, but then Luc looked at Henrietta. “What does the note say?”

She drew in a tight breath, fished the note from her pocket, unfolded it, and read, “ ‘Meet me at the corner of James Street and Roberts Street, in Mayfair, at ten o’clock. It should take you no more than fifteen minutes to walk there from Upper Brook Street. Make sure you are alone and that no one follows you. Should you fail to keep this appointment, or think to trap me in any way, your fiancé will die, slowly and painfully. And so will you.’ ”

Henrietta stared at the note, then shivered and folded it again, as if by doing so she could contain the malicious intent that oozed from the page. Looking up, she met the eyes of those around her—her nearest and dearest—all grave, but determined.

“Buck up.” Amanda squeezed her hand. “We’re going to get James back safe and sound, and catch this madman.”

Murmurs of agreement came from all around.

“Right then,” Simon said. “We all know what we have to do. Let’s get to it. I’ll send a note to Barnaby—as arranged, he’ll alert Stokes. Henrietta, whatever you do, don’t leave until you need to. The longer we have to get everyone in place, the better.”

There were nods all around. Henrietta turned and led the way up the stairs. Simon walked off to the parlor to write his note, but everyone else followed Henrietta, hurrying up the stairs in her wake, eager to change and sneak out to take up their assigned positions.

Chapter Fifteen

A
t precisely fifteen minutes before ten o’clock, cloaked and veiled, Henrietta descended the front steps of her parents’ house and set off, walking briskly along the pavement toward Grosvenor Square. She felt keyed up, nerves tight, but, surprisingly, her principal emotion wasn’t fear, not even trepidation.

They would get James back, and catch the murderer, and all would be well.

She knew there were any number of things that might go wrong, but her brain had, it seemed entirely of its own volition, shut them out, denying failure any purchase whatever in her mind. She was so determined that it was an effort to walk normally and not march militantly along.

The night was unhelpfully black, with little moon to light her way. Luckily, her path to the appointed rendezvous was along well-lit Mayfair streets; the streetlamps were all burning, and it wasn’t yet so late that there was any real danger, not in that area.

Knowing that, courtesy of their plan, she wasn’t actually alone no doubt contributed to her combative mood. She spotted a familiar street sweeper loitering along one side of Grosvenor Square—directly opposite St. Ives House; Luc was prone to taking such risks. Henrietta didn’t dare look more closely to see where Amelia was, but she knew her sister would be near.

Also comforting was the pistol weighing down her reticule; Penelope had loaned it to her and instructed her in how to fire it. As, along with all the Cynster girls, Henrietta had insisted on being taught about guns along with their brothers, a little instruction was all that had been necessary; the small, American muff pistol felt nice and snug in her grasp.

Penelope had assured her that despite its size, the pistol would put a sizeable hole in the murderer.

Of course, none of the ladies had considered it wise to mention the pistol to any of their menfolk.

Head up, gaze fixed forward, Henrietta walked purposefully along, ignoring the hackney, and its driver, who rolled past as she crossed Duke Street, leaving Grosvenor Square to walk on along Brook Street.

James Street was the second street on the left. She crossed the street, staring up it to the opening of the much narrower Roberts Street, a poorly lit dark maw, but she could see no figure waiting. Resisting the urge to nod in greeting to the apparently old man in a frieze coat who shuffled past, she turned up James Street and walked briskly to the designated corner.

The old man shuffled on across the mouth of James Street, then, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other, turned up the street on the opposite pavement. At the rate he was moving, she would meet the murderer and be long gone before Barnaby reached the spot directly across from Roberts Street.

Taking up position at the corner, closer to the edge of the pavement so she could more easily be seen, she put back her veil and looked around again, searching the shadows. She even turned and peered into the deeper shadows of Roberts Street; courtesy of the light from the lamps in the street at the other end, she could see that there was no figure lurking along the pavements in Roberts Street, either.

Turning back to face James Street, and Barnaby, still puffing and wheezing along, she heaved a sigh and settled to wait.

Two minutes later, the hair at her nape lifted. She stiffened.

“Don’t turn around. Not yet.”

He—the murderer—was standing directly behind her. Her senses screaming, she battled the primitive impulse to whirl about. Gripping her reticule tightly, she raised her head higher, then stiffly nodded. “Very well. Now what?”