After due discussions with Lord Arthur, and subsequent meetings with both James’s and the Cynsters’ men-of-business, the settlements had been decided on, and after a day James deemed well-spent, he and Lord Arthur could join with Louise and Henrietta to announce to the assembled company the date for their official engagement ball, which, in keeping with Cynster tradition, would be held in the ballroom of St. Ives House.
Seated around the long table, the family cheered and applauded, then cheered even more when Lord Arthur added that the wedding would follow on the thirtieth of May, two days before James’s grandaunt Emily’s deadline.
Later, when the company returned to the long drawing room, with Henrietta on his arm, James went from group to group, renewing acquaintance with those Cynsters he knew less well.
“I gather,” Henrietta confided as they left one group, “that all the others not in London are on their way. Most—like Lucifer and Phyllida—will be here in time for the engagement ball, but those further north might not be able to reach town in time. We’re hoping Richard and Catriona, at least, will be here for the wedding, but, of course, no one’s heard back as yet, and Celia and Martin are hoping very much that Angelica and Dominic can make the journey.”
The following hour passed in cheery, often jovial conversation. Henrietta bided her time; there was no sense in disrupting their evening by telling James of her unnerving discovery prematurely. She was safe in St. Ives House, surrounded by family; no matter who the gentleman-villain was, he wouldn’t be able to reach her there . . . and she definitely didn’t want to risk being overheard and the disquieting information spreading to the rest of the family—not until she’d had time to discuss the situation and how to deal with it with James.
At last, the company started to thin. On James’s arm, she weighed her options while James and Simon chatted. Soon, her mother would summon her and she would have to leave with her parents; she couldn’t afford to wait much longer, but Simon and James showed no signs of parting—indeed, from what she’d overheard, they intended to leave together to meet with Charlie Hastings at some club.
Did she really care if Simon learned about what was going on?
Even as the question formed in her mind, she realized that—with James and Simon being so close—it was more than likely that Simon already knew about her three “accidents.”
Seeing Louise leave Helena and glide over to speak with Honoria, Henrietta drew breath and turned to join James’s and Simon’s conversation.
Both looked at her; both sensed she had something momentous to say.
Simon wrinkled his nose at her. “Do I have to leave?”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes. “You can stay if you promise to be good.”
Simon’s smile flashed. “I’m not sure I can promise that, but”—he gestured encouragingly—“do tell.”
She shot him a warning look, then transferred her gaze to James. “I met Melinda Wentworth this morning.”
“Oh.” James’s expression blanked. He swiftly searched her eyes. “Was she difficult?”
Henrietta shook her head dismissively. “No, not at all. That isn’t it.” She paused to draw breath and order the revelations in her mind. “She told me that on the evening I visited the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street to tell Melinda and her parents my findings about you, Lady Winston, a widow who lives—lived—next door, was murdered.”
Both James and Simon visibly stiffened. His expression abruptly sober, James nodded. “Go on.”
“As one might expect, Melinda doesn’t know much—just that the murder was thought to have been committed sometime that evening, and most likely by the gentleman Lady Winston was in the habit of entertaining in secret. She habitually sent her staff away for the night, so no one knows who said gentleman is.”
A pause ensued while James and Simon digested that. It was Simon who, frowning, said, “I don’t see how that involves you.” He sent a swift glance around, confirming no one else was near enough to overhear, before he met Henrietta’s eyes and said, “I’m assuming you think this has something to do with the recent attacks?”
So James had told Simon, which meant Charlie most likely knew, too. Tight-lipped, Henrietta nodded. “I’m coming to that.” She switched her gaze to James’s eyes. “It was cold and foggy, but my carriage was waiting just across the street. Melinda saw me out, and I told her to go in and shut the door—the groom and coachman were there and watching—then I went down the steps . . . and a gentleman ran into me. He would have knocked me over, but he caught me and steadied me. I think he did that instinctively. He had on a cloak, and the hood was up. He apologized—his voice, his diction, was exactly what I expected from his clothes. Then Gibbs—my groom—called out, and the gentleman released me, nodded, and walked quickly off. I thought nothing more of it . . . until Melinda told me about the murder.”
Neither James nor Simon was slow. Both shifted, but, glancing around, immediately reined their reactions in. James’s gaze refixed on her face. “You think he was the murderer?”
Henrietta met his gaze steadily. “I’m almost certain he was. There was one thing I registered at the time, one thing I didn’t understand, but subsequently I forgot about it.”
“What thing?” Simon asked.
“When I started down the steps, I glanced around—instinctively, as anyone would—and the pavement was clear. Yet mere seconds later, the man nearly mowed me down, so where did he come from? Why hadn’t I seen him when I looked?” When James and Simon frowned, understanding the point but not immediately realizing the answer, she gave it to them. “He had to have erupted, moving at speed, from the area steps of the house next door—the one in which Lady Winston died. That was why he didn’t see me, and why I didn’t see him. He was running away from what he’d done.”
Both men stared at her, and she stared back. She could see in both pairs of eyes trained on her—one pair warm brown, the other sharply blue—that they were putting things together, linking the facts.
Lips thin, James said, “He thinks you can identify him.”
“But,” Simon put in, “you can’t, can you?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “Since this morning, I’ve gone over those seconds countless times in my mind, but there was nothing I saw that could in any way tell anyone who he was.”
James’s expression grew to be the definition of grim. “But he, unfortunately, doesn’t know that.”
“I suspect not.” Fingers instinctively tightening on James’s arm, Henrietta looked at Simon. “Which I suppose means my accidents were, indeed, not accidental at all.”
“No. But that also suggests,” Simon said, his face now coldly expressionless, “that he believes that you do know but haven’t yet realized the significance of what you know. He must be living in fear that you’ll hear about the murder, and suddenly realize . . . and expose him.”
James had been thinking. Now he looked at Simon. “I haven’t heard anything about this murder, have you?”
Simon shook his head. “Not a whisper.” Raising his gaze, he looked across the room. “Which means Portia hasn’t heard of it, either.”
“Melinda said her mother had told her not to speak of it,” Henrietta said.
“Perhaps the authorities are, for some reason, holding back the news.” Simon shrugged.
“Possibly so they don’t scare the horses,” James cynically said. “Can you imagine the outcry such a crime in Hill Street, in the heart of Mayfair, will provoke?”
Simon grimaced. “Very true. So . . .”
“How can we learn more?” James asked. “Clearly, if that is the reason behind the attacks on Henrietta, then there’s no reason to suppose the blackguard will stop.”
Not until she’s dead didn’t need to be said.
Henrietta shivered anyway. James closed his hand over hers on his sleeve.
Simon humphed. “Barnaby Adair, and through him, Inspector Stokes.” Simon met James’s gaze. “You’ve met Adair, haven’t you?”
James nodded. “Here and there, and I already know Stokes from that time at Glossup Hall.”
“Not something I’m likely to forget,” Simon said. “But Adair and Stokes joined forces, so to speak, in another matter later, and subsequently they’ve often worked together, with the higher-ups’ blessings, whenever there’s a difficult serious crime within the haut ton.”
“I remember,” Henrietta said. “Stokes was the policeman who helped Penelope and Barnaby with that matter about the orphan boys going missing.”
Simon nodded. “Yes—and that case was a social and political mess, which is where the Adair and Stokes combination comes into its own. Stokes isn’t just any old policeman. He understands enough about us—the haut ton—to know how to navigate our shoals, and Barnaby’s father has significant political clout.”
Increasingly grim, James said, “This murder has the hallmarks of just such a case.” He looked at Simon. “Can you speak with Adair?”
Simon nodded decisively. “He’ll be interested, I’m sure. I doubt we’ll find him out tonight, but I’ll invite myself to breakfast tomorrow—such useful things, family connections—after which I’ll bring him around to Upper Brook Street.” Simon met Henrietta’s eyes. “He’ll want to hear everything from your lips.”
She nodded. “I’ll stay in.”
James squeezed her hand. “I’ll call and wait with you.”
Simon said, “Barnaby will want to hear all about the accidents, too.”
They all spotted Simon and Henrietta’s aunt Horatia sweeping regally down on them; the three exchanged glances, then turned and smiled welcomingly.
Horatia halted before them, eyes scanning their faces. “Now what are you three planning?”
“A wedding, as it happens,” Henrietta said. “Do you think Simon will do as James’s best man?”
It was the perfect distraction, and then the evening was over. Those still present gathered in the front hall, confirming plans for the next days and making their farewells.
They were the last to leave; Henrietta quit the house with her parents and Mary, while James left with Simon to hunt down Charlie Hastings, then put their heads together and revisit the now even more urgent necessity of keeping Henrietta safe.
From a murderer who, in order to escape justice, was apparently convinced he needed to murder again.
It was ten o’clock the following morning, and Henrietta was pacing, restless and distracted, before the windows in the back parlor in Upper Brook Street.
Leaning against the back of the sofa, James watched, and otherwise worked at maintaining an outwardly calm façade. He had no idea how long breakfast in the Adair household might take, much less if Adair would be free to speak with them today—
The door opened; James turned and saw Simon walk in. His friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law presumably still had a latchkey to this house, his childhood home. A gentleman with curly fair hair, whom James recognized as the Honorable Barnaby Adair, followed Simon through the door.
Straightening, James rounded the sofa.
Simon stepped back and closed the door, then waved at Barnaby. “Behold, the very man we need.”
“Glossup.” Barnaby shook the hand James offered, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Anyone would think he’d had to bend my arm, while in reality, nothing could have kept me away.” He smiled at Henrietta as she joined them; married to Penelope, who was sister to Portia and also to Luc, Henrietta and Simon’s older sister Amelia’s husband, Barnaby was a connection several times over, and was well known throughout the Cynster clan. “Henrietta.” Barnaby took her hand, gently squeezed her fingers. “It seems you’ve unexpectedly become the target for a murderer.” His expression sobering, he glanced at James before saying to Henrietta, “I hope you don’t mind, but given the seriousness of the situation, I sent word to my colleague from Scotland Yard, Inspector Basil Stokes.”
Barnaby looked at James. “Glossup here, as well as Simon, and indeed, Portia, can add their recommendations to mine—they worked with Stokes during the incident at Glossup Hall several years ago.” Refocusing on Henrietta, Barnaby continued, “Stokes is a sound man, and I fear we’ll need him and his people to help us with this.”
Henrietta summoned a smile, although it felt weak at the edges. “I’ve already heard much about Inspector Stokes from Penelope—she’s sung his praises more than once. I’ll be happy to make his acquaintance.”
Barnaby was, she realized, studying her face, as if to gauge how upset she was—or, perhaps, was likely to become; she straightened her spine and looked him in the eye—and he faintly smiled. “Excellent. In that case—”
The doorbell jangled. They looked at the parlor door.
“That’ll be Stokes,” Barnaby said.
Simon cast him a glance. “That was quick. He must have set out the moment he got your note.” Simon went to open the parlor door.
“If you had any idea how much of a confounding problem Lady Winston’s murder has become,” Barnaby said, “you would be more surprised if he hadn’t come at the run.”
Brows rising, Simon opened the door and stepped out. “Stokes! This way. Thank you, Hudson.” Simon paused, listening to a rumble from Hudson, glanced at Henrietta, then looked up the corridor. “No tea just yet—perhaps later.”
“Tell Hudson I’ll ring,” Henrietta said.
Simon relayed the message, then stepped back to allow a tall, dark-haired man, with slate gray eyes and a rather brooding expression—as if he was constantly observing all about him and didn’t expect to be favorably impressed—to enter the room.
Barnaby made the introductions. Stokes clearly remembered James and Simon; the quick flash of his smile lightened his face. Then Barnaby introduced Henrietta, and Stokes’s gray gaze fastened on her.
When she offered her hand, he shook it with an easy, understated elegance that belied his working-class station in life. “I understand, Miss Cynster,” Stokes said, his voice deep, his tone even but with an autocratic edge, “that on departing the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street nine evenings ago, you encountered a gentleman leaving the house next door.”
Henrietta nodded. “Although it would be more accurate to say he encountered me.” Turning, waving Stokes and the others to the armchairs, she walked to the sofa and sat.
James sat alongside her; Simon took the armchair to her right, Barnaby the armchair to the left of the sofa, leaving Stokes to take possession of the large armchair directly across the small table from Henrietta.
After drawing a notebook from his pocket, along with a pencil, Stokes sat, opened the notebook, balanced it on his knee, and looked up at Henrietta. “I would appreciate it, Miss Cynster, if you would tell me what happened—all that you can remember, every little detail no matter how small or apparently inconsequential—from the instant you stepped onto the Wentworths’ front porch.” Stokes met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Take your time, as much time as you like.”
Henrietta drew in a deep breath, fixed her gaze past Stokes’s left shoulder, and called up the scene in her mind. “It was cold—chilly—and there was fog, enough so I couldn’t see the end of the street. That made the light from the streetlamps seem dimmer than usual, so overall the light wasn’t strong.” She paused, but no one interrupted her, so she continued, “It was bitter, so I told Melinda—the Wentworths’ daughter—to go inside and shut the door. My coachman had halted the carriage—my parents’ carriage—on the other side of the street, and both my groom and the coachman were there, and—” She broke off, then said, “There was no one else nearby. I just realized—I’d already looked up and down the street by then, because that was why I felt so confident about being left alone to cross to the carriage.” She met Stokes’s eyes. “At that point, there was no one on the nearer pavement close enough to reach me—to intercept me—before I crossed the road.”
Stokes asked, “Did you see any others further along the road?”
She thought back, bringing the memory to
life in her mind. . . . “Yes. There were two gentlemen walking away toward North Audley Street, and in the other direction, much further away, there was a couple who had just come out of a house and were getting into a hackney.”
“Very good.” Stokes was busy making notes. “So what happened next?”
“With the chill in the air you may be sure I didn’t dally. I walked down the steps—I was holding my cloak around me, and I had my reticule in one hand. I was looking down, placing my feet. Then I reached the pavement and lifted my head—and that’s when he barreled into me.”
“You didn’t hear footsteps?” Barnaby asked.
She thought back, then, frowning, shook her head. “Not coming along. I heard maybe two quick steps, but by the time I’d even registered them, he’d already run into me.” Frowning more definitely, she looked at Barnaby. “That’s odd, isn’t it? If he’d come up the area steps, wouldn’t I have heard him?”
Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “Not those area steps. The staff had put down matting because the steps got too slippery in winter. The matting’s quite thick, more than enough to muffle the sound of footsteps.” Barnaby looked back at her. “That you didn’t hear him coming only makes it more likely that the gentleman who ran into you did, indeed, come up those steps.”
Head down as he jotted notes, Stokes was nodding. “If he came from anywhere else, you would have heard enough to have been aware of his approach before he collided with you. But even more telling, if he hadn’t come up very quickly from those particular area steps, he would have seen you in good time to avoid any collision.” Pencil poised, he looked up at her. “Did your groom or coachman see where the man came from?”
“I don’t know—I didn’t think to ask. I doubt Johns, the coachman, saw anything—he was looking at his horses—but Gibbs should have.”
“Leave them for now—I’ll speak with them later. Let’s go on with what you saw.” Stokes looked down at his notebook. “The gentleman’s just run into you—go on from there.”
She did, recounting as best she could exactly what she’d seen of the mystery man. Between them, Stokes and Barnaby questioned each of her observations.