Royce glanced at Barnaby. “As I said, a profoundly dangerous man.”
If 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Rather than summon Hudson, who had discreetly withdrawn to give them privacy, she opened the front door herself.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.
Henrietta watched him go, then sighed, stepped back, and shut the door. She would have preferred him to stay, but he was right. Tonight, they would be no good company, not even for each other; better they rest and regroup. Stifling another sigh, she turned and headed for the stairs, and her cold and lonely bed.
Head down, his hands in his pockets, James walked along Upper Brook Street, then turned left into North Audley Street.
He couldn’t stop mentally juggling facts, turning over every detail of the four attempts on Henrietta’s life, searching for some clue they’d missed, anything that might give them some inkling or any type of hint as to who the murderous villain was.
Hostage to his thoughts, he crossed North Audley Street and several paces later turned right down Brown’s Lane, a habitual shortcut to his house in George Street. As usual, the narrow laneway was lit only by reflected light shining down from the high sides of the buildings to either side, and shafting in from the streets at either end. The relative darkness barely registered; he’d walked this way countless times before, very often late at night. He paced along, the echo of his footsteps a reassuringly familiar beat.
Was there anyone he could remember as definitely being at the Marchmain event, anyone who had paid particular attention to Henrietta? Wrack his brains though he did, no one stood out clearly in his memories.
There were two small courts along Brown’s Lane. Frowning to himself, James walked through the first, the cobbles illuminated by two small lamps above narrow doors, then plunged back into the, in contrast, deeper darkness of the section of the lane between the courts.
Simon had received the Marchmains’ guest list. Hopefully, tomorrow, Horatia would secure Sir Thomas’s list, and they’d be able to compare the two, and perhaps make a shorter list of possible suspects.
A faint sound registered, the scrape of a shoe on the flags.
There was someone behind him. James started to turn—
Pain exploded through his skull.
Blackness engulfed him.
He fell and knew no more.
The first thing he realized when the blackness thinned, then receded, was that he was sitting awkwardly slumped in a chair, his head—throbbing mightily—hanging forward, his arms pulled back.
He tried to frown, but even that hurt. He tried to shift in the chair and realized his arms were lashed; his body was, too. Then his senses cleared and he felt the rope chafing his wrists. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, with ropes around his torso, and with his hands tightly bound behind the chair’s back.
He blinked, forced his eyes open, then squinted against the glare cast by a nearby lamp. Glancing aside, he waited; when his vision cleared and focus returned, he found himself staring at a rough stone floor.
His feet were flat on the floor; whoever had left him there hadn’t bound his legs.
Letting his gaze slowly rise, he followed the floor to a nearby wall; it, too, was of rough stone.
Slowly, feeling as if his neck might break if he moved too fast, he raised his aching head; someone had struck him across the back of the skull with something heavy—a cosh, most likely.
Finally, breathing in shallow pants, he sat upright, easing his shoulders against the raised back of the chair. Biting back a moan, he briefly closed his eyes as the room spun, but then his senses settled. Swallowing, he carefully raised his lids and, without shifting his head, looked around.
“Ah—excellent.” The deep fashionable drawl came out of the dense shadows behind the shielded lamp. “You’ve survived.”
The matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down James’s spine; the speaker hadn’t cared whether he’d lived through the attack. Squinting, he tried to see past the flaring light from the lamp, positioned two yards away atop several old crates and trained full on his face. “Who are you?”
“Obviously you have a hard head.” The speaker paused for a second before reflecting, “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but no matter. At least this way, should your fiancée prove difficult, I’ll have all the bait I might need.”
If James had harbored any doubts that the speaker was indeed Henrietta’s would-be murderer, that little speech had slain them. More, the taunting amusement laced through the last words confirmed that the blackguard had seen through their plan . . . and, James realized with a jolt of icy shock, had gone one step further and turned their plan back on them.
Instinctively, he tested the bindings about his wrists, but the ropes held tight. Worse, he still felt wretchedly weak and woozy. He slumped against his bonds. “You won’t get away with this.”
“You think not?”
James could hear the smile in that cultured voice.
“Well,” the speaker went on, “we’ll see.”
James hauled in a breath, moistened his dry lips. “What the devil do you think to gain?”
A pause ensued, then, in a more pensive vein, the voice replied, “I would have thought that was obvious. After tonight’s demonstration of how very wide the Cynsters’ net can be cast, I was left wondering what might induce the delightful Miss Henrietta to leave the overprotective circle of her family and come to me—clearly that’s the only way I’m going to be able to lay my hands on her—and then . . . there you were. Leaving the Cynsters’ house late, walking home alone through the night, lost in your thoughts . . .” The speaker chuckled softly. “I
t really was too easy.”
Another pause, as if the man was reflecting. James struggled to get his mind to function past the throbbing ache in his head.
“I was considering sending one of your fingers, perhaps the one carrying your signet ring, but that does seem a trifle gruesome, at least as an opening gambit, and all in all it might be wiser to keep that option in reserve, just in case the lovely Henrietta needs further inducements to come to your aid.” The speaker shifted; a gloved hand appeared in front of the lamp, turning something in the beam so James could see. “Besides, I suspect this”—the man rolled a thin piece of gold-colored metal with a shiny head between his gloved fingers—“will do, will be sufficient to bring her flying to your rescue.”
James stiffened as he recognized his cravat pin. Again, this time surreptitiously, he tested his bonds, but they gave not at all. Raising his gaze to where he thought the speaker’s face must be, he asked, “And then what?”
“And then . . .” James couldn’t see anything of the man’s face, but he could clearly hear the cold relish in the blackguard’s voice, could sense his chilly smile of anticipation.
“I intend to stage a double murder.” The villain paused, then went on almost eagerly, “I haven’t done one of those before. Killing Henrietta Cynster will, clearly, start a manhunt, but what if it appears that you—her fiancé—killed her, then committed suicide? Better still, what if it appears that you’ve killed Henrietta in the same way Lady Winston was murdered?” Cool satisfaction laced the man’s voice as he went on, “And then, naturally, overcome by grief, or perhaps by fear of the consequences, you shoot yourself?” Self-congratulation welled, ringing clearly as the man continued, “Oh, yes, that will fit nicely. After all, Lady Winston lived next door to the young lady you were thinking of offering for. Perhaps that was how you noticed Melinda Wentworth—because she lived next door to your lover?”
James tasted bile; raising his head, he swallowed and said, “I would never hurt a woman like that—like you hurt Lady Winston.” Gaze steady on where he judged the murderer’s face to be, lips tight, he shook his head. “You’ll never get anyone to believe that. Aside from all else, I barely knew Lady Winston.”
Unperturbed, the murderer replied, “Oh, I grant you there may be questions in the minds of some, but you would be surprised how easily the general populace can be led.”
James caught a shift in the shadows, then the gloved hand appeared and closed about the lid of the lantern.
“And who, after all,” that suavely chilling voice murmured, “can know the torments of another man’s mind?”
Before James could respond, the lamp was doused, plunging the room into inky darkness.
Searching for any spark, straining his ears, James heard soft footsteps retreating, strolling away. Then came a scritch, and a match flared, a tiny flame at the far end of the room. The flame and the bulky shadows about it traveled upward at an angle; the murderer was using the match to light his way up some stairs.
The man reached the head of the stairs, and the flame waved and died.
James waited, listening hard to hear what sort of locks or bolts were on what he assumed would be the door into the room . . . was it a basement?
“Incidentally”—the murderer’s disembodied voice floated through the empty space—“you can roar and even scream, but no one will hear you. This house is deserted, as are those on either side, and all the walls are sound, solid stone.” A pause ensued, then the murderer moved. “Sleep well.”
James heard the scrape of wood on stone; a waft of fresh air barreled down the room, then a heavy door thudded shut.
A second later, he caught the metallic scrape of a large bolt being slid home, first one, then another.
Silence fell. The darkness seemed to thicken.
After several moments, James settled as comfortably as he could, gingerly easing his head, still pounding, back on his neck.
He stared upward into the blackness. “Now what?”
He waited, but no answer came.
Chapter Fourteen
“Miss Henrietta.”
Stepping off the stairs onto the tiles of the front hall, Henrietta turned to see Hudson approaching; juggling a silver-domed platter, he was fishing in one pocket as he came.
“This”—Hudson pulled out a letter—“was lying on the tiles by the door this morning.” He tipped his head toward the front door. “Presumably someone delivered it very early this morning or very late last night.”
“Thank you.” She took the note, a neatly folded sheet of parchment with her name inscribed across the front in a bold hand. There seemed to be something enclosed within the folds.
Hudson hovered. “Will you be breakfasting, miss? Would you like fresh tea and toast?”
She flashed him a smile. “Yes, please. I’ll be in in a minute.”
He bowed, turned, and magisterially swept down the corridor and into the breakfast parlor, whither she’d been heading.
Remaining where she was, she broke the plain seal, unfolded the parchment, and caught the small item that fell from the folds . . . stared at it as it rested on her palm.
James’s cravat pin. She recognized it—she’d removed it several times. . . .
Closing her hand around the pin, she smoothed out the parchment and read the words inscribed thereon.
I commend you, Miss Cynster—your charade last night was excellent. However, I was rather more surprised and somewhat disappointed that you and your supporters imagined that I might fall victim to such a ploy. That was presumptuous, not to say insulting, but, on the other hand, I fully appreciated the strategy of employing live bait.
Consequently, my dear Miss Cynster, if you wish to see your fiancé, James Glossup, alive and well, you will follow my directions and do so without fail. You will tell no one of this contact, or of my demands, and yes, I will be watching, just as I was last night. Rest assured I will know if any in your family are alerted—you must take all and every care to do nothing throughout the day to raise anyone’s suspicions. If I judge that you have succeeded in that, and have made not a single wrong move through the day, then over dinnertime, I will send word again as to where you will need to come this evening if you wish to set eyes on Glossup again.
I am prepared to trade your life for his, but only if you follow my instructions to the letter.
The missive was unsigned, of course.
Henrietta read it through a second time, then, moving very slowly, shaking inside, she refolded the parchment and tucked it into her skirt pocket. She looked down at James’s cravat pin, turned it in her palm, then, lips tightening, carefully pinned it to the inside of her bodice, above her heart.
Straightening her spine, she drew in a deep, deep breath, held it for a second, then she forced her lips to ease, found and plastered on an unconcerned expression, and walked down the corridor to the breakfast parlor as normally as she could.
From the cheery, comfortable sounds emanating from within, the rest of her family was already present.
She was, of course, going to rescue James, but . . . she would play the role the murderer had scripted for her until she’d worked out how.
Morning sunshine eventually slanted through the grimy windows set high in the wall of the basement in which James was imprisoned. He woke, blinking in the faint light. Gradually his senses refocused, informing him that his head was still pounding, albeit not as painfully as it had been, but to add to his woes he was stiff in every joint.
His shoulders ached; his neck felt tortured. But he could stretch his legs. He concentrated on flexing and lifting them, working the muscles until they felt reasonably normal.
By then he’d realized what he would have to do. He’d arranged with Henrietta to meet that morning and go for a drive in the park. When he didn’t arrive, she would, eventually, send to his house, and then . . . but the murderer had proved beyond question that he was intelligent enough to have anticipated that.
Easing his shoulder
s, trying to loosen the bonds, James muttered, “He’ll have already sent her word that he’s captured me, because otherwise she would raise a hue and cry, and that’s the last thing he wants. He wants her, so he’ll offer to spare my life for hers, and get her to go to him somewhere.” Settling back on the chair, he narrowed his eyes and tried to think like their villain. “He’ll get her to meet him somewhere, but he’s already decided he’s going to stage this double murder, which he needs to do to throw everyone off his scent, so he’ll bring her here.”
He glanced around. He couldn’t afford to sit and wait in the chair. “When he brings Henrietta in here, I have to be free and able to save her.”
She would come to save him, that he didn’t doubt, so he would have to be in a position to return the favor.
“So . . .” He looked around again, this time with greater concentration, searching for anything that might help his cause. He didn’t see it at first, but a glimmer of light, of sunlight slanting off glass, drew his gaze to the area beneath the second window, the one further from his present position.
He squinted and, eventually, made out the shards of a broken bottle. “Perfect. Now . . .” He assessed his strength, debated, but he needed to get free as soon as possible; he had no idea when the murderer would bring Henrietta to the house, to the basement.
Summoning his will and his still-wavering strength, he planted his feet and slowly tipped forward, until he was standing, still lashed to the chair and bent over at a peculiar and rather painful angle. But, glory be, he had just enough freedom to shift his legs and feet and shuffle, foot by foot, across the floor.
Once he was standing over the shattered remains of the bottle, he had to work out how to get his hands on a suitable piece of glass—there were at least three he thought would suffice—without risking slashing himself in the process.
Eventually, he used the tip of one shoe to nudge one shard along the floor until it lay well clear of the rest. Then he went down, first on one knee, then on the other—a complicated maneuver that had him swearing—then, kneeling with his knees pressed together, he gauged the distance to the single shard, wriggled into position, and then tipped onto his shoulder.