And Then She Fell

  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.

  James 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?”

  “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.

  Hudson 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.’ ”