James hesitated.
Stunned by the murderer’s intentions, made even more nauseating by being stated aloud, Henrietta clapped a hand over her lips, smothering her spontaneous rebuttal. She could see James thinking, trying to decide what he should do; the noble idiot would sacrifice himself for her, and then where would she be?
Living out the rest of her life alone.
She had to make her next words sound believable. Gulping in a breath, she discovered she didn’t have to try all that hard to make her voice quaver. “James, please . . . do as he says.”
His gaze flicked to her; she opened her eyes wide at him and showed him the pistol she’d pulled free of her reticule.
Understanding held James motionless for a second, then the murderer drawled, “Do as she says, Glossup, and who knows? After I tie you up again, I might let you have one last kiss.”
Henrietta was perfectly certain she could not hate a man more. Settling her weight evenly, she grasped the pistol in both hands, simultaneously making her voice weak and wavery. “Please, James, do what he says. I don’t want him to shoot you—and perhaps he’ll change his mind. We really don’t know who he is, so perhaps he’ll believe us and let us go . . .” She ended with a passable sob.
James met her eyes, then, his lips a thin line, looked back at the murderer and took one step back.
“That’s right.” The murderer was gloating. “Keep going.”
James moved slowly, backing one defined step at a time; Henrietta realized he was keeping his gaze locked with the murderer’s, and his slow, deliberate—clearly reluctant—retreat was keeping the murderer focused on him.
Step by step, James retreated, and, step by step, the murderer came further into the room.
At last, he cleared the open door; his gaze still on James, the villain reached back and caught the edge of the door with the hand holding the lantern and pushed it closed.
He was standing precisely where Henrietta was aiming.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled the trigger.
Two shots roared out, one immediately following the other, the combined sounds deafening in the enclosed space.
On a gasp, Henrietta opened her eyes. Heart thudding, she slowly lowered her pistol. As the echoes of the shots faded, she saw the lantern on the floor near her feet—and the murderer sprawled awkwardly across the floor, his upper back against the tallboy, one hand clamped to a massive hole in one shoulder.
“James?” She couldn’t see him. Panic surged.
Had he been shot?
Killed?
To get around the bed she had to pass the murderer. His pistol lay beside him, spent; she kicked it away from him regardless. She could see he was trying to gather his strength. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him squarely between the legs; he howled and curled up on himself.
Satisfied, she rushed around the bed. “James?”
Then she saw him. “Oh, my God!” He had been shot. He was struggling to sit up, to prop himself against the side of the bed. She rushed to help. “How bad is it?”
James blinked at her as she crouched beside him. He could barely believe it—they were both alive. He drank in her concern and managed a crooked, albeit pained, grin. “Not that bad. I flung myself aside and his ball clipped my arm. It probably looks worse than it is.”
He wasn’t sure she heard him over the thunderous cacophony of God only knew how many people pounding up the stairs. But all he cared about was her; his gaze feasted on her, devoured her face, her beloved features, then settled on her eyes. Lost in the blue, he murmured, “I assume that’s the cavalry. I’m glad you didn’t come alone.”
With his unbloodied hand, he gently touched her cheek, then cupped it. Just that touch was the most wondrous relief.
She looked fierce as a tigress as she raised a hand to cradle the back of his. “I would have come alone if that’s what it took, but I didn’t have to.” She glanced up as a horde of people rushed into the room.
James didn’t care about anyone else; for him, there was only her. Gently, he turned her face back to his, found her gaze, those lovely soft blue eyes, and held it. “I love you. God, how much I love you.” He let himself sink into the blue. “While I was tied up here, all I could think about was that I hadn’t told you that. In facing possible death, that was my one real regret.”
She smiled stunningly—a beauteous sight, sunshine banishing the darkness—and caught his hand in both of hers. “I love you, too. I truly do.” Raising his hand, she kissed his knuckles, held as tightly to his gaze as he was holding to hers. “I am so relieved that you’re alive.”
She leaned in and their lips touched. Softly lingered.
Just that, a simple caress that meant the world to them both.
She drew back and, eyes closed, sighed, then, her grip on his hand tightening, she leaned her forehead against his, and for an instant they both clung—to the moment, to each other. To the inexpressible joy of being together and alive.
Then Stokes arrived. They both looked up as he swept in to join the crowd already standing around the murderer, retribution in their eyes.
Stokes humphed, then bent over the villain and stripped away the black scarf and lifted off the wide-brimmed hat.
The others crowded around to look, to study the murderer’s face, to divine the identity he’d been willing to kill again and again to conceal.
While they were thus engaged, Henrietta rose and helped James to his feet. He was clutching his left arm just below his shoulder. His sleeve was torn and bloodied, but when she got him to ease his grip, the wound bled only sluggishly. As far as she could see in the poor light, as far as he could tell, the ball had passed through and wasn’t lodged in his flesh. Pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed, she stripped the case off one pillow and used the fabric to bind his arm. He smiled more strongly, more definitely at her, and murmured his thanks.
They turned to the others just as Stokes shifted and looked around the circle. “Anyone know who the bastard is?”
“He’s vaguely familiar,” Barnaby said.
“Hmm.” Simon, frowning, nodded. “But I can’t quite place him.”
“I know I’ve seen him about,” Charlie said.
Henrietta realized that, somehow, none of the ladies had made it up the stairs. Linking her arm with James’s uninjured one, she helped steady him on his feet, then they rounded the bed to join the others about the fallen villain.
The others took that as a sign that they could now bombard them with questions, most of which were devoted to confirming that they were, indeed, as well as they appeared. The circle parted to include them, finally allowing them a clear look at the villain who had tried to take their future from them.
Said villain was still half curled, slumped on his side before the tallboy, his face partly in shadow. Someone had roughly bound his wound; it was, Henrietta realized, too high on his shoulder to be fatal. She looked down at him, then pointed to the lantern. “Shine that in his face and let me see.”
Simon was only too ready to oblige. The villain flinched away from the brighter light, turning his head up and away.
Henrietta gasped. “Good God! It’s Sir Peter Affry.”
Stokes grunted.
Charlie stared. “Sir Peter Affry, the MP?”
“Yes.” Henrietta nodded decisively. “He’s been lionized in political circles this Season. He’s certainly been at all the major functions.”
“He was at Marchmain House,” James said. “Someone pointed him out to me there.”
“And he was definitely at the gala,” Barnaby said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Stokes said. “He’s done his dash. He’s not going to be able to escape the gallows over this.” Reaching down, Stokes hauled Sir Peter unceremoniously to his feet, then, with a distinct lack of gentleness, propelled the injured MP through the door into the waiting arms of two burly constables. “Take him to the Yard and charge him. Get the doctor to bind him up properly, but keep him under lock
and key at all times. I’ll be along shortly.”
“Yes, sir.” The constables looked thoroughly thrilled with their captive. They cinched a rope around his wrists, then, each taking one arm, ignoring Sir Peter’s moans and weak protests, they half carried, half dragged him away toward the stairs.
James felt light-headed, but he didn’t think it was from blood loss; euphoric relief was nearer the mark. But he remembered enough to turn to Stokes and say, “He admitted to killing Lady Winston.”
“Good.” Stokes met James’s eyes. “Will you testify, if it comes to that?”
Grimly, James nodded. “Yes. Definitely. I want him to get his just deserts.”
“Don’t we all,” Barnaby said. “At least we now know why he was so hell-bent on hiding his identity. M’father mentioned something about him being considered for Cabinet.”
Stokes looked around the circle, his gray gaze coming to rest on Henrietta and James. “I’m going to need statements from all of you, but if you like, we can put it off until tomorrow.”
They all looked at each other—Simon, Barnaby, Charlie, Martin, and Luc, as well as James and Henrietta—then Martin grimaced, and put what they were all thinking into words. “The others—and the elders—aren’t going to appreciate that they were left out of this. I vote we adjourn to somewhere more comfortable and get all the statements and explanations cleared away tonight, then we can tell the others about it tomorrow, when it’s all done and finished with.”
Agreement was unanimous. Stokes nodded. “I’ll need to go back to the Yard and see him charged, and make sure they understand to hold him regardless of what he says, then I’ll come and interview you.” He glanced at them inquiringly. “Where?”
They decided Barnaby and Penelope’s house in Albemarle Street would be best.
Stokes left, and the others all gathered around. James was amazed at their disguises, while they wanted to know what had happened to him.
Henrietta cut all explanations short with the demand, “What I want to know is what took you so long?” She looked pointedly at Simon. “You knew we were here—I expected you to arrive and overpower the fiend much sooner.”
“Yes, well.” Simon looked sheepish. “He’d put an extra lock on the front door—a bolt. We were intending to pick the lock and creep up on him in case he had a gun—which, as it transpired, he did—but the bolt meant we had to break the door down, which he would have heard . . .”
Barnaby crisply stated, “We were arguing the merits of breaking down the door over forcing a window when we heard the two shots, and nearly died ourselves.” He eyed the pistol as Henrietta, reminded of it, retrieved it from where she’d left it on the bed. “But I see Penelope took her own precautions.”
“Just as well.” Henrietta tucked the pistol back into her reticule. “But speaking of Penelope, where is she? And the others—Mary, Amanda, Amelia, Portia, and Griselda?”
All the men except James exchanged wary, resigned glances, then Luc admitted, “We insisted they stay in the carriages outside. Speaking of which, we’d better go down and explain.”
And grovel, Henrietta thought, but men like these would always act true to their natures, and, at base, all of them were protective to a fault.
The others clattered down the stairs; she and James followed more slowly, using the lantern to light their way.
In the front hall, they left the lantern on the table, turned down the wick, then walked out of the door and pulled it shut behind them. Or as shut as it would go, given it was hanging half off its hinges.
The small court was filled with the three hackney coaches they’d hired for the night. In the light of the streetlamp, various couples were talking, the men reporting, the ladies reprimanding, yet curious to hear every detail.
Arm in arm, Henrietta paused with James on the top step and looked out at the small army of friends who had helped them. She leaned lightly against James, so very grateful to feel the warmth and strength of him beside her again. “They might not have been there at the critical moment, but knowing they were close and would come to our aid gave me the courage to do what I did.”
“Friends. Family.” James closed his hand over hers, twined his fingers with hers and gripped, met her gaze as she glanced at him. “On both fronts we’ve been blessed.”
Henrietta searched his eyes, then softly smiled. “They’re watching us, you know—all the ladies. They don’t want to interrupt, but they’re dying to speak with us, to fuss over us.”
James let his smile deepen. “I suppose we’d better let them—it’s only their due—but before we do . . .” Lifting her hand, he raised it to his lips and, eyes locked with hers, brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Let me say it again—I do so love you.”
Henrietta’s heart overflowed—with love, happiness, gratitude, and relief. And with joy. Simple, unadulterated joy. She held his gaze and, stars in her eyes, gave him back the words. “And I love you. Forever and always.”
His lips lifted in a smile that held the same joy she felt. “I can barely believe it, yet despite all the hurdles, despite the determination of a murderous villain, we have won through.”
“We’ve won our future.” Henrietta beamed. “And now we get to live it.”
Together, they faced forward, and, arm in arm, went down the steps, out of the gate, and onto the pavement, where, as Henrietta had foretold, they were immediately mobbed by a coterie of curiously garbed ladies. After hugging them both, and oohing and aahing over James’s wound, said ladies dismissed their husbands’ reports as inept and insisted on hearing all in James’s and Henrietta’s own words—once they’d repaired to the comfort of Penelope’s home.
No one argued. Instead, everyone piled into or onto the hackneys, and the company adjourned to Albemarle Street.
Chapter Sixteen
It was after midnight before, between them, James and Henrietta had related their stories to the assembled company, and had in turn heard the tales of the amazingly complex, and at times quite mad, scrambling the others had had to do to follow Affry and Henrietta around the Mayfair streets.
“Keeping you in sight was one thing,” Barnaby said. “Doing it while staying out of his sight was another. He was the hardest quarry I’ve ever had to trail.”
“Still,” Martin said, leaning back in the corner of one sofa, his arm around Amanda, “at least we now understand why he was so desperate to kill you. He would never have been able to have a moment’s rest, forever knowing that at any time you might see something, or hear his voice at some ball, and make the connection.”
“And” Luc said, from his position perched on the arm of the chair in which Amelia sat, “while it would be bad enough for anyone to be convicted of such heinous crimes, for a Member of Parliament . . . the government, the entire ton, and all of society are going to be baying for his blood.”
Stokes walked into the room in time to hear those words. “Actually, impossible though it might seem, it appears his case is even worse than that.”
Various people made disbelieving sounds. Accepting a cup of coffee, Stokes sat beside his wife, Griselda, sipped, gave Griselda a small smile, then looked around at the inquiring faces. “I could barely believe it myself, but it’s true. When I got back to the Yard, it was to find one of the other senior inspectors, Mullins, waiting to collar me. He’d been about to leave when he’d seen Sir Peter brought in. Mullins is in charge of any investigations involving elected officials, and in that capacity he asked me what the charges were to be. I told him about Lady Winston’s murder, her dresser’s murder, and what I’d gathered Affry had planned for Miss Cynster and Glossup here.”
A sardonic smile flirted about Stokes’s lips. “Mullins went so pale, I thought he would faint, but then he asked me to wait and rushed away to his office, and returned with a file, which he handed to me. The file contained a report from the local constable of the town outside of which Sir Peter used to live with his aunt. Sir Peter’s current wealth, more or less all of it,
was inherited from this aunt—he was her sole living relative and, unsurprisingly, her nominated heir. The aunt was, by all accounts, a hearty, healthy, country lady, but just after Sir Peter won his seat in Parliament and was wanting to move up to London, his aunt was murdered. Brutally beaten to death in very much the same fashion as Lady Winston and her dresser.”
“Good Lord,” Barnaby said. “He’s murdered before?”
“Looks like it.” Stokes paused to take another sip of coffee. “However,” he went on, “Sir Peter was close friends with the local magistrate, as anyone might suppose of an up-and-coming politician, and the aunt’s murder was blamed on some passing vagabond—a convenient itinerant no one saw. The constable was suspicious because the staff at the house, all loyal to the old lady, said Sir Peter was there, in the house, over the time his aunt was killed, but Sir Peter said he’d gone out riding. No one had seen him out riding, even though there are numerous farms nearby and people had been out in the fields, but, equally, none of the staff had actually seen him in the house over the relevant time, so . . . but the constable remained suspicious, and to give the man his due, knew he had reason to be. He, the constable, knew of another murder, just like the old lady’s, that had occurred nearly a year before in a neighboring parish. A farmer’s lass who, rumor had it, had been walking out with a gentleman, one she’d never named and who had never been seen by anyone else. There were no other suspects for the lass’s murder, not even a convenient vagabond, so the death was put down as murder by persons unknown, but everyone agreed the secretive gentleman was the one who had done the deed.”
“So,” Penelope said, “the constable in the country had two mysterious murders that looked identical, and in one Sir Peter was the prime suspect, and in the other, an unknown gentleman was the only real suspect?”
Stokes nodded. “So the constable did the right thing. He sent the file to the Yard, and as Sir Peter’s name was in it, it was handed to Mullins for careful consideration.”