And Then She Fell

chapter Ten



The following morning, Henrietta, accompanied by Louise and Mary, attended a well-publicized at-home at Celia Cynster’s house in Dover Street.

The notice of James and Henrietta’s betrothal had duly appeared in the Gazette that morning. The Cynster ladies had chosen Celia’s long-scheduled event as Henrietta’s first foray into the wider ton as a formally affianced young lady. Several of those Cynster ladies—Honoria, Patience, and Alathea among them—were there in support, but the older ladies had deemed their presence unnecessary, and potentially too overwhelming; no one wished to deny Henrietta her moment.

As the steady stream of guests ascending Celia’s front steps attested, the announcement in the Gazette had been noted at many a ton breakfast table that morning. Matrons and their daughters flocked to Dover Street, correctly divining that there they would learn everything—all the relevant details—behind the unexpected engagement, and would thus be best placed to spread the news through the upcoming luncheons, promenades, and afternoon teas.

On gaining Celia’s drawing room, all the ladies made a beeline for Henrietta; standing with her back to the fireplace, facing the long room, she almost felt besieged. But as soon as they’d passed on their felicitations, the matrons fell back, circling to join Louise or one of the other Cynster ladies, hoping to extract further pertinent details from them. Meanwhile, the younger ladies, those not yet betrothed and those recently engaged or married, remained in a knot about Henrietta, excitedly asking about her engagement ball and speculating over when she and James would wed. The latter was something Henrietta and her mentors had decided to keep private for the moment, not that that deterred those speculating in the least.

The company was in constant flux; groups arrived, remained for twenty minutes, then departed, well primed with facts to share.

Once again to her surprise, Henrietta found herself swept up in the giddy whirl. She felt particularly gratified when several young ladies she’d helped through the years to make up their minds to accept or decline various offers arrived to press her hand and enthusiastically congratulate her on having found her own true love.

Phillipa Hemmings was typical of those who gathered to wish her well. Clasping Henrietta’s hands, Phillipa beamed. “You helped me when I needed it, and many others, too, and steered us away from unhappiness. Now that you yourself stand on the brink of the ultimate happiness, I couldn’t be more happy were it me in your shoes.”

A chorus of “Hear, hear” echoed around the group.

“Thank you!” Beaming back, Henrietta squeezed Phillipa’s hands and released them, then scanned the bright faces surrounding her. “I had no idea you would all feel so . . . delighted on my behalf.”

Constance Witherby, now the younger Lady Hume, laughed. “Henrietta, my dear, you’re twenty-nine—you’ve been helping young ladies like us for nearly a decade and you’ve never, to my knowledge, steered us wrongly. Of course there are many who wish you well. Heaven help you, you’ve earned it!”

Everyone laughed, and the pleasant exchanges continued.

Later in the hour, several grandes dames arrived, haughtily sailing in, agog to discover how such a development had escaped their notice. Henrietta was pleased to leave the task of enlightening them to the other Cynster ladies, who swiftly stepped in to divert the armada-like attack.

Eventually the flood of incoming guests slowed to a trickle; the event was nearly at an end when Mrs. Wentworth and Melinda Wentworth came in. Smiling happily, both made straight for Henrietta. With not a hint of insincerity, Mrs. Wentworth congratulated her, then moved on to speak with Louise and Celia.

Melinda beamed at Henrietta and very prettily wished her well.

Henrietta felt distinctly awkward, but she kept her politely delighted façade in place and chatted inconsequentially . . . until Miss Crossley, by then the only other young lady standing with Henrietta and Melinda, was called away by her mama.

The instant Miss Crossley was out of earshot, Henrietta turned to Melinda. She searched her friend’s face; there was no less-frank way to phrase it, so she bluntly said, “I do hope you don’t feel that I stole James from you—I assure you it didn’t happen like that.”

Melinda blinked, clearly taken aback, then her smile rebloomed. “Of course I don’t think that, silly.” Reaching for and squeezing Henrietta’s fingers, Melinda searched her face in turn. “It honestly never occurred to me. I know you told me the truth, and you were perfectly correct—James and I wouldn’t have suited. But if making you consider him on my behalf was instrumental in opening your eyes, yours to him and his to you, then I can only say I’m delighted to have been of service—so there.”

Henrietta let her relief show. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re not upset.”

“Not a bit of it.” Melinda glanced at her mother, still engaged with Louise and Celia, and lowered her voice. “Indeed, I can’t thank you enough for being so honest with me over James, and forcing me to look to my own motives. If you hadn’t done so, I don’t know where I would be now, but . . .” Melinda’s voice rose on a note of excitement. Shifting closer to Henrietta, tightening her grip on her fingers and leaning near, Melinda whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk about it because discussions are still going on, but I expect to be where you now stand in a week or so’s time.”

“You’re getting engaged, too?” Henrietta felt her own happiness well. “Truly?”

Melinda nodded, lips compressing as if she could barely contain her joy. After a moment, she went on, “I always liked Oliver—he’s a distant cousin—but he’s nowhere near as handsome as James, and while I had James on my string, so to speak, I refused to even look at Oliver.” Melinda met Henrietta’s gaze. “But once you forced me to turn from James and look elsewhere, I saw Oliver much more clearly, and then he made a push, and, well . . .” Her joy threatening to break free, Melinda smiled dazzlingly. “Here I am.” She shook Henrietta’s hands. “Here we both are!”

Henrietta smiled back, unrestrainedly joyous. “Indeed. How wonderful! You must let me know the instant”—Henrietta glanced at Mrs. Wentworth—“that I’m allowed to know.”

“Oh, I will,” Melinda assured her.

They stood for a moment, side by side, absorbing the news that they were both soon to be wed.

Abruptly, Melinda shivered. “Oh—I meant to tell you, but all this happiness, both yours and mine, simply swept it from my head.”

When Henrietta looked at her in question, Melinda lowered her voice and went on, “That evening you joined us in Hill Street, to tell me what you’d learned about James?”

“What of it?”

Eyes rounding, Melinda whispered, “There was murder done next door!”

Henrietta stared at her friend—and remembered the gentleman she’d bumped into on the pavement outside the Wentworths’ house. A chill swept through her, but then she grabbed hold of her wits and asked, “Who was killed? And when? Do you know when it happened?”

“It was Lady Winston. She lived next door. She was a widow, and apparently she was killed sometime that evening. No one’s certain exactly when because she was in the habit of sending her staff off for the night every now and then—they all assumed she was entertaining some gentleman friend, very privately.”

“I see.” Henrietta fought to bring order to the stream of thoughts cascading through her mind.

“Melinda!”

They both turned to see Mrs. Wentworth beckoning Melinda to join her, clearly preparing to depart.

“Coming, Mama.” Melinda wound her arm in Henrietta’s, and together they followed Mrs. Wentworth, Celia, and Louise as the three ladies headed for the door. “Remember,” Melinda whispered, her gaze on her mother’s back, “you must pretend that I haven’t told you anything about my pending engagement, or, for that matter, the murder. Mama was even more insistent that I keep my mouth closed over that. Well . . .” Melinda blew out a breath. “A horrible murder just next door—mere yards away from where I sleep.” She shivered again.

Henrietta patted Melinda’s hand absentmindedly; in something of a stunned daze, she went through the motions of farewelling the Wentworths, thanking her aunt Celia for hosting the event, and climbing into her mother’s carriage for the journey back to Upper Brook Street.

With a contented sigh, Louise settled back against the squabs. “That went well, I thought.”

Mary, seated opposite Louise and already engaged in looking out at those strolling the pavements, made a sound of agreement.

“Hmm.” Seated alongside her mother, Henrietta stared unseeing at the empty seat opposite while her mind raced, juggling possibilities . . .

By the time the carriage halted outside her parents’ house, she’d worked out enough to realize she needed to speak with James as soon as she possibly could.

Much to Henrietta’s disgust, what with the demands of her day and, apparently, his, she and James didn’t manage to meet until she walked into the front hall of St. Ives House that evening and found him waiting.

Smiling with his customary charm, debonair and, to her at least, riveting in his evening clothes, he lifted her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to Webster, Devil’s butler, then, capturing her hand, raising it to his lips and trapping her gaze, James pressed a kiss she felt to the tips of her toes on the backs of her fingers.

Then he smiled into her eyes. “My butler told me you’d sent a footman with a message while I was out. What did you want to see me about?”

She’d lectured herself that maintaining an appropriate façade throughout the evening, and allowing herself to genuinely enjoy the informal family dinner party Honoria and the others had arranged to celebrate their betrothal, was essential, but every time she thought of what Melinda had told her, maintaining her smile and her air of pleased delight required significant effort . . . and once she told James what she’d learned, she had little doubt that he would find enjoying the evening appropriately while concealing his reactions near impossible. So she smiled back and murmured, “Not now. I’ll tell you later.”

He studied her eyes, trying to decide if he should push.

She arched a brow, then, sliding her hand into his arm, she turned to the archway leading to the drawing room. “Come along—it’s our moment to face the family.”

He humphed, but obliged, and walked by her side into the drawing room, into the waiting storm of congratulations and felicitations, smiles and good-natured laughter.

The evening went well, a comfortable, relaxed gathering of the immediate Cynster family, all those presently in London coming together to do what they most enjoyed doing—celebrating another alliance, another, as Devil put it in his toast, twining of branches on two old family trees that would, in the fullness of time, lead to new buds and more branches in the future.

The company drank to their health. Several times.

James was entirely at ease in this milieu. It helped that, just as he was Simon’s oldest and closest friend, other members of his family, both male and female, were longtime friends with their Cynster peers; the Glossups and the Cynsters numbered among the oldest families in the ton, so the connections were many, and solid and sound.

He had no difficulty navigating these waters; in many ways, he felt more at home among the socially active Cynsters than in his own family, who had largely retreated from the wider ton.

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.

“He wore gloves?”

“Yes, very nice gloves. Cordoba leather at a guess—Bond Street, definitely.”

“The silver head of his cane—describe that. Was it a flat top, engraved, or . . . ?”

She hesitated. “It was some sort of heraldic design.” She glanced at James, then Barnaby. “You know the sort of thing. An animal, most likely—I know Devil has an old cane of our grandfather Sebastian’s that has a silver stag’s head on the top.” She looked at Stokes. “The stag is the animal on the family crest.”

“I see,” Stokes said. “Did you see what animal it was?”

“No.” She thought, picturing the scene again in her mind, then grimaced. “The light was poor and . . .” She raised her right fist and pressed it to her upper left arm. “He had it clutched in his right hand, so it was at the corner of my vision and the head was tipped away. And when he released me and straightened . . .” She examined the moment carefully in her mind, then sighed. “His hand covered the cane’s head, of course, so I never did get a clear look at it.”

Stokes humphed. “That would have been too easy.” He read through his notes. “Let’s move on to his face. What did you see of it?”

“Very little.” She considered her mental image. “He had the hood of his cloak up—right up and over his head, so that the cowl shaded his face. The nearest streetlamp was to my left, a little way along the pavement and somewhat behind him, so the light fell obliquely across his jaw.” She refocused on Stokes. “Only the part of his face below his lower lip was lit enough for me to see. All the rest was just shadow. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, nor even his cheeks enough to tell you the shape of his face. And I didn’t see his hair—color or style—at all.”

“Was there any identifiable mark on the part of his face you did see? A scar or mole—anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all. It was a perfectly ordinary face.” She grimaced. “Nothing I saw would allow me to pick him out from any group of tonnish men of similar height and build—and even his height and build were unremarkable.”

“What about his voice?” Barnaby asked. He met her gaze. “Close your eyes and replay what he said in your head. Listen to the cadence and rhythm of his speech. Was there any discernible accent—any hint at all?”

She did as he asked. The room remained silent for a minute, then she opened her eyes and grimly shook her head. “All he said was, ‘My apologies. I didn’t see you.’ He had no obvious accent, but those are too few words to say he doesn’t have one. All I could say was that his diction was definitely tonnish—I couldn’t see him even as a wealthy merchant. From his appearance I took him to be a gentleman, and his voice fitted perfectly.”

Stokes nodded. He looked through his notes again. “Now tell me about these ‘accidents’ of yours.”

James took the lead in recounting the details of the three incidents.

While Stokes scribbled, Barnaby listened intently; when James came to the end of his recitation, eyes narrowed, gaze unseeing, Barnaby murmured, “So putting everything together, he’s a gentleman of the ton—that’s absolutely certain—and further, is currently moving among the upper echelons, the haut ton.”

“He has to be to have been on Lady Marchmain’s guest list,” Simon said. “I’d intended to see if I could extract that list from her ladyship. We know the villain’s name will be on it, and while we won’t be able to pick him out of the ruck, it’ll at least give us a place to start.”

“Or finish.” Stokes looked at Simon. “If nothing else, that will be corroborative evidence. Think you can persuade her ladyship to let you have it?”

Simon grinned grimly. “I can but try.”

“I’ll leave you to that, then, but if she won’t, I’ll ask officially, but I’d prefer to do it your way—discreetly—without having to explain my reasons for wanting it.”

James exchanged a look with Simon, then said, “It seems we’re all in agreement that it’s the gentleman who killed Lady Winston who is now attempting to kill Henrietta, presumably because he believes she saw enough to be able to identify him, thus putting a noose around his neck.” James studied Stokes, then glanced at Barnaby. “What I don’t understand is why there has been no hue and cry. None of us had heard that Lady Winston had been murdered, and it seems the whole affair has been hushed up.” He refocused on Stokes. “And now you don’t want to explain to Lady Marchmain why you want her guest list.” Again he glanced at Barnaby, then looked back at Stokes. “What’s going on?”

Stokes met James’s gaze, then looked at Henrietta, then glanced—faintly questioningly—at Barnaby.

Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. “We need to tell them all of it.” He met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “We can’t risk leaving you operating in the dark and not understanding what we’re up against with this villain.”

Stokes grimaced, but nodded. He cleared his throat. “Right then. What I’m going to say now . . . I won’t say it can’t go past this room, but be careful who you tell. We can’t afford panic in Mayfair—that’s why you haven’t heard about Lady Winston’s murder.”

Stokes paused as if gathering his facts, ordering his thoughts, then he said, “Lady Winston was murdered sometime that evening. She’d sent her staff off for the night—they were not to return until midnight. She’d been in the habit of doing this for the past several months—since late January, at least. The staff don’t know precisely why, but they concluded her ladyship was entertaining a gentleman, and their view was that it was he who had insisted on that level of secrecy. Her ladyship was a widow of long-standing, and had entertained lovers at her home before, but never before had she ordered her staff away. None of them have any idea who the gentleman was. They never saw or heard or found any hint or clue to his identity.

“So—that night, he killed her. He beat her near to death with his bare fists, then strangled her.” Stokes paused, then, his voice rougher, added, “Seemed like he’d enjoyed doing it, too.” He glanced at Simon and James. “If you know what I mean.”

Meeting Stokes’s eyes, understanding what he was trying to convey, James felt ill.

“So . . .” Stokes drew in a breath. “He killed her ladyship—and left via the area steps. He stepped onto the pavement and bumped into Miss Cynster, which must have been a shock.”

“Oh . . .”

Everyone looked at Henrietta, only to discover she’d paled. She was staring at Stokes.

James reached for her hand, held it.

“What is it?” Stokes asked.

She blinked, then softly said, “I just remembered. There was an instant—a pause. He ran into me, steadied me—then he looked at my face. I had my cloak on, but my hood wasn’t up, and the light came from over his shoulder. He must have seen my face quite clearly. He was holding me—one of his hands gripping each of my upper arms—and he . . . hesitated. I remember wondering what he was going to do—whether he’d recognized me and was someone I knew, or . . . and then Gibbs called out and the man released me, nodded, and quickly walked away.”

An instant of silence ensued, then Stokes cleared his throat. “You might want to give that groom of yours a tip. Whoever this blackguard is, he likes to hurt women, and you met him at a very . . . fraught moment.” Stokes sighed. “Which probably helps explain why he thinks you’ve seen too much.” He paused, then rather glumly said, “But there’s more. We questioned all the staff the next day, of course, and I’d swear all of them told us the truth, told us all and everything they knew.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, tipped his head his way. “Adair was there.”

Barnaby nodded; his expression had grown even grimmer. “And I agree—I’d take my oath all the staff, including her ladyship’s dresser, told us everything they knew—which in terms of identifying the villain amounted to nothing.”

“But,” Stokes said, “two days later, her ladyship’s dresser—she’d gone to stay with her sister in Clapham—was murdered, too. Same way as her ladyship—beaten near to death, then strangled. Her sister went out just before noon and came home later in the afternoon, and found her.”

Quiet horror engulfed the room, then Simon said, “So he killed her, too, in the same god-awful way, even though she knew nothing?”

Stokes’s lips tightened. “It’s possible she did know something and had contacted him—tried to blackmail him—but . . .” He glanced at Barnaby. “Neither Adair nor I think that’s the case. The woman—the dresser—was an honest sort. She was devoted to her ladyship—had been with her from when her ladyship was a bride. If the dresser had known anything about this beast, she would have tripped over her own tongue to tell us.”

“So yes,” Barnaby said, “Stokes and I, at least, feel certain this blackguard killed her just in case. Just to make sure there was no chance she knew something she hadn’t yet thought of.”

Stokes nodded grimly. “He’s covering his tracks, regardless of whether he actually needs to or not. Which brings us to the attacks on Miss Cynster.”

James glanced at Henrietta, tightened his grip on her hand. “He thinks you know something—”

“Or that you might know something even if you haven’t realized it yet,” Barnaby put in.

“Or,” Simon said, his tone hard, “that you might have seen enough of his face that if you see him—come upon him at some event—you’ll recognize him then.”

“Any or all of those.” Stokes shut his notebook. “It won’t matter to him. He wants you dead, and the fact that you haven’t any information that might identify him won’t stop him.”

“He views you as a potential threat.” Barnaby met Henrietta’s gaze. “And he’ll keep on until he succeeds in silencing you.”

James felt the moment grow heavier as they absorbed that apparently incontestable fact. After a moment, he said, his tone cold, “To return to my earlier question—why no hue and cry? How on earth are we to find this villain without going after him?”

Stokes looked at Barnaby.

Barnaby leaned forward, speaking to Henrietta, James, and Simon. “There’s been discussions aplenty at the highest levels about how to handle this case. The excuse of not wanting to cause panic in Mayfair, at the height of the Season no less, is true enough, but that’s a more minor consideration. The truth is that laying hands on this villain is not going to be easy—we knew that after investigating Lady Winston’s death and finding nothing to identify him—but when he murdered her ladyship’s dresser, he told us one thing we hadn’t known before.”

Barnaby met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “To wit, he intends to stick around. He intends to remain a part of the ton—the haut ton, almost certainly—and has no intention of quitting the scene. That’s why he’s now turned his sights on you—and, more, is trying to make your death look like an accident, or at least the result of an attack not specifically aimed at you. He doesn’t want to create more noise within the ton, or to focus attention on you—on why someone might want you dead. But if, at this point, we raise a hue and cry and openly try to pursue him . . . we have nothing. He simply has to sit tight and wait us out, and if he’s wary of you, simply avoid you for a time—which, all in all, would be easy enough.”

“But ultimately he wants to be able to move freely among the upper echelons of the ton,” Stokes said, “so at some point, when he feels safe again, he’ll come after you again. He isn’t going to let you live, even if he has to be careful for a time.”

James held Stokes’s gaze. A moment passed, then he said, “What you’re saying is that the only way to keep Henrietta safe—permanently safe—is to conceal the fact that we’re aware of this gentleman-villain, aware of his intention to kill her, and to . . . what? Let him have a chance at her?”

“Not exactly,” Barnaby said. “We need to keep Henrietta safe and thoroughly protected—that goes without saying—but we need to play our hand quietly, stalk this man silently, and let him think it’s safe enough to have another try at her. But when he does, we’ll be there, and then we’ll have him.”

“As it stands,” Stokes said, “regardless of what any of us might wish, the only way we can permanently ensure Miss Cynster’s continued health is to identify and catch this man. And the only way we can do that is to let him think it’s safe enough to step out of the crowd and show us his face.”