And Then She Fell

chapter Eleven



They spent the rest of the morning discussing the most pertinent question, namely how to keep Henrietta safe. To James’s relief, his lady love, once she’d recovered her composure and her customary poise, deigned to agree with him and the others; they were given to understand that, in light of the seriousness of the situation, she was willing to suspend her usual independence and endure being guarded, essentially twenty-four hours a day.

After defining ways to achieve that, and agreeing over who needed to be apprised of the situation, Stokes and Barnaby departed.

Along with James, Simon stayed for luncheon. As luck would have it, both Lady Louise and Lord Arthur were also lunching in; over the dining room table, James, Henrietta, and Simon shared all they knew, and, after the inevitable shock and exclamations, outlined how they all needed to proceed.

Lord Arthur wasn’t happy, but he accepted that their plan was the only sure way forward.

Lady Louise was eager to support any move by Henrietta to repair to the safety of the country—to Somersham Place, perhaps—but was reluctantly persuaded by Henrietta, who most effectively capped her argument by reminding her mother that, aside from avoiding being murdered, she had an engagement ball coming up, and a wedding shortly thereafter.

Mary, also present, listened to the tale wide-eyed, then, in typical Mary fashion, swung the discussion to the subject of how best to organize everyone into doing what they needed to do.

While James would normally have found Mary’s bossy nature trying, in this case, he was grateful. She soon had her mother and father organized to spread the word; they’d decided to limit the information, at least in the first instance, to members of the family and the staff of the Upper Brook Street house. Between those two groups, along with Charlie Hastings, Barnaby, and Penelope, Henrietta could be sure of always having others about her. That she readily accepted the need for being so constantly guarded was balm to James’s soul.

He, of course, was designated as Henrietta’s most frequent guard, a role Mary glibly assigned to him and with which he had no argument at all. In that capacity, once luncheon was over and Lord Arthur left to hunt down his brothers and his nephews, Simon left to find Charlie and later speak with Portia, and Lady Louise and Mary set out for Somersham House to speak with Honoria and from there to spread the word, to keep Henrietta amused James suggested that he and she do something useful with their afternoon and visit his house in George Street. “You can take a look around and see what you might like to have changed.”

With very real gratitude, Henrietta agreed. Although James’s house was only a few blocks away, she bowed to his request and ordered the smaller town carriage, the one she usually commandeered, to be brought around.

As Hudson, and via him the rest of the staff, had already been informed of the need to keep her constantly guarded, she wasn’t surprised to discover not only Gibbs and the coachman on the box but also Jordan, one of the footmen, up on the step behind.

She merely nodded at the trio, all stern-faced and looking watchfully around, and allowed James to hand her up into the carriage.

The house in George Street was a surprise; she’d expected a narrow town house, but instead James led her up the steps of a substantial older house with wide windows on either side of a porticoed front door. The front door itself was painted to a high gloss, and the brass knocker gleamed; James opened the door with a latchkey and held it wide . . . stepping over the threshold, eyes widening, she looked around, drinking in the elegant sweep of the staircase, the detailed moldings around the doors and arches, the oak half-paneling, and the paintings—lush landscapes—that hung on the green-papered walls.

“My grandaunt Emily’s, but I rather like them.” Closing the door, James came to stand by Henrietta’s side. Head tipping, he tried to see the scene through her eyes. “The paintings have grown on me.”

“They suit the place.” She swiveled in a circle. “This has a nice feel, a nice sense of balance. Elegant, but not overdone.”

He smiled, then the door at the rear of the hall swung open and his butler, Fortescue, came through.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Fortescue saw Henrietta, and his ageing eyes lit.

James introduced Fortescue; his staff knew of his betrothal and were eager to meet the lady who would be their new mistress.

Somewhat rotund, but turned out in impeccable style, with a regal demeanor and an innate stately air, although well past his prime Fortescue had forgotten more about butlering than most butlers ever learned; his low bow was nicely judged. “Welcome to this house, miss. The rest of the staff and I look forward to serving you in whatever way we may.”

“Thank you, Fortescue.” Henrietta looked questioningly at James.

“I’m going to take Miss Cynster on a tour of the house, but I suspect, this time, we’ll restrict ourselves to the principal rooms.” Meeting Henrietta’s gaze, James reached out and twined his fingers with hers. “We’ll start with the reception rooms on the ground floor, and then head upstairs.” He looked at Fortescue. “Perhaps you would warn Mrs. Rollins—we’ll have tea in the drawing room when we come down.”

“Indeed, sir.” Fortescue bowed to them both, then walked back to the staff door.

Retaining his hold on her hand, James drew Henrietta to the double doors to the right of the hall. “Mrs. Rollins is the housekeeper. Like Fortescue, I inherited her. Indeed, other than my man, Trimble, all the staff date from Grandaunt Emily’s day.”

“Fortescue appears perfectly personable, and he seems assured and experienced.”

“He is, as are the rest.”

“In that case,” Henrietta met his eyes and smiled, “they’ll do nicely. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find experienced staff in London?”

“None at all.” Releasing her hand, James opened the double doors and set them wide. He waved her in. “Behold—your future drawing room.”

Over the next hour, he learned that while his bride-to-be projected the image of a young lady sometimes distressingly practical, with no overt liking for the usual feminine fripperies, there was another Henrietta lurking inside; as he showed her around his grandaunt’s house—now his and soon to be theirs—another side of her emerged, one he found enchanting.

Henrietta was delighted—far more than she had thought she would be—with the house. The house she was soon to be mistress of; doubtless that fact sharpened her interest and made her more aware, certainly more prepared to be critical, yet, instead, she found herself walking by James’s side through rooms that, in a nutshell, felt like home.

Like her home.

They inspected the formal drawing room, neither overly large, nor cramped in the least, but a perfect blend of comfort allied with fashionable formal simplicity. Clean lines dominated, with Hepplewhite furniture arranged on a silky Aubusson rug spread over mellow oak boards, and the green and ivory color scheme met with her complete approval.

The dining room behind it was impressive in its richly paneled, restrained sumptuousness, while the long library, and the smaller connected parlor that lay at the back of the house, its windows overlooking the rear garden, were simply a delight.

Standing before the window looking out into the lushly planted garden, she spread her arms wide and, with a thoroughly silly smile on her face, spun in a slow circle. “I can see us here.” Even she heard the happiness in her voice. “You in the library, sitting at the desk working on your papers, and me, here, sitting at that escritoire and writing letters.”

James smiled back, one of his lazy, charming smiles. “I can pop in and visit whenever I wish—or you can come and interrupt me.”

She grinned back. Hand in hand, they returned through the library to the front hall and started up the curving staircase. The balustrade was smooth, polished wood; there was not a speck of dust to be seen, even though the house had lacked a mistress for nearly a year. “How many staff are there?”

“As well as Trimble, Fortescue, and Mrs. Rollins, there’s Cook, two maids, a footman, a kitchen boy and a scullery maid. But we can hire more staff if you wish.”

She shook her head. “That sounds ample, at least to start with. I’ll bring my maid, Hannah, with me, of course.” She glanced at him as they stepped into the gallery. “Did your grandaunt spend much time here?”

“Actually, she spent almost half the year here—she was always in town for the full Season, and she would return for the Autumn Session. She was quite interested in politics, strange to say, and kept abreast of everything going on.”

Henrietta insisted on looking into all the rooms on the first floor. “It will be helpful if I have some idea of the accommodations in case we need to put up any extra guests for the wedding.” She halted in the corridor and looked at James. “Do your parents have a house in town? Or will they and your brother put up here, with you?”

“They have a house in Chesterfield Street, and although it’s been more or less shut up for several years, I think my brother, if not my parents, need an excuse to use it again, so I’m not going to offer to put them up here. Besides”—James caught her eye—“if you and I are to return here after the wedding, then we won’t want to have houseguests.”

“Ah.” Lips lifting, she nodded. “I take your point.” Then she flashed him a grin, whirled, and walked on to the last door at the end of the corridor. “What’s in here?” Opening the door, she crossed the threshold into what was clearly the master bedroom.

Larger than all the other bedrooms, the room was L-shaped. Directly before the door lay a wide sitting area with comfortable armchairs covered in tan leather angled before a hearth. A large autumnal landscape in a heavy gilt frame filled the wall above the carved oak mantelpiece, and the walls and furnishings were decorated in muted shades of gold and warm browns.

The sitting area ran the length of the longer arm of the L; windows flanked the fireplace, and when Henrietta turned toward the base of the L, she found herself facing another wide window overlooking the rear gardens. This room, she realized, ran above part of the library and all of the adjoining parlor.

She walked on to where she could better view the massive, carved oak, four-poster bed that dominated the shorter arm of the room, its ornate head against the end wall. The warm, autumnal decor continued, with cream sheets, gold satin bedspread, and russet-and-gold brocade canopy and curtains tied up with tasseled gold cords.

The tallboys and dressers were all oak, all substantial; with the heaviness of the furniture offset by the soft tones of the decor and the rich detail of the landscapes again decorating the walls, the room was a curious blend of male and female.

James was studying her face as if trying to gauge her reaction. “Grandaunt Emily wasn’t overly fond of frills and lace.”

Henrietta met his eyes and smiled. “That’s probably why her style so appeals to me—I’m not overly fond of frills and lace either.”

He breathed out, and she allowed her smile to deepen. “What’s through there?” She pointed to two doors spaced along the inner wall. There were clear pathways along both sides of the bed, the one further from the windows, giving access to those two doors, ending at another, third, closed door.

James strolled across, opened the nearer door and set it swinging. “My dressing room.”

Following him, Henrietta peeked in, glimpsing more tallboys and chests, with the usual paraphernalia of brushes and grooming implements laid out neatly on top.

Then James walked on to the next door, opened it, and waved her in. “This will be yours.”

She walked on and entered a lady’s closet with extensive wardrobes and cupboards, and a dressing table with adjustable mirrors. “Are these from your grandaunt’s day?”

James nodded. “Despite her age, she liked to keep up with the latest improvements.” He caught her eye and tipped his head toward a door at the far end of the narrow room, opposite the door through which they’d entered. “Speaking of which, take a look through there.”

She cast him a curious glance, then walked on, opened the door, looked in—and laughed. “It’s our bathroom.”

The long narrow room had a large skylight. She spent several minutes examining the amenities and appurtenances, noting that James’s dressing room also had a door to the bathroom, while a third door gave onto the main corridor, then James waved her back into the bedroom. “We have one more room to inspect.”

Back in the bedroom, he opened the last door, the one alongside the head of the bed, and ushered her through—into the most beautiful lady’s sitting-room-cum-boudoir she’d ever seen.

“Oh, my!” Eyes round, she drank in the wide windows, the Hepplewhite chairs, the well-stuffed armchairs and chaise. Care had been taken, to an even greater extent than elsewhere, to ensure that every last little detail matched and contributed to the ambience of the room; not a single touch marred the overall impression of being surrounded by a warm, autumn wood. Trailing her fingers along the butter-soft tan leather of the chaise’s raised back, Henrietta murmured, “Your grandaunt loved these colors, didn’t she?”

Sliding his hands into his pockets, James leaned against the mantelpiece. “Yes, she did.” After a moment, he went on, “These are the colors she chose for her rooms up here. Downstairs is mostly woodland greens and browns, and the other bedrooms, you’ll have noticed, are in brighter shades—more yellows and light greens, more summery.”

He paused, but when Henrietta turned and looked at him—as if sensing there was more to it than that—he went on, “She was an artist, old Emily.” He tipped his head toward the painting above the mantelpiece, a rich tapestry of greens and golds and subtle browns depicting a scene of a path through a wood. “I told you she spent half the year in town, but her heart remained in the country, in Wiltshire, at her estate there. She loved the walks, the woods, so she painted them and brought them with her here.”

Henrietta searched his eyes, then looked at the painting. Drawing—drawn—nearer, she asked, “So when we’re there, I’ll be able to see this—the real this?”

He nodded. “All the paintings in the house are hers, and you can see all of the views, all of the scenes, in real life, at Whitestone Hall.”

Henrietta studied the painting, then looked at him. “You’ll have to take me to see each of the places depicted in her paintings.”

He held her gaze. “If you’d like that.”

She smiled and nodded decisively. “I would.” Returning to his side, she cast the painting one last glance. “It’ll be like making contact with your grandaunt, and I rather think, had I ever met her, I would have liked her.”

“She would have liked you.” He caught her gaze as she turned to him, then smiled. “More to the point, she would have approved of you.”

Henrietta opened her eyes wide and stepped closer. “Do you think so?”

Drawing his hands from his pockets, he nodded. “Definitely.”

“Why?” She tipped up her face as he grasped her waist and drew her nearer still.

Bending his head, he murmured, “Because you’re mine—but even more because you’ve made me yours.”

Their lips met.

Later, he would wonder whether it was he, or she, either by conscious act or through unconscious need, who initiated the next step—or whether they were both driven, captive to some elemental, intrinsic command, mere actors engaging under the direction of a power greater than them both.

Or whether, given the situation, the threat hovering over her and therefore over the shared future that was hourly taking more definite shape, it was inevitable that they would end in his bed, and that the afternoon—that particular afternoon—would be filled with the heated tangle of limbs, with provocative caresses, evocative groans, and the sibilant sounds of smothered gasps as together they reexplored, reclaimed, and reaffirmed all they’d previously discovered.

All they’d previously uncovered. Reassuring, restating, revisiting, and reiterating, they dived in again, plunged in again, seized and surrendered and shared the scintillating delights once again.

He couldn’t remember quite how they’d returned to the bed; he vaguely recalled the heated duel of their tongues, the frantic melding of their mouths, followed by an even more driven rush to rid themselves of all physical barriers between them. Clothes shed, fell away, vanished—banished. And then they were naked, hot skin to hot skin, and they both paused, eyes closed, senses stretching wide to absorb the delirious pleasure of that sharply intense moment. To savor it.

Then the flames rose, hungry and greedy, and wouldn’t be denied, and they gave themselves up to the fire, to the conflagration of their senses. Falling across the bed, in the warm afternoon light they reveled and rejoiced.

And it grew stronger. More assured, more powerful.

The force that rose up and claimed them both, that flashed through them and possessed them as, joined and together in body and in mind, they raced up the peak, then soared high.

And fractured.

They clung and slowly fell, spiraling back to the real world, to the heavy thud of each other’s hearts, to the soft, ragged rush of each other’s breaths.

To the joy and comfort of each other’s bodies embracing, holding, accepting, and enveloping.

Protecting. Holding on.

In the soft golden light, in the warmth of his bed, one fact rang crystal clear. Neither had any intention of retreating.

Of backing away, no matter the challenge.

They wanted this, both of them, this and all it could lead to.

Slumping back onto the pillows, as she crawled into his arms, their gazes met and held . . . and he read in her eyes the same resolution that resonated inside him.

Without words, without further thought, in that moment they made a binding commitment.

To each other, to themselves, to their future lives.

To this.

For this they would battle any foe.

Because this was worth any price.

It was that simple. That fundamental.

She lowered her head to his shoulder, let her body, her limbs, relax against his.

Eyes closing, he cradled her close.

As all tension fell away, he inwardly smiled, and sent a prayer winging heavenward—to his grandaunt Emily.

He was entirely reconciled to her manipulation.