And Then She Fell

chapter Twelve



Atop Marie, Henrietta trotted into the park early the next morning. Two grooms rode at her back, both alert and watchful, there to ensure no one attempted to accost or otherwise threaten her.

The morning was cool and damp, light wisps of fog clinging to the trees and wreathing the bushes deeper in the park. No sun had yet struck through the pale gray clouds, and the birdcalls were muted.

“At least there’s no wind,” Henrietta murmured. For her and Marie, this was a regular outing, one of their customary biweekly morning rides; while she’d readily agreed to the extra guards, she hadn’t felt inclined to allow her villainous would-be murderer to dictate how she lived her life.

Yet in deference to the threat, James had insisted on joining her, and with that she was perfectly content; they’d arranged to meet by the start of the tan track along Rotten Row. Conscious of the warming spark of anticipation the prospect of seeing James provoked, she clung to it and rode at a quick clip down toward the track.

Beneath her outward calm, she felt restless, discomfited. She felt almost itchy, her nerves abraded by the constant scrutiny that had surprisingly quickly escalated once the rest of the family had been informed of the threat against her life.

She hadn’t expected to feel quite so “under observation,” to the extent that the three hours she’d spent at a ball last night had ended feeling like time to be endured, rather than enjoyed. Even having James constantly by her side hadn’t alleviated the oppressive feeling.

“But until this damned villain is caught and hung by the heels,” she muttered, “it appears I’m going to have to put up with it.”

She reached the start of the tan track and wasn’t all that surprised to find no James waiting. Drawing rein, she leaned forward and patted Marie’s glossy neck. “We’re a trifle early, I fear.”

She and James had agreed to ride extra early, but, restless, she’d left home as soon as she’d been ready, and as yet there were few others abroad. She could see only two groups of riders, one threesome of rakish gentlemen, and two older gentlemen out for their morning constitutional. Both groups were already using the track; their members noted her escort and gave her a wide berth.

She shifted in her saddle; Marie pranced as the three rakish gentlemen set their mounts facing down the tan track, then swept past and on in a thunder of hooves. The mare loved to run and didn’t at all appreciate Henrietta holding her back.

“James will be here soon.” Henrietta gentled the mare, settling her. Along with Marie, she looked longingly down the track. “We’ll be able to run when he comes.”

Then again, she had two guards, and the track wasn’t that long . . . and other than the five riders, all of whom she recognized, there was no one else around.

The mare danced, jiggling her.

“Oh, all right.” Easing the reins, she swung Marie toward the start of the track and called over her shoulder, “I’m going down for one pass.”

Her guards quickly brought their horses up; when she sent Marie at an easy gallop down the tan, the grooms kept station just behind her.

They were galloping fluidly by the time they reached the end of the track. Laughing—feeling considerably better, freer, lighter of heart—Henrietta reined in and turned, bringing Marie around in a wide arc preparatory to riding back to the start of the track.

Looking up and ahead, she saw James emerging from the misty distance. She waved and called a halloo.

He spotted her, smiled, and raised a hand in salute.

Grinning, she leaned forward—

Crack!

James saw Henrietta jerk, then start to crumple a fraction before the sharp report of a pistol reached him. Shock hit him like a fist to the chest.

Digging in his heels, he sent his mount racing over the sward.

Fear sank icy talons around his heart and squeezed. . . .

Then he was hauling his gray in alongside the confused and skittish black mare. He was vaguely aware of the two grooms milling close, putting themselves, horses and bodies, between Henrietta and the thick bushes from where the shot must have come. But his focus, all his awareness, all his senses, were locked on Henrietta. She lay slumped forward, arms limply embracing the mare’s glossy neck. Blood was trickling down the side of her face, disappearing into the black hide.

She looked pale as death, but her back rose slightly and fell.

Throttling his panic, dropping his reins, he reached for her. It took a moment of juggling to free her from her sidesaddle, then he lifted her across and into his arms, settling her before him.

Cradling her close, he felt her chest expand and contract. Rhythmically and repeatedly. Carefully moving her head, he gently examined her wound, an ugly furrow above one ear, then he blew out a breath. Sucked in another as his reeling wits steadied. “She’s alive.” He glanced at the anxious grooms. “She’ll live. It’s only a bad graze.”

He looked down at her face. Pain and shock had knocked her unconscious, and she was losing copious amounts of blood, but she wasn’t going to die.

Relief swamped him; if he’d been standing, it would have brought him to his knees.

Awkwardly searching for, then folding, his handkerchief, he pressed it firmly to the angry wound, then glanced at the grooms. Meeting their worried gazes, he realized they were torn—should they try to catch the villain or stay and help with their mistress?

“I’ll take her straight home.” Lips tightening, he nodded at the bushes. “Take the mare, and see what you can find.”

They didn’t need further urging; one seized the mare’s reins, then they both raced off.

He didn’t dally to see where they went; managing his gray with his knees, he cantered as fast as he dared straight out of the park, then up Park Lane to Upper Brook Street.

“He picked his moment.” A glass of brandy in his hand, James stood before the fireplace in the drawing room, his gaze locked on Henrietta; in a fresh day gown with her wound bathed and bound, she was seated on the chaise flanked by a pale-faced Louise and a grim-faced Mary, each clutching one of her hands. Lord Arthur sat in the armchair facing the chaise, his pallor verging on ashen.

The rest of the room was full of Cynsters. Other members of the family, alerted, James assumed, by Lord Arthur and Lady Louise, had started arriving within half an hour of him carrying Henrietta, unconscious and still bleeding, into the front hall.

Pandemonium had, unsurprisingly, ensued.

Now, nearly two hours later, the room was awash in stylish day gowns and morning coats, their owners overflowing with concern or bristling with protectiveness, or, in some cases, both.

Henrietta had, to his intense relief, quickly recovered her wits and a degree of her composure, at least, but as was to be expected, she was shaken and shocked.

As was he. Taking another sip of brandy, he continued his report—for her benefit as much as that of the others in the room. “At the time of the shot, the other riders who’d been there had left. I could see them in the distance, but they didn’t even hear the shot. It was just plain luck that he had such a window of opportunity, but given where he’d hidden, he would have been able to take his shot regardless of whether anyone else was around.”

“Nevertheless,” Devil Cynster said, his deep voice just above a growl, “that point’s important. It was early—did anyone else notice you while you were riding back?”

James hesitated, then replied, “Not that I was aware of, but”—he met Devil’s gaze—“I wasn’t looking around to see who we shocked.”

“Just so.” Helena spoke crisply. “But what you are wanting to know, I think”—she caught her son’s eye—“is whether it is likely that the whole ton now knows of this incident, or if it is still only us”—with a regal wave, she indicated the family gathered around—“who know of this cowardly attack.”

Devil nodded. “Correct. We agreed to keep the attacks—that they were attacks and not accidents—to ourselves, but no one’s going to label being shot in Hyde Park an accident.”

“Indeed, but”—Helena glanced at the other ladies—“I believe we, the ladies, are best placed to learn what the rest of the ton knows, so . . . who has luncheons to attend?”

Several ladies admitted to having such engagements; in the end, fully half the skirts and several of the morning coats departed the room, their owners sallying forth on their fact-finding mission.

The door had barely closed behind them when it was flung open again and two ladies rushed in, making a beeline for the chaise.

“Good God, Henrietta! Are you all right?”

“Mama’s note just said you’d been shot!”

A pair of near identical eyes, having taken in Henrietta’s relative health, swiveled to fix almost accusingly on Louise.

She flung up her hands, then opened her arms to her elder daughters. “I’m sorry, my dears, but I knew you would want to know immediately you reached town, and I was a little distracted.”

The twins, Amanda and Amelia, hugged their mother, then moved on to greet all the other family members. James found himself being hugged, his cheek kissed, then introduced to the twins’ husbands, Martin Fulbright and Luc Ashford, with both of whom he was passingly acquainted.

“This sounds like a bad business,” Martin said as the ladies moved on.

“You’ll need to fill us in,” Luc said. “We thought we were coming down for your engagement ball, only to discover we’ve landed in the middle of attempted murder. Why on earth would anyone want to shoot Henrietta?”

By the time James and the other males had answered Martin’s and Luc’s understandable questions, it was time for luncheon; the entire gathering transferred to the dining room, where a cold collation lay waiting.

Everyone took seats around the table, filled their plates, and were just settling to eat when the front doorbell pealed. Urgently. Everyone looked at each other, wondering . . . then swift footsteps were heard and the door opened and Angelica, Countess of Glencrae, and her husband, Dominic, swept in.

Greetings, exclamations, and explanations started all over again. Angelica’s older sisters, Heather and Eliza, and their husbands, had arrived with the earlier troops, but both ladies had left with the company that had gone forth to assess the ton’s knowledge of the latest incident, and their absences, too, had to be explained. . . .

James cast a long-suffering look at Devil, seated across the table. The Duke of St. Ives, a nobleman powerful enough to command instant obedience in many other spheres, merely shrugged and looked resigned.

Eventually, at last, everyone was seated, and eating, and the gathering finally quieted.

From the faint frowns in most eyes, the distracted expressions, while they ate most were thinking. Reviewing all they knew, and thinking of what next they might do—of how to identify the blackguard who had so nearly claimed one of their own.

James glanced at Henrietta, seated alongside him, then looked back at his plate. He had no difficulty comprehending, indeed, fully shared, the barely restrained aggression emanating from all the Cynster males; had the ball passed one inch to the right, Henrietta would have been dead.

He was, now, perfectly ready to do murder himself.

But first he—they—had to identify the madman.

Gradually, discussions started up, here and there down the long table. What if . . . ? Perhaps . . . ? Maybe if . . . ? The cold collation was whisked away and replaced with fruit, nuts, and cheeses, served with a fruity white wine. As the platters were passed along the table, the swell of speculation rose.

“It’s not going to be easy.” Henrietta glanced up and met James’s eyes. “Is it?”

He hesitated, then replied, “I can’t see any simple way to learn who he is.”

From across the table, Devil asked, “What did the grooms find? Anything?”

James shook his head. The two grooms had returned half an hour after he and Henrietta had reached the house. “They hunted high and low, but while they found the place where the man had been—in that dense stand of bushes about fifteen yards from the end of the tan—they didn’t see anyone about. They think he must have had a horse waiting.”

Devil grimaced. “At that hour, once he was away from the immediate area, there’d be no reason for anyone to pay any attention to him. He’d be just another gentleman out for an early morning ride.”

“True, but that wasn’t a bad shot.” Seated beside Devil, Vane Cynster said, “Think about it.” He met Henrietta’s eyes. “You must have been a good twenty yards away, and riding away from him.”

Henrietta thought back, then felt what little color she’d regained drain from her face. “I leaned forward just as he shot. . . .” She met Vane’s eyes, then glanced at James. “He wasn’t aiming for my head.”

Devil growled, “He was aiming for your heart.” Abruptly he reached out, seized a salt cellar, and rapped it like a gavel on the table. “Quiet!”

All the discussions cut off. Everyone looked at Devil.

Lips thin, he smiled, not humorously. “Let’s go back to the drawing room. We need to pool everything we know and decide what steps we’re going to take to bring this blackguard down.”

No one argued with either the directive or his tone. Everyone seemed in a belligerent mood as they found seats or took up positions around the drawing room.

Feeling a trifle unsteady emotionally as well as physically, Henrietta drew James down to sit on the arm of the chaise, the corner of which she—as the lady most likely to be feeling frail—was instructed to take.

Devil claimed his usual position before the fireplace, flanked by his cousins Vane and Gabriel. Her father sat in an armchair alongside; his brothers, George and Martin, occupied chairs next to his. The other males ranged around the walls, or leaned against the backs of chairs and sofas. The ladies, not the full complement as the others had yet to return, disposed themselves around the circle of available seats.

Henrietta watched as Devil scanned the faces. This was just the family, all of them connected directly by blood or marriage. The connections weren’t present. What was discussed in this room would be family business, and unless agreed otherwise, would be restricted to the family only.

“Let us assume,” Devil began, “that the rest of the ton don’t know about the shooting this morning. Given there’ve been no inquiries made at the door here, I suspect that’s a reasonable assumption, but the rest of our number will return shortly and bring confirmation. So . . . the question we currently face is what to do next, specifically how we can identify the gentleman who, quite aside from already being a double-murderer, apparently thinks it’s wise to take aim at a Cynster.”

A rumble, a ripple of instinctive response, ran around the room. Ignoring it, Devil turned to James. “It might be helpful if the two of you would outline for the rest of us the earlier incidents—what exactly happened at Marchmain House, in Brook Street, and at the ruins at Ellsmere Grange.”

James nodded. Henrietta was holding his hand tightly, so he stayed where he was and addressed the company from there, outlining the three incidents, describing what had happened from his point of view; Henrietta chipped in with her observations as they went along.

Everyone listened in attentive silence, broken only by a few shrewd questions put by some of the gentlemen.

When they’d finished describing the morning’s events, Devil stated, “Scotland Yard, in the form of Inspector Stokes, knows everything bar this morning’s happenings. Before we inform him of those, however, I suggest we discuss what steps we intend to take to catch this blackguard. There are things we might do that Stokes might have difficulty condoning, and we don’t need to place him in any unenviable position. So let’s decide what we’re going to do first.”

There was general agreement with that sentiment, and also with the need to bring the matter to a head sooner rather than later.

“We don’t want him taking any more potshots at Henrietta,” her uncle Martin growled.

The ladies and gentlemen who had gone out over luncheon to assess the ton’s state of knowledge returned with the news that, overall, the ton remained oblivious.

“It seems,” Heather, now Viscountess Breckenridge, said, as she sat on a straight-backed chair her husband had fetched for her, “that it was simply too early and no one was about.”

“Or if they were, they weren’t awake enough to take proper notice.” Jeremy Carling set a chair for his wife alongside Heather’s; Eliza swept her skirts close and sat. Jeremy looked at Devil. “There wasn’t so much as a whisper at any of the clubs.”

“Good,” Devil said. “So the blackguard will most likely think that this morning’s incident is the first we’ve got wind of him and his lethal intentions, and that not having any idea what might be behind them, we’re in the dark and”—he waved around the room—“gathering in a panic and not yet actively doing anything. The longer he remains ignorant of our intention to trap him the better—the easier our task will be.”

The door opened and Simon entered; he’d gone to see if he could winkle Lady Marchmain’s guest list from her. Everyone looked at him hopefully. He grimaced. “She’s happy to share it, but it’s at Marchmain House. She’ll send it by rider the instant she gets home.”

James nodded his thanks but pointed out, “We need to remember that, given the number on it, at best all that list will do is narrow our field. It won’t get us all that much closer to identifying the killer.”

“True.” Devil looked around the room. “So who can think of a plan to draw the blackguard out?”

Various options—some rather fanciful—were aired. Henrietta sat back and let the discussions rage . . . until they started to peter out. Then, speaking more strongly than she had to that point, she stated, “We all know there’s really only one way.”

The look Devil cast her told her very clearly that he’d understood that from the first but had chosen to exhaust every other avenue before even considering it.

Before he could take charge again, she said, “The only way to trap him, to lure him into stepping out of the ton crowd, is to use me as bait.”

She wasn’t surprised by the resulting furor.

Under cover of the arguments being tossed back and forth, James, her hand trapped in his, leaned closer to say, “I don’t want you to do it—to risk yourself like that.”

Henrietta looked into his eyes. “I know. I don’t want to take the risk—but it’s the only way.” She squeezed his hand, held tight. “The only way we’ll get to live in your grandaunt Emily’s house, the two of us together, free of any threat, the only way I’ll ever be able to see the scenes she painted in real life, at Whitestone Hall.” She held his gaze for a moment more, then quietly but determinedly said, “I don’t wish to take any risk, but to have the future we both want, we need me to do this, and so I will. Please don’t make it more difficult.”

He returned her regard for a long moment, then . . . with palpable reluctance, he nodded and looked up, at Devil. “St. Ives.”

When Devil glanced his way, James said, “Let’s cut to the chase. Henrietta’s right. There is only one way.”

His eyes on James’s, Devil hauled in a huge breath, then he glanced at Henrietta, saw her resolution, and sighed. Nodded. Then Devil raised his voice, called the family conclave to order, and stated, “There’s no point arguing. This has to be done. So how, exactly, do we do it?”

Silence fell as everyone paused and drew breath.

Then step by step, point by point, layer of protection upon layer of protection, acting in concert, bringing their collective experience to bear, the Cynster family formulated a plan to trap Lady Winston’s murderer, the malefactor who had had the temerity to target one of their own.

Later that night, James climbed through the back parlor window of Lord Arthur Cynster’s house. “Thank you,” he whispered to the shadowy figure who had opened the window and waved him inside.

“If you want to thank me, just make sure Henrietta gets through this, happy and alive.” Mary closed the window, locked it, paused, then amended, “In reverse order will be perfectly acceptable.”

Wrapped in a thick robe with a shawl knotted about her shoulders, without further words she crossed to the door, opened it, glanced out, then impatiently beckoned him to follow.

James made his way across the room, stepped quietly into the corridor, and shut the door. Mary held a finger to her lips, then proceeded to lead him through the silent house. Into the front hall and up the main stairs, she walked confidently but made little sound; James did his best to emulate her, praying they wouldn’t encounter any members of the household on some midnight excursion.

Mary led him around the gallery, then down a corridor; she halted outside a door, glanced at him, and tipped her head toward the panels. “That’s her room. Everyone’s been in bed for an hour, so she might be asleep. Make sure she doesn’t scream.”

James inwardly frowned. Before he could respond, Mary blithely went on, “I assume you can find your way back out?”

“Yes. Of course.” It hadn’t been a complicated journey.

“Good. You’d better make sure you leave early enough to escape notice—I don’t want any repercussions over this. Just leave the window closed—I’ll lock it when I go down in the morning.”

There really was no limit to her brassy bossiness, but she had helped him tonight, and for that he was grateful; she hadn’t had to agree, but beneath her self-assured schoolma’amish arrogance, James sensed she really was anxious over Henrietta, and he could find no fault with that.

Closing his hand about the doorknob, he inclined his head.

With a regal nod, Mary glided on and away.

He didn’t wait to see where she went but turned the knob, opened the door, slipped through, and quietly closed it behind him.

Although no candle burned, there was enough light to see. Two wide windows were uncurtained, and moonlight washed across the polished boards to lap about and across a large tester bed. The head of the bed and the pillows remained in shadow, but even as he started across the floor, James heard a rustle, then saw the covers move.

Mary’s admonition about making sure Henrietta didn’t scream blared in his mind.

“James?” Henrietta sat up; instinctively holding the sheets to her chest, she peered past the spill of moonlight into the gloom beyond. “Is that you?”

Even as she whispered the words, the thought that it might not be him, the fear of who it might be instead, flared in her mind but was immediately doused by some rock-solidly sure part of her that—somehow—knew beyond question that the indistinct figure shrouded in gloom was James.

“Yes.” He walked into the moonlight and crossed to the bed.

She looked up at him, drank in the sight. He halted beside the bed and looked down at her in the same way—as if just seeing her, setting eyes on her face, looking into her eyes, was an end in itself, a balm to both mind and emotions. They both took the minute, used it, then she held out a hand. “I’m glad you came.”

He closed his fingers firmly around hers. When she tugged, he obliged and sat on the side of the bed, facing her. “I had to see you. I needed to speak with you. I asked Mary to help me, and she let me in.”

Henrietta smiled fleetingly. “I must remember to thank her.”

His gaze rose to her head, to the bandage still circling it. “How’s your head?”

“Sore where the ball grazed, but otherwise it doesn’t hurt.” Curling her legs beneath the sheets, leaving her hand in his, she shifted closer, propping on her other arm, letting the covers slide to her lap. She was wearing a fine lawn nightgown; regardless, she had no reason to hide from him. Leaning closer, head tipping, she murmured, “Indeed, otherwise, I’m perfectly all right.”

Because she was watching, she saw the shadow that passed across his face. He drew a tighter breath, then met her gaze. “That was just luck. Pure luck that you leaned forward.”

She held his gaze, gripped his hand tighter. “True, but fate took a hand and . . . I’m still here.”

His voice lowered. “We’re still here—as I see it, as I feel it—there’s no longer any me or you, only we and us.”

She studied his eyes, then her lips lifted. “I’m glad you feel that—think that—because I do, too.”

A minute ticked by while they simply looked at each other, while they drowned in each other’s eyes, marveling anew, reveling again in the connection, in the power of what now bound them.

The flaring intensity peaked. Moved by it, compelled, she shifted, fluidly coming up on her knees to lean closer; placing her hand on his shoulder, she tipped her head and set her lips to his, and kissed him.

She parted her lips and drew him in, then let the kiss spin out, and he kissed her back; releasing her hand, he raised his and gently, so gently, framed her face, careful not to press against her wound, and held her steady, balanced on her knees before him, so the kiss could extend, could stretch and evolve, so they both could savor.

So they could calm their inner demons, exorcise their fears, and through the caress, through the intimate sharing, be once again assured—of the other, of them.

That they were still there, were hale and whole and still together. That their joint future was still there, theirs to claim, waiting for them to own it.

Her lips supped from his, then his from hers. Passion and desire swirled in the darkness, subtle flames licking over their skins, teasing their senses, tantalizing their nerves.

Tempting them.

Eventually, she drew back; breasts rising, she filled her lungs on a slow, deep inhalation, then, eyes locked with his, mere inches apart, she murmured, her tone low, a blatant, sultry, unequivocal invitation, “You are going to stay, aren’t you?”

His lips softened, fractionally curved. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “That would be my preferred option.”

She laughed soft and low, and drew him down to the bed.

Drew him into her arms as he tipped and they rolled, and passion swelled. But in instinctive accord they caught it, reined it back. Tonight was theirs—no threat could reach them, no would-be murderer touch them, not there. They had no need to rush, and much more reason to loiter.

To linger, and savor, and rejoice.

James had rolled to his back, had settled her atop him. Cradling her head in one large hand, he looked up into her eyes. “We’ll have to be careful not to hurt your head.”

“We will be, and we won’t.” Settling her elbows on his chest, she stared down into his eyes, then seductively smiled. “Just kiss me.” As she bent her head to teasingly brush her lips over his, she murmured, “Make love to me.”

He needed no further invitation; cupping the back of her head, he waited, let her play and script the kiss for several heartbeats, then he took over and let the kiss turn hungry.

Hungry, but leashed.

Tongues tangled, dueled; their lips parted only to meld and fuse again as the exchange grew more heated. More intent.

Their breathing grew ragged; soft sounds of passion floated in the air.

Clothes fell, flew, vanished. Hands grasped, then caressed and sculpted.

Weighed and flagrantly possessed.

Their lips parted only so they could savor the other’s skin, so they could taste the other’s passion.

So they could drive each other on.

They both knew what they wanted; they both wanted the same thing. Tonight even more than previously they were in perfect accord.

In perfect empathy.

What followed was a symphony, one orchestrated by them both, with first him directing, then her conducting, then, hand in hand, body to body, skin to skin, they let passion and desire and all that flowed from the physical and emotional conflagration sweep them up and away.

Together.

As one their hearts seized as he entered her and joined them; as one they paused, senses wide, to drain every last scintilla of heightened pleasure from that critical second . . . then with flawless rhythm they started the dance, their journey to completion.

They were as one in their grasping desperation, in their giddy, reckless, passionate joy, as one with their hoarse, rasping breaths as they rode, skins damp, senses burning, for the ultimate distant peak.

And found ecstasy waiting, powerful and sure, to embrace them, shatter them, and once again remold them. To once again fuse them, but at an even deeper level, in an even more unbreakable bond.

As they tumbled back to earth, to the dark bliss of the bed and the warmth of the other’s arms, even as the golden glow of satiation spread through them both, they found each other’s eyes.

Breaths mingling, gazes locked, neither needed to ask what the other thought.

They would defy hell for this. For this joy, this passion.

This unbounded togetherness.

No one—no murderer, no villain of any stripe—would take this from them. They wouldn’t let it go. Not willingly, not even if death threatened.

They read the truth in each other’s eyes, then let their lids fall. They needed no words to repledge their troth; for this, for their chance to live with this, to devote their lives to living the promise of this, they would, unhesitatingly, stake their lives.

Nothing needed to be said. Sliding deeper into the bed, dragging up the covers, they turned into each other’s arms, and slept.