And Then She Fell

chapter Thirteen



The following evening, Sir Thomas Grenville, Trustee of the British Museum and prominent bibliophile, had elected to host a gala to raise funds for the continuing construction of the new museum. Sir Thomas had had the happy notion of staging his gala in the part of the new East Wing known as The King’s Library Gallery, a completed section of the new works until that evening forbidden to any but the curators, hence assuring attendance by all those of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation.

As most of the upper echelon of the ton was presently in residence for the Season, the event was destined by design to be the most horrendous, albeit select, crush—literally everyone who was anyone could be counted on to be there.

“It truly is the perfect venue for our trap,” Henrietta murmured. On James’s arm, she stood just behind her mother and father in the reception line; tall though she was, she couldn’t see over, much less through, the sea of heads and shoulders bobbing and nodding as those in the line ahead of their party chatted excitedly. Everyone was anticipating a highly memorable evening. Sir Thomas, an old hand at staging fund-raising events, had been extremely cagey over the entertainment he intended providing, letting speculation build and do his job for him.

As a consequence, all those invited had turned up en masse.

“I heard,” James said, bending his head to murmur in her ear, “that those senior hostesses who had intended to host events tonight have, by and large, cancelled them.”

Henrietta nodded. “There was no point persevering. Everyone is going to be here, and as it’s a gala, few will be likely to leave until it’s over.”

“Which, again, will presumably play into our hands.” Raising his head, James glanced around. “I can see St. Ives ahead, and Gabriel and Alathea are ten yards behind us.” He swept his gaze ahead, then back along the densely packed line of would-be revelers again. “I can’t see any of the others.”

“They’ll be here, somewhere, although with such a crowd I’m relieved we don’t have to meet up with any of them. Finding anyone will be well-nigh impossible.”

“Unless you’re watching and waiting.” James felt his jaw set. After a moment, he relaxed it enough to ask, “Remind me again—who are the ones elected to supply our façade of obliviousness?”

Henrietta glanced around, but the noise generated by the crowd was already such that she seriously doubted even her mother, directly ahead of her, would hear anything she said. Nevertheless, she leaned nearer to James and lowered her voice. “Devil and Honoria, Vane and Patience, Gabriel and Alathea, Lucifer and Phyllida, and Demon and Flick, as well as Simon and Portia, Amanda and Martin, and Amelia and Luc.” She shifted her gaze forward. “And my parents, of course—and Mary, too.” Her sister was standing on Arthur’s other side. “Plus all the older generation—Aunt Helena, Martin and Celia, and George and Horatia. They’ll all be here, and all will be playing their part.”

They’d all agreed that her would-be murderer would definitely know enough to be wary of those named. He would watch them for their reactions, possibly even be bold enough to test them, and if they showed any hint of being alert and on guard, then no matter how tempting the lure they cast, he wouldn’t step free of the crowd to pursue it. Consequently, the above-named members of the wider company who had come there that night intent on capturing the murderer would project a façade of supreme unawareness of any potential threat. That was their role—to convince the murderer that no one was expecting him to do anything so outrageous as to strike again that night, certainly not at the gala, and that therefore no one was maintaining any particular watch on Henrietta.

“So,” James said, “we have Adair and Penelope, Charlie Morwellan and Sarah, Dillon Caxton and Pris, Gerrard Debbington and Jacqueline, your cousins Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, and their husbands, and Charlie Hastings playing the part of the surreptitious watchers.”

They shuffled forward in the line and Henrietta nodded. “Along with Christian and Letitia, Wolverstone and Minerva, and other members of that special club of theirs, as well as some of their army friends, and all their wives.” She glanced up at James. “There’ll be many more watching me than the murderer could possibly guess.”

James fought not to let his inner grimness show. He was supposedly there to enjoy what was widely expected to be the highlight of the Season, with his newly affianced bride-to-be on his arm, but projecting the correct image was proving a difficult task given his preordained role in their drama.

He still didn’t know how he’d come to agree to it—to agree to stage a disagreement with Henrietta of sufficient intensity to support the fiction of them parting, of her storming into the crowd and him turning on his heel and stalking off in the opposite direction.

Facing forward, Henrietta added, “And don’t forget Stokes and his men waiting outside.”

James wasn’t about to forget that the nearest the police could get was the outside of the building. If anything, Stokes liked their plan even less than James did, but, like James, he’d been largely helpless to prevent it being carried out, so had elected to lend his support as best he could. With a small cohort of his junior detectives and several eager constables, Stokes had set up a continual watch on all the exits from the building. If something occurred and the villain attempted to flee, he would run into the waiting arms of the Metropolitan Police.

James glanced at Henrietta. She appeared entirely calm, her attention focused outward, exchanging smiles and nods with others in the crowd.

Only he was near enough to detect the wary watchfulness lurking in her soft eyes; only he could feel, through her hand lying on his sleeve, the tension thrumming through her. She was wound as tight as he.

They reached the head of the reception line, and Sir Thomas greeted them with jocular good cheer. After exchanging the usual brief pleasantries, and receiving Sir Thomas’s congratulations on their engagement, James led Henrietta in Louise, Arthur, and Mary’s wake. All of them looked about them as they walked, tacking around other couples and groups likewise caught in admiration of the elegance of a room reputed to be the finest in all of London.

The gallery, built to house the King’s library, was three hundred feet long; over most of that length, it was thirty feet wide, but the central section, delineated by four spectacular columns of polished Aberdeen granite, was said to be nearly double that width.

“Just look at that ceiling.” Head tipped back, Henrietta stared upward at the ornate plasterwork in creams, pale yellows, and gold. “That must be at least forty feet high.”

“At least.” Grasping her hand, James wound her arm in his and started them on a course separate from her parents and sister. “Those balconies all around will afford an excellent view of the room.”

“Hmm.” Henrietta glanced his way, caught his eye. “Anyone on them, up there above the crowd, will also be in easy view of anyone watching them.”

James’s lips twisted. “Precisely my thought.” He dipped his head to murmur, “Up there would be the perfect place to stage our disagreement. We should keep an eye out for the stairs leading up.”

Henrietta nodded. The balconies in question ran above the bookcases lining the long sides of the room; about halfway up the forty-foot-high walls, the balconies formed narrow walkways that ran over the top of the deep bookcases and in front of the long windows set in the upper halves of the walls. Delicate, gilded, rail-type balustrades gave the balconies an airy appearance, as if they were suspended over the body of the room.

“According to Adair,” James said, “there are only two doors—the one we came in and another at the far end of the room.” They paused beside one of the beautiful polished desks situated along the room. Examining it, then the marble statue beside it, James shook his head. “I can’t believe this room is intended purely for the use of scholars, and the wider public wasn’t supposed to ever get a chance to appreciate it.” He glanced around as they started off again. “I can see why they’ve claimed it’s the finest room in London.”

Still engrossed in drinking in the architectural magnificence, Henrietta nodded, then added, “Which, I suppose, all but guarantees that whoever we’re after, they will be here.”

They were nearing the middle section, where the room doubled in width. Glancing back toward the door through which they’d entered, Henrietta saw the polished oak and mahogany floor fast disappearing beneath a tide of elegant skirts as the rest of the guests poured in. “How long do you think we should wait before we enact our scene?”

“Adair and Devil both pushed for us to wait a full hour—all of the guests should be in the room by then.”

“All right.” Plastering on a brighter smile, Henrietta tightened her arm around his. “In that case, we can mingle freely and forget about the plan until then.”

They did precisely that, stopping to chat with others, receiving congratulations on their engaged state with appropriate modesty. Nevertheless, as they promenaded around the central section, then continued down the long room, both continued to assess the possibilities the room afforded in terms of carrying out their plan.

When they reached the other end of the room, James drew Henrietta aside, into one corner. Dipping his head, he spoke quietly; the room was now so crowded, the guests so densely packed, that despite the cacophony of a thousand voices they needed to be wary of being overheard. “I’m sure Adair will send some of those watching you up onto the balconies.” Barnaby had been delegated to oversee that arm of the plan—those of their company delegated to watch over and ultimately protect Henrietta while the rest of her family pretended obliviousness.

“I can already see Dillon and Pris up there, on the right, nearer the middle.” Henrietta nodded at the pair. “Pris is expecting, so Dillon won’t leave her, but they’re both very sharp eyed.”

“Doubtless Adair is standing at some point from where he can see all the watchers, so they can alert him to anyone approaching you.”

Henrietta quelled a shiver; the only way she was going to get through the evening was to not think about the man who wanted to murder her. Hannah had dressed her hair to conceal the wound along the side of her head, but she could still feel it, a constant reminder of the pistol ball tearing through her skin. “Is it time yet?”

James consulted his fob watch, then tucked it back into his pocket. “At least another fifteen minutes.”

“Lady Holland mentioned that the first entertainment to be offered was to be that Italian soprano from Milan. I assume she’ll perform beside the grand piano in the middle section, and as her ladyship said the soprano was the first of three acts, then I assume she’ll perform soon, most likely on, or just after, the hour.” Henrietta met James’s eyes. “Should we wait until after she performs, or enact our scene before?”

“Just before, and staged on the balcony above the piano will gain maximum attention, but . . .” James grimaced, then met Henrietta’s eyes. “There’s no reason the entire ton needs to witness our ‘disagreement.’ If our man is here, and he should be by then, he’ll be watching you anyway—we don’t need to make a major production out of it, so after the soprano’s performance might be better.”

Henrietta nodded decisively. “Yes, it will be—aside from anything else, making too big a show of it might tip the blackguard off. I wouldn’t be so gauche, and neither would you. We can’t act out of character and make our parting too obvious—it has to be believable.” She met James’s eyes. “Quite literally a temporary disagreement and nothing more.”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes, you’re right. But I still think we should make it easy for him to see us disagree and part.” He looked up and along the balcony running above the left wall of the section they were in. “We could position ourselves toward the end of this balcony, just above the piano, above where the soprano will stand.”

Henrietta turned to the delicate spiral staircase that led up to the balcony in question. “We can go up here and promenade along, then take up position to listen to the singer.” She glanced at James. “That will look entirely natural.”

With a nod, he followed her to the nearby stairs, then up them. Gaining the balcony, he retook her arm, and they commenced a slow promenade back toward the central section of the room.

They found the perfect spot at the end of the balcony, where another spiral stair led down to the gallery’s floor just a little way from one of the four massive granite columns that supported the ceiling of the long room’s central section. The piano was being positioned at the foot of that column.

Henrietta stood beside the balustrade, one gloved hand on the smooth rail, and looked down, watching as five liveried staff muscled the piano around under the direction of a dapperly dressed but currently harassed-looking individual. She glanced at James, beside her. “I think that’s Sir Thomas’s secretary.”

James, who had been scanning the room below them, focused on the poor man, then snorted. “I don’t envy him his job. Bad enough having to organize all this, but on top of that to have to deal with temperamental artistes . . . I can’t imagine there’s many lining up for that honor.” Gossip had painted the soprano who was to perform as having the voice of an angel and the temper of a demented devil.

“I gather he—the secretary—has been with Sir Thomas for years, so no doubt he’s grown accustomed to the drama.” Henrietta leaned further over the railing to peer down.

James had to quash a sudden impulse to seize her and drag her back; he was already so tense, so much on high alert, that his instincts were searching for any excuse to drag her into his arms.

To seize her and keep her safe, to remove her from any danger. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself of his role and that, from his instincts’ point of view, the evening was going to get significantly worse before it got any better.

“Good!” Henrietta said. “Here’s the soprano now.”

James heard the barely restrained impatience in her voice, and also the underlying tension. There was nothing worse than waiting to act, holding off putting their plan into motion, but now the moment was nearly upon them. . . .

In the crowd below, he saw many of their company—those pretending to obliviousness as well as the others who were hanging back and very much more surreptitiously keeping their eyes glued on Henrietta.

The accompanist took his place at the piano, and with word quickly spreading, the crowd shifted and re-formed the better to hear and appreciate the performance. The pianist ran his fingers over the keys, then paused, and the soprano swept dramatically forward as if she were on a stage. Taking up position before the piano, she nodded to the pianist, then visibly drew in a breath, opened her mouth, and sang.

Her voice was so powerful that it filled the room, reaching to the furthest corners. The rise and fall of the music, the song, was captivating, and effortlessly held the audience spellbound. James toyed with the notion of staging his and Henrietta’s charade right then—while all those below were distracted—but even as the thought formed, he discarded it; the singer was so very good there was a definite chance the murderer might be distracted, too, and might miss their performance.

So he waited. Even though the singer was so engaging, he couldn’t appreciate her talent; he was too on edge, too focused on what he and Henrietta had to do next. On the image they had to successfully project.

When the soprano concluded her performance, the applause was thunderous. As it faded, Sir Thomas stepped forward to announce that a celebrated tenor would perform for the gathering in half an hour, and then later in the evening, the diva and the tenor would return to send the attendees home with a duet.

After further accolades and applause, the soprano retreated, along with the pianist and the secretary, and the guests returned to their previous occupation. Noise rose in a wave and crashed over the scene.

Her expression reflecting something akin to rapture—a common enough expression on many ladies’ faces at that precise moment—Henrietta turned to James, met his gaze. “We do it now.” Her expression altered, sobering—as if he’d said something to bring her jarringly back to earth.

He nodded curtly, lips already a thin line. “So we’re having an argument.”

She tipped up her head. Chin firming, lips tightening, she flatly stated, “Yes. You’ve said something horrible—God only knows what.”

They’d rehearsed through the afternoon, but that hadn’t been in their script. He narrowed his eyes, tipping his face downward to meet her militant gaze, an aggressive frown hovering over his face. “Don’t you dare make me laugh.”

In response, she tipped her nose higher and all but tossed her head. “Nonsense. A laugh will do you good.”

He scowled blackly; it was easy to make light of what they were doing—their “disagreement” charade. This was the simple part of the plan; what came next was the bit neither of them felt the least inclined to do.

“So I’m going,” she pronounced, turning away, but pausing, as if to allow him one last chance to apologize, or to otherwise say the right thing.

“Take care.” He had to grip the balustrade to stop himself from reaching out to her.

She swung fully away with an almost violent flounce and, her back to him, head high, took the two steps to the spiral stair and, nose still elevated, went very deliberately down.

Stone-faced, jaw clenching, he tightened his grip on the balustrade, then, forcing himself to slowly let go, he turned on his heel and stalked, slowly, rigidly, back along the balcony.

It took effort, real effort, not to turn and glance back at her; it took almost as much effort not to check on the others, especially those who would, by now, he hoped, be trailing her, sticking close by as she made her way through the crowd. They’d reasoned the murderer, unless he had studied the family’s connections, wouldn’t realize the link between, for example, Gerrard Debbington and Henrietta Cynster.

Gerrard and Charles Morwellan were two of those who would shadow Henrietta wherever she went in the crowded room, waiting to see if any gentleman approached her. They’d hypothesized that if the murderer saw her, his target, believably alone, he wouldn’t be able to resist and, under cover of the crowd, would approach and seek to inveigle her out of the room.

So now James had to wait on tenterhooks, wait and suppress every instinct he possessed, all of which, knowing Henrietta was swanning into danger, were desperately urging him to react, to go after her, protect her, to do his all to keep her safe. . . .

Sadly, in this instance, keeping his distance and playing out their charade was the only way he could, ultimately, ensure her safety. Only through capturing her would-be murderer would she ever be safe again.

He paused on the balcony, swiftly scanned the crowd below, then walked down the spiral stair at the balcony’s end, far from where Henrietta had joined the crowd near the room’s center. He’d noted several friends with whom he could pass the time, as he’d be expected to do had their disagreement been real. To preserve the fiction, he would speak with his friends and avoid all members of her family, which was what he proceeded to do.

Of course, all his acquaintances had heard of his engagement and wanted to meet his fiancée. He had a glib answer prepared—that she’d paused to speak with some elderly relatives and would no doubt catch up with him soon.

The effort it cost him was more than he’d expected, yet he held to his role, stayed at that end of the room, and doggedly fought the impulse to search the crowd.

Henrietta, meanwhile, made her way through the throng milling in the room’s center. It was easy to stop and chat, and even to accept the felicitations on her betrothal. Even though James was not by her side, people were so accustomed to her drifting through ton ballrooms alone that few remarked on his absence, and those who did were easily deflected. If they’d just had an argument in reality, she would behave with a high hand and allow no signs of any disturbance to mar the façade she presented to the world.

But as the minutes ticked by and James did not come after her, she might be expected to seek out a quiet place to stop and think. To take stock.

After half an hour of chatting inconsequentially, noting the members of their company who were close by in the throng, she started easing toward the edge of the crowd, slipping toward the rear of the wider central section that was opposite the piano.

When the tenor came out to sing, and the crowd re-formed and focused their collective attention on the diminutive man, she was able to step back, into the relative shadows at the rear of the throng, into a space that was far less crowded.

She stood facing toward the tenor, but more or less alone. The nearest couple was standing in front of her, their backs to her. There was clear space on either side of her, the best invitation she could manage for a gentleman to approach her, especially with everyone else absorbed with the tenor, transfixed by his soaring voice.

As she stood there, waiting, fighting not to allow any of her nervousness to show, she was acutely conscious of feeling exposed. What if he’d brought a gun, or a knife . . . but no. They’d discussed those possibilities, and everyone had agreed that trying to kill her in the gallery itself would be futile; the murderer would never be able to get out, get away, without being recognized.

Which was precisely the reason he wanted to kill her, to protect his identity, so . . . he would approach her, and, one way or another, get her to leave the gala with him.

One part of her mind wondered in an academic sort of way what arguments he might use to accomplish that, but most of her nerves were dancing, taut, twitching and twisting with an unnerving blend of impatience and fear.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gerrard and Jacqueline Debbington at the rear of the crowd to her right, their gazes and their full attentions fixed, supposedly, on the tenor.

Ahead and a little to her left, further into the crowd, stood Jeremy and Eliza Carling, but they, too, had their backs to her.

Rather closer to her left stood a gentleman and lady she’d met but didn’t know well, Rafe and Loretta Carstairs. There were others, too; she wasn’t alone, yet her lungs tightened and she had to fight not to grip her reticule overly tightly.

She waited. Waited.

The tenor ended his performance, and no gentleman had approached her. Stifling a sigh, she forced herself to plaster on a smile and move into and through the crowd again. She chatted with friends, smiled and nodded to acquaintances as she made her way across the wider central section of the room. Several gentlemen, spotting her alone, halted and smiled and passed the time, but all were known to her, and none made any attempt to engage with her other than in mundane social ways.

Eventually, she circled back behind the pillar opposite the piano, as if seeking refuge from the constant chatter and press of bodies; when the soprano and tenor came out together for their final duet, she was standing in the lee of the pillar, as concealed from the body of the crowd as she could get even had said crowd not been focusing on the singers. Once again, everyone’s back was to her.

Once again, she waited.

Waited.

And, once again, no gentleman or, indeed, anyone else, approached her.

“I don’t believe it,” she muttered beneath her breath as the tenor and soprano ended their aria and the crowd again burst into thunderous applause. Grimacing faintly, she put her hands together and politely clapped, but the truth was she’d heard not a single note.

The crowd started to shift, to drift, its focus dissipating; presumably the singers had departed.

Henrietta looked around. “What now?” she whispered. They’d been so sure the murderer wouldn’t be able to resist her as bait that his refusing the lure was the one eventuality for which they hadn’t planned.

As if in answer to her question, Sir Thomas raised his voice, thanking all for their attendance, then informing them that, as this was the museum and the event was at an end, they were now free to leave via the doors at either end of the room.

The crowd started to break up. People searched for others of their party, then headed toward the doors. As the bodies thinned, Henrietta dithered, unsure, then she heaved a sigh, marched around the pillar to the side fronting the central part of the room, and, somewhat glumly, took up station there, waiting again, but this time for James. He, she had no doubt, would come for her.

James didn’t know what he felt as he realized the gala had come to an end and no disturbance of any kind had marred the evening. Disbelief, relief, and frustration all vied for dominance in his mind; jaw setting, he stepped free of the stream of guests heading for the nearer door and turned back up the room, scanning for someone who could confirm their failure.

Devil saw him first and hailed him. James waved and they met, Devil with Honoria on his arm, by one side of the room.

“Nothing.” Devil bit off the word; he looked as disgusted and deflated as James felt. “Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t here.” Devil tipped his head toward the furthest of the four granite pillars. “Henrietta’s waiting at the base of that pillar. I’d suggest you make it appear as if you’ve both come to your senses and wish to make up, rather than allow whoever this cursed villain is to guess that we’d planned anything.”

“We’re holding a debriefing in Upper Brook Street.” Honoria smiled faintly, then stretched up and planted a kiss on James’s cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” Drawing back, she nodded regally. “We’ll expect to see you soon—don’t dally.”

James’s lips twisted wryly and he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Then he turned toward the far pillar.

Henrietta was, as Devil had said, standing at the base of the pillar, waiting. What Devil hadn’t said was that she was looking lost, even forlorn.

That made his own approach—and the fiction Devil wanted them to promulgate—rather easier.

Smiling ruefully, he approached. Eyes on hers, he halted, then, after a moment, held out his hand. “Pax?”

“Yes, please.” Henrietta placed her hand in his, then shifted closer as he twined her arm with his, then she sighed and tipped her head so it rested fleetingly against his shoulder. “That was one hellish waste of time.”

All their supporters who had attended the gala congregated in the drawing room in Upper Brook Street. Tea was dispensed and distributed, along with sweet biscuits. Everyone partook, putting off revisiting their failure for as long as they could.

But Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, arguably the one person there most experienced in such intrigues, cut directly to the heart of the matter. “So it didn’t work, but I fancy I know why.”

Devil narrowed his eyes at Royce. “Why?”

Royce’s lips twitched, but he immediately sobered. “Your plan was sound, but it was a plan designed to catch a different type of villain.” Across the room, he met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “A different sort of murderer. If our villain in this instance had been a typical ton gentleman who had, for whatever reason, found himself murdering not just Lady Winston but then her dresser as well, and now attempting to kill Henrietta, all out of panic, out of blind fear of his identity becoming known . . . then he would have, almost certainly, approached Henrietta at the gala. Even if he made no move to harm her there, or to remove her, because he hadn’t planned it, nevertheless he would have approached her and spoken with her and assessed his chances, maybe tried to establish himself as someone she might, next time they meet, trust.” Royce set down his cup. “But he didn’t do any such thing.”

“But can we be sure he was there?” Gabriel said.

“Oh, I think so.” Royce steepled his fingers before his face. “I do think the assumption that he would have been there was sound, but you can check that by comparing the guest lists from Marchmain House and tonight.”

“I know Sir Thomas quite well,” Horatia said. “I can ask him for his list.”

Royce inclined his head. “Please do. At this stage, we need every little piece of intelligence we can gather.” He glanced around the room. “Because I have to warn you that the fact the murderer didn’t take the bait tonight does not bode well.”

Silence hovered for several seconds, eventually broken by Lucifer’s growled “How so?”

Royce paused, then said, “Because I don’t think he saw through our plan.” He looked at James and Henrietta, seated on the sofa opposite. “Your charade was”—Royce smiled faintly—“exquisitely gauged. It was not too much, not too obvious. You kept in character. No one who was watching, as I was, would have thought anything other than what you intended them to think—so that wasn’t the reason he didn’t act.”

Letting his gaze travel the room, Royce went on, “And I watched everyone else, too—we all played our roles to perfection. No one gave our game away.”

“So why didn’t he take the bait?” Barnaby asked.

Royce glanced at Devil, then looked at Barnaby. “I believe the reason he didn’t act was because he evaluated the possibility and found it wanting. He walked through it, both in his mind and at least in part in actuality. As you’d theorized, he couldn’t murder Henrietta in the gallery itself—he had to get her to leave with him. But, and you couldn’t have known this before we arrived there tonight, there are only two doors to that room—and because of the valuables stored in the gallery, the doors were manned by museum staff. There were at least six staff at each door throughout the evening. In addition, because of the gala and the peculiar structure of the room with the doors being at either end, none of the guests were going in and out. Hardly any left during the event, only at the end.

“So there was no way our man could have left the room with Henrietta and not have been seen, not have been noted.” Royce paused, then added, “It was too great a risk. He wanted to take the bait, but he resisted because he evaluated the chance and decided the odds weren’t in his favor.”

Once again, Royce looked around the small crowd disposed about the drawing room. “And that,” he continued, “is what’s so disturbing. A murderer who, despite his most desired bait being dangled before him, can resist acting, more, can resist reacting at all, is a very dangerous man.”

“Ah.” Barnaby grimaced. “So we have ourselves an intelligent murderer.”

Royce glanced at Barnaby. “As I said, a profoundly dangerous man.”

If they’d felt deflated before, that realization, one no one could dispute, cast a further dampener on the debriefing.

As no one had any further insights to offer, much less any new and better plan, and it was already late, the gathering soon broke up. The key players agreed to meet, not the next day but the morning after, to plot their next move; Henrietta promised to, in the meantime, take all reasonable care.

Both she and James stood in the front hall to farewell all those who had answered their call, thanking them for their help, unproductive though the evening had been. Her disappointment was somewhat ameliorated by the unwavering resolution universally displayed, reflected in Amanda’s staunch reassurance, “Don’t worry. We’re not going to stop until we catch this blighter.”

With a swift, hard hug and a kiss on Henrietta’s cheek, Amanda allowed her husband, Martin, to escort her down the steps to their waiting carriage.

They were among the last to leave. Minutes later, Arthur waved Hudson to close the door, then turned to his wife and daughter. He smiled a trifle wearily, but before he could speak, Louise did, squeezing Henrietta’s hand as she said, “Amanda put what we all feel into words. Don’t lose heart, my dear. We’ll find this blackguard, and catch him, too.”

Releasing Henrietta’s hand, Louise patted her cheek, then smiled at James and patted his shoulder as she passed on her way to the stairs. “Come along, Arthur. Leave the two of them to their good-byes.”

Arthur snorted, leaned down, and bussed Henrietta on the cheek, clapped James rather more vigorously on the shoulder, then followed his wife up the stairs.

Leaving Henrietta facing James, looking into his lovely brown eyes; he looked as tired as she felt.

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, then his lips lightly lifted. “We’re both wrung out—it was all that tension. I’ll head home. I want to let everything settle in my mind overnight.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face and kissed her.

A gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.

Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes, then released her and stepped back. “Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll come by in the morning. A turn about the park might do us both good.”

She managed a smile. “That would be refreshing—I’ll look forward to it.”

Rather than summon Hudson, who had discreetly withdrawn to give them privacy, she opened the front door herself. With a last, lingering brush of his fingers over hers, James stepped out, went quickly down the steps, then strode away into the night.

Henrietta watched him go, then sighed, stepped back, and shut the door. She would have preferred him to stay, but he was right. Tonight, they would be no good company, not even for each other; better they rest and regroup. Stifling another sigh, she turned and headed for the stairs, and her cold and lonely bed.

Head down, his hands in his pockets, James walked along Upper Brook Street, then turned left into North Audley Street.

He couldn’t stop mentally juggling facts, turning over every detail of the four attempts on Henrietta’s life, searching for some clue they’d missed, anything that might give them some inkling or any type of hint as to who the murderous villain was.

Hostage to his thoughts, he crossed North Audley Street and several paces later turned right down Brown’s Lane, a habitual shortcut to his house in George Street. As usual, the narrow laneway was lit only by reflected light shining down from the high sides of the buildings to either side, and shafting in from the streets at either end. The relative darkness barely registered; he’d walked this way countless times before, very often late at night. He paced along, the echo of his footsteps a reassuringly familiar beat.

Was there anyone he could remember as definitely being at the Marchmain event, anyone who had paid particular attention to Henrietta? Wrack his brains though he did, no one stood out clearly in his memories.

There were two small courts along Brown’s Lane. Frowning to himself, James walked through the first, the cobbles illuminated by two small lamps above narrow doors, then plunged back into the, in contrast, deeper darkness of the section of the lane between the courts.

Simon had received the Marchmains’ guest list. Hopefully, tomorrow, Horatia would secure Sir Thomas’s list, and they’d be able to compare the two, and perhaps make a shorter list of possible suspects.

A faint sound registered, the scrape of a shoe on the flags.

There was someone behind him. James started to turn—

Pain exploded through his skull.

Blackness engulfed him.

He fell and knew no more.

The first thing he realized when the blackness thinned, then receded, was that he was sitting awkwardly slumped in a chair, his head—throbbing mightily—hanging forward, his arms pulled back.

He tried to frown, but even that hurt. He tried to shift in the chair and realized his arms were lashed; his body was, too. Then his senses cleared and he felt the rope chafing his wrists. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, with ropes around his torso, and with his hands tightly bound behind the chair’s back.

He blinked, forced his eyes open, then squinted against the glare cast by a nearby lamp. Glancing aside, he waited; when his vision cleared and focus returned, he found himself staring at a rough stone floor.

His feet were flat on the floor; whoever had left him there hadn’t bound his legs.

Letting his gaze slowly rise, he followed the floor to a nearby wall; it, too, was of rough stone.

Slowly, feeling as if his neck might break if he moved too fast, he raised his aching head; someone had struck him across the back of the skull with something heavy—a cosh, most likely.

Finally, breathing in shallow pants, he sat upright, easing his shoulders against the raised back of the chair. Biting back a moan, he briefly closed his eyes as the room spun, but then his senses settled. Swallowing, he carefully raised his lids and, without shifting his head, looked around.

“Ah—excellent.” The deep fashionable drawl came out of the dense shadows behind the shielded lamp. “You’ve survived.”

The matter-of-fact tone sent a chill down James’s spine; the speaker hadn’t cared whether he’d lived through the attack. Squinting, he tried to see past the flaring light from the lamp, positioned two yards away atop several old crates and trained full on his face. “Who are you?”

“Obviously you have a hard head.” The speaker paused for a second before reflecting, “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but no matter. At least this way, should your fiancée prove difficult, I’ll have all the bait I might need.”

If James had harbored any doubts that the speaker was indeed Henrietta’s would-be murderer, that little speech had slain them. More, the taunting amusement laced through the last words confirmed that the blackguard had seen through their plan . . . and, James realized with a jolt of icy shock, had gone one step further and turned their plan back on them.

Instinctively, he tested the bindings about his wrists, but the ropes held tight. Worse, he still felt wretchedly weak and woozy. He slumped against his bonds. “You won’t get away with this.”

“You think not?”

James could hear the smile in that cultured voice.

“Well,” the speaker went on, “we’ll see.”

James hauled in a breath, moistened his dry lips. “What the devil do you think to gain?”

A pause ensued, then, in a more pensive vein, the voice replied, “I would have thought that was obvious. After tonight’s demonstration of how very wide the Cynsters’ net can be cast, I was left wondering what might induce the delightful Miss Henrietta to leave the overprotective circle of her family and come to me—clearly that’s the only way I’m going to be able to lay my hands on her—and then . . . there you were. Leaving the Cynsters’ house late, walking home alone through the night, lost in your thoughts . . .” The speaker chuckled softly. “It really was too easy.”

Another pause, as if the man was reflecting. James struggled to get his mind to function past the throbbing ache in his head.

“I was considering sending one of your fingers, perhaps the one carrying your signet ring, but that does seem a trifle gruesome, at least as an opening gambit, and all in all it might be wiser to keep that option in reserve, just in case the lovely Henrietta needs further inducements to come to your aid.” The speaker shifted; a gloved hand appeared in front of the lamp, turning something in the beam so James could see. “Besides, I suspect this”—the man rolled a thin piece of gold-colored metal with a shiny head between his gloved fingers—“will do, will be sufficient to bring her flying to your rescue.”

James stiffened as he recognized his cravat pin. Again, this time surreptitiously, he tested his bonds, but they gave not at all. Raising his gaze to where he thought the speaker’s face must be, he asked, “And then what?”

“And then . . .” James couldn’t see anything of the man’s face, but he could clearly hear the cold relish in the blackguard’s voice, could sense his chilly smile of anticipation.

“I intend to stage a double murder.” The villain paused, then went on almost eagerly, “I haven’t done one of those before. Killing Henrietta Cynster will, clearly, start a manhunt, but what if it appears that you—her fiancé—killed her, then committed suicide? Better still, what if it appears that you’ve killed Henrietta in the same way Lady Winston was murdered?” Cool satisfaction laced the man’s voice as he went on, “And then, naturally, overcome by grief, or perhaps by fear of the consequences, you shoot yourself?” Self-congratulation welled, ringing clearly as the man continued, “Oh, yes, that will fit nicely. After all, Lady Winston lived next door to the young lady you were thinking of offering for. Perhaps that was how you noticed Melinda Wentworth—because she lived next door to your lover?”

James tasted bile; raising his head, he swallowed and said, “I would never hurt a woman like that—like you hurt Lady Winston.” Gaze steady on where he judged the murderer’s face to be, lips tight, he shook his head. “You’ll never get anyone to believe that. Aside from all else, I barely knew Lady Winston.”

Unperturbed, the murderer replied, “Oh, I grant you there may be questions in the minds of some, but you would be surprised how easily the general populace can be led.”

James caught a shift in the shadows, then the gloved hand appeared and closed about the lid of the lantern.

“And who, after all,” that suavely chilling voice murmured, “can know the torments of another man’s mind?”

Before James could respond, the lamp was doused, plunging the room into inky darkness.

Searching for any spark, straining his ears, James heard soft footsteps retreating, strolling away. Then came a scritch, and a match flared, a tiny flame at the far end of the room. The flame and the bulky shadows about it traveled upward at an angle; the murderer was using the match to light his way up some stairs.

The man reached the head of the stairs, and the flame waved and died.

James waited, listening hard to hear what sort of locks or bolts were on what he assumed would be the door into the room . . . was it a basement?

“Incidentally”—the murderer’s disembodied voice floated through the empty space—“you can roar and even scream, but no one will hear you. This house is deserted, as are those on either side, and all the walls are sound, solid stone.” A pause ensued, then the murderer moved. “Sleep well.”

James heard the scrape of wood on stone; a waft of fresh air barreled down the room, then a heavy door thudded shut.

A second later, he caught the metallic scrape of a large bolt being slid home, first one, then another.

Silence fell. The darkness seemed to thicken.

After several moments, James settled as comfortably as he could, gingerly easing his head, still pounding, back on his neck.

He stared upward into the blackness. “Now what?”

He waited, but no answer came.