And Then She Fell

chapter Fourteen



“Miss Henrietta.”

Stepping off the stairs onto the tiles of the front hall, Henrietta turned to see Hudson approaching; juggling a silver-domed platter, he was fishing in one pocket as he came.

“This”—Hudson pulled out a letter—“was lying on the tiles by the door this morning.” He tipped his head toward the front door. “Presumably someone delivered it very early this morning or very late last night.”

“Thank you.” She took the note, a neatly folded sheet of parchment with her name inscribed across the front in a bold hand. There seemed to be something enclosed within the folds.

Hudson hovered. “Will you be breakfasting, miss? Would you like fresh tea and toast?”

She flashed him a smile. “Yes, please. I’ll be in in a minute.”

He bowed, turned, and magisterially swept down the corridor and into the breakfast parlor, whither she’d been heading.

Remaining where she was, she broke the plain seal, unfolded the parchment, and caught the small item that fell from the folds . . . stared at it as it rested on her palm.

James’s cravat pin. She recognized it—she’d removed it several times. . . .

Closing her hand around the pin, she smoothed out the parchment and read the words inscribed thereon.

I commend you, Miss Cynster—your charade last night was excellent. However, I was rather more surprised and somewhat disappointed that you and your supporters imagined that I might fall victim to such a ploy. That was presumptuous, not to say insulting, but, on the other hand, I fully appreciated the strategy of employing live bait.

Consequently, my dear Miss Cynster, if you wish to see your fiancé, James Glossup, alive and well, you will follow my directions and do so without fail. You will tell no one of this contact, or of my demands, and yes, I will be watching, just as I was last night. Rest assured I will know if any in your family are alerted—you must take all and every care to do nothing throughout the day to raise anyone’s suspicions. If I judge that you have succeeded in that, and have made not a single wrong move through the day, then over dinnertime, I will send word again as to where you will need to come this evening if you wish to set eyes on Glossup again.

I am prepared to trade your life for his, but only if you follow my instructions to the letter.



The missive was unsigned, of course.

Henrietta read it through a second time, then, moving very slowly, shaking inside, she refolded the parchment and tucked it into her skirt pocket. She looked down at James’s cravat pin, turned it in her palm, then, lips tightening, carefully pinned it to the inside of her bodice, above her heart.

Straightening her spine, she drew in a deep, deep breath, held it for a second, then she forced her lips to ease, found and plastered on an unconcerned expression, and walked down the corridor to the breakfast parlor as normally as she could.

From the cheery, comfortable sounds emanating from within, the rest of her family was already present.

She was, of course, going to rescue James, but . . . she would play the role the murderer had scripted for her until she’d worked out how.

Morning sunshine eventually slanted through the grimy windows set high in the wall of the basement in which James was imprisoned. He woke, blinking in the faint light. Gradually his senses refocused, informing him that his head was still pounding, albeit not as painfully as it had been, but to add to his woes he was stiff in every joint.

His shoulders ached; his neck felt tortured. But he could stretch his legs. He concentrated on flexing and lifting them, working the muscles until they felt reasonably normal.

By then he’d realized what he would have to do. He’d arranged with Henrietta to meet that morning and go for a drive in the park. When he didn’t arrive, she would, eventually, send to his house, and then . . . but the murderer had proved beyond question that he was intelligent enough to have anticipated that.

Easing his shoulders, trying to loosen the bonds, James muttered, “He’ll have already sent her word that he’s captured me, because otherwise she would raise a hue and cry, and that’s the last thing he wants. He wants her, so he’ll offer to spare my life for hers, and get her to go to him somewhere.” Settling back on the chair, he narrowed his eyes and tried to think like their villain. “He’ll get her to meet him somewhere, but he’s already decided he’s going to stage this double murder, which he needs to do to throw everyone off his scent, so he’ll bring her here.”

He glanced around. He couldn’t afford to sit and wait in the chair. “When he brings Henrietta in here, I have to be free and able to save her.”

She would come to save him, that he didn’t doubt, so he would have to be in a position to return the favor.

“So . . .” He looked around again, this time with greater concentration, searching for anything that might help his cause. He didn’t see it at first, but a glimmer of light, of sunlight slanting off glass, drew his gaze to the area beneath the second window, the one further from his present position.

He squinted and, eventually, made out the shards of a broken bottle. “Perfect. Now . . .” He assessed his strength, debated, but he needed to get free as soon as possible; he had no idea when the murderer would bring Henrietta to the house, to the basement.

Summoning his will and his still-wavering strength, he planted his feet and slowly tipped forward, until he was standing, still lashed to the chair and bent over at a peculiar and rather painful angle. But, glory be, he had just enough freedom to shift his legs and feet and shuffle, foot by foot, across the floor.

Once he was standing over the shattered remains of the bottle, he had to work out how to get his hands on a suitable piece of glass—there were at least three he thought would suffice—without risking slashing himself in the process.

Eventually, he used the tip of one shoe to nudge one shard along the floor until it lay well clear of the rest. Then he went down, first on one knee, then on the other—a complicated maneuver that had him swearing—then, kneeling with his knees pressed together, he gauged the distance to the single shard, wriggled into position, and then tipped onto his shoulder.

The move jarred his head so badly he saw stars. He lay on the floor, panting, until the spinning stopped, then, carefully, he stretched his fingers, feeling, searching.

He had to shift a trifle further, but finally his fingers brushed the shard. He teased it nearer, into his hand, careful not to cut himself. Blood would only make the glass harder to hold, harder to work with.

Exhaling, he filled his lungs and waited until his heart slowed and his mind sharpened again, then he turned the shard and set what felt to be the sharpest edge to the rope—

Wait, wait, wait!

What if the murderer didn’t bring Henrietta down to the basement?

James lay awkwardly twisted on the floor and tried to think. Forced himself to put himself in the murderer’s shoes, at least as far as he was able.

The murderer wanted to stage a double murder and make it appear to be a believable murder-suicide, with echoes of Lady Winston’s murder thrown in, and chances were he intended to carry out the foul deeds in the order he’d described, namely killing Henrietta first . . . and given the murderer’s cold-bloodedness, James had no difficulty believing that the blackguard intended to kill Henrietta in front of his own eyes.

From all Barnaby and Stokes had said, the murderer was more than sadistic enough for that.

But killing Henrietta and James in the basement wouldn’t support the fiction of a murder-suicide; such a setting would strike a discordant note, especially if Henrietta’s murder was supposed to be a replay of Lady Winston’s. The basement was hardly the place for a lovers’ rendezvous, and this murderer was very intelligent, and very aware of how the ton thought. So he would shift James to some more believable location.

“For instance, a room upstairs.” Twisting his still aching head, James glanced at the basement stairs, closer to him now; in the strengthening morning light he could see them clearly. There was no landing at the top, and the door opened inward. If he were free and ready to engage, and standing on the stairs when the murderer opened the door . . . James grimaced. “He’ll have plenty of time to shoot me, and if we grappled, I would be the one most likely to end falling down the stairs and breaking my neck.”

While that might put a crimp in the murderer’s plans, it wasn’t how James wanted this to end.

And such an end wouldn’t save Henrietta, and that, after all, was his principal and dominant aim.

From his strained position on the floor, he glanced at the windows, then sighed. Even once he was free, there was no way he could break out of the basement; the door was bolted on the outside, the windows were small, too small to fit through even if he could break their thick glass, and the murderer had told him the houses were deserted, so there was no reason to suppose that there would be anyone passing outside the windows for him to hail.

It took him a little while to convince his brain of what would have to be, and even longer to get his body to cooperate. Getting up onto his legs again was an excruciating feat, but eventually he managed it, and managed to laboriously work his way back across the room and set the chair down, with him still lashed to it, in exactly the same place where the murderer had left him. There was, thankfully, enough dust layered on the floor, smudged not just by the murderer’s boots but by countless others previously, for his shuffling progress across it to have left no obvious trail, and the murderer must have dragged him in, because his evening clothes were already too filthy for his recent brush with the floor to have made any additional impression.

Shifting on the chair, James settled again; closing his eyes, he concentrated, and managed to ease and inch the glass shard up beneath his shirt cuff, along the inside of his right wrist. He wriggled his fingers, shifted his hands, but the shard remained safely tucked away, ironically held in position by the rope that bound his hands.

Slumping in the chair, he ran through the possible scenarios again, but there was nothing more he could think of to do.

Closing his eyes, he worked at relaxing his muscles and getting what rest he could—until the murderer returned to fetch him to wherever the blackguard intended to bring Henrietta.

Henrietta kept her distressing news entirely private all through the morning. Not because she wished to but because she had to; given that James’s life was at risk, she had to take the murderer at his word and assume he would know if her family was alerted to his plan. So she couldn’t allow anyone who might react precipitously to know of the murderer’s demand. And she had to go about her life as if nothing at all was wrong.

It was early afternoon before, by dint of a whispered word at this at-home, at that morning tea, she managed to arrange a meeting restricted to those she felt sure she could trust—her three sisters and her sister-in-law. They, she knew, would understand her predicament; at the very least she could rely on their advice.

After reassuring her mother that she would remain safely indoors and would be sufficiently well entertained by the other four, all of whom, having answered her summons, seconded that assurance, Henrietta watched Louise leave on her usual afternoon social rounds, then she shooed the others, all curious as to why she was suddenly so intent, into the back parlor and firmly shut the door.

Turning, she watched as Amelia and Amanda sank onto the old chaise, and Portia sat in one armchair, while Mary curled up in her usual position on the love seat. Walking to the armchair facing the chaise, as the others settled and focused their attention on her, Henrietta surveyed their expressions, intrigued, expectant, and eager to hear what she had to tell them.

Looking up at her, Amanda blinked her eyes wide. “Well? You perceive us agog, as Lady Osbaldestone would say.”

Henrietta felt her composure falter. “I need your help.” She twitched the folded letter from her pocket and held it out to Amanda. “Read that, and tell me what you think.”

Taking the letter, Amanda smoothed it out, briefly scanned, then, her expression abruptly somber and serious, returned her gaze to the top of the letter and read the villain’s message aloud.

Hearing the words, flatly rendered in Amanda’s clear voice, underscored the dread Henrietta felt, crystalized the threat to her life, to her and James’s future. She abruptly sat, hands clasping tightly in her lap.

Amanda reached the end of the letter and its chilling closing sentence.

A brief moment of silence ensued, then Mary looked sharply at Henrietta. “You haven’t told anyone.” Statement, not a question.

Henrietta gestured at the letter. “How can I? If I tell Papa he’ll send word to Devil, and then . . . well, you all know what will happen.”

“Heaven help us, but we can’t have that,” Amelia said. “They’ll be roaring around rattling sabers in the streets.”

“Exactly.” Grim-faced, Amanda decisively stated, “They—Devil and the rest—cannot be allowed to know.”

Portia leaned forward and laid a hand over Henrietta’s tightly twined fingers. “You’ve done the right thing—come to the right people. We’ll help—of course we will.”

Henrietta managed a genuine, albeit weak, smile. Looking from Portia’s earnest expression to her elder sisters’ faces, she watched them grimly, determinedly nod, the same sisterly support lighting their eyes. She glanced at Mary.

Just as Mary stated, “The first thing we need to do is to work out a plan to defeat this villain, and then”—eyes narrowing, she went on—“decide what help we require to make our plan work, and then decide who we can trust to assist us. And then make it happen.”

They all studied Mary for a moment, then Amelia said, “That’s true enough, but I think we can agree from the outset that whatever our plan is, we cannot—simply cannot—let Devil and Vane and the rest of that lot know anything about this at all.”

“Indeed,” Portia said. “And if you think of who this villain must be—a gentleman of the ton, of the right age for Lady Winston to have had as a lover, and the right sort to have been present at the gala—then his way of monitoring whether you tell others and alert the family will almost certainly be via watching them—Devil, Vane, and your older male cousins.”

“Indeed,” Amanda said. “They—our male cousins—are the ones he’ll be watching to see if you keep his secret. If they know of it, they’ll give it away instantly—he’ll only need to look at their faces, at the set of their jaws, the way they stalk about.”

“And most likely he belongs to the same clubs as they do,” Mary put in.

“That,” Henrietta said, “is why I haven’t told anyone else.” She glanced around at their faces. “Only you four. Mama or Papa would insist on telling Devil—to their minds, that’s the way difficulties are always dealt with.”

“Precisely.” Amanda nodded. “So let’s all agree that, while we appreciate that they’re going to be very unhappy about not being told of this, we cannot tell anyone who will involve Devil and the others, and that in meeting this challenge we can’t call on their aid. We have to go forward and deal with this ourselves. So”—she glanced at Mary—“as Mary said, let’s work out our plan.”

“Obviously,” Amelia said, resettling her shawl, “you’re going to wait for the villain’s next note, and then go and meet him wherever he stipulates. Until you learn where he’s keeping James, you’ll need to do exactly as the blackguard says.”

“Once we know where James is,” Mary said, “we can act against the villain, but not before.”

They fell silent, all thinking. Eventually Portia said, “That’s our first hurdle—working out how Henrietta can go and meet with this murderer in safety, without us doing anything that will alert him to others knowing. He has to believe that you”—she glanced at Henrietta—“are quite alone. Only then will he lead you to wherever he’s keeping James.”

No one argued, just vaguely nodded in agreement. Henrietta waited, glancing around the faces, all faintly frowning as they tried to see how . . .

Portia drew in a deeper breath and said, “I’d like to suggest that we seek advice from someone who knows more about dealing with villains than we do. Someone we can trust with this, who’ll understand our situation.”

Amanda opened her eyes wide. “Who?”

“Penelope,” Portia said. “If anyone can help us devise a workable plan to capture a murderer, it’ll be she.”

“Of course.” Amelia looked at Henrietta. “Penelope will know how to manage this.”

Amanda raised her hand. “I third the motion.” She glanced at Mary, then looked at Henrietta. “What say you two?”

“I’m in favor,” Mary said. “I don’t know enough about villains, and Penelope assuredly does.”

Henrietta pressed her lips together, but she really had only one question. She looked at Portia. “How can we arrange to see Penelope without alerting our villain?”

“That’s easy enough,” Amelia said. “It’s early afternoon—the perfect time for us as a group to pay a family call on Penelope to see her baby son, little Oliver.”

“We can make it appear that you’re reluctant,” Mary said, standing and shaking out her skirts, “but that the four of us are dragging you out, insisting that you can’t sit at home alone.”

“Projecting the right image will be easy,” Amanda said, “and we can make our diversion to Albemarle Street appear spontaneous, an unplanned visit—one with no ulterior motives—just in case the blackguard has people watching this house.” She glanced at Portia. “Do you think Penelope will be in?”

Portia nodded and rose. “Knowing my little sister, at this hour, with Oliver so small, Penelope’s sure to be at home, most likely consorting with some ancient Greek.”

“Ancient Mesopotamian, actually.” Penelope ushered the five of them into her drawing room half an hour later. Following, she shut the door. “Jeremy’s given me some of his translations to read. Quite fascinating.”

The others, engaged in taking seats on the twin sofas, exchanged glances but didn’t respond.

Waiting until they all sat, then resuming her position in the armchair angled to one side of the fireplace, a massive old tome lying open on a small table alongside, Penelope surveyed them. “But what brings you here?” Her gaze sharpened as she looked from one to the other. “Has something happened?”

“Yes.” Henrietta, seated between Amanda and Amelia on one sofa, decided to take charge before anyone else did. “The blackguard has seized James and is dangling him as bait to force me to give myself up to him—to the villain.”

“Well!” Penelope looked simultaneously shocked and intrigued. “That certainly is a development.” She paused, then said, “Do you mean to tell me he saw through our plan last night, and rather than fall into our trap, refashioned it for his own use?”

Henrietta nodded decisively. “That, indeed, is how it appears.”

Penelope blinked. “How very impertinent.” She refocused on Henrietta. “So tell me all.”

Henrietta proceeded to do so, punctuated by various belligerent and militant comments from the other four. She concluded with, “So we’ve come to you for advice and any help you can give.”

“We walked from Upper Brook Street and through Grosvenor Square,” Portia put in, “all the while making it appear that we were dragging Henrietta along for an outing, and that diverting here was purely an impulse, a spontaneous female family call.”

Penelope was nodding. “Excellent. You’ve done exactly as I would have—exactly as you should have.”

Henrietta caught Portia’s eye and, despite all, struggled to keep her lips straight; they all understood that from Penelope, the words “exactly as I would have” were high praise indeed. It was widely accepted that in a family well-endowed with intelligence, Penelope nevertheless took the cake.

“We thought,” Amanda said, “that, clearly, Henrietta has to go to this rendezvous and meet with the villain.”

“And she has to go along with whatever he says until she learns where James is being held,” Mary added.

Penelope looked around the circle of faces, at the last considered Henrietta, then nodded. “I agree. I can’t see any way around that—not if we want to rescue James, and, of course, we do.”

“Yes, but we can’t just let Henrietta swan off all alone to meet this murderer who wants to kill her,” Amelia said, “but equally we have to make it appear that she is, indeed, all alone.”

“And more,” Amanda said, “we cannot allow even the slightest whisper of this to reach our male cousins, or the elders, who will promptly refer it to said male cousins.”

“Oh, no.” Penelope waved a hand. “I quite agree. Telling them, or letting them learn of it, would be entirely counterproductive in this case.”

“So . . .” Eyes on her younger sister’s face, Portia gestured for her to go on. “How do we manage it—what should we do?”

Penelope gazed unseeing at the narrow table between the sofas for several moments, then she looked up and met the others’ eyes. “We’re going to have to recruit a small and highly select army—those we can trust to do what we need them to do and to keep quiet while they’re about it. We need sufficient numbers, but we also need a degree of expertise.” She paused, her gaze resting on Henrietta, then said, “I would strongly advise that we involve Barnaby, of course, but also, through him, Inspector Stokes. Both already know of the murderer and his previous attempts on your life. I believe if we present this correctly to them, both will see the necessity for secrecy, and the sense in the plan we propose.”

Mary opened her eyes wide. “We have a plan?”

Penelope smiled intently. “We will have by the time they arrive.” She looked at Henrietta. “In the circumstances, it’s your decision, but I know Barnaby and Stokes are at Scotland Yard at this moment, and I can send word and have them come here via the mews and the back door.”

Henrietta knew she needed help, and this was the sort of help she’d come there to find. She nodded. “Yes, please do send word. And meanwhile”—she glanced at her sisters, sister-in-law, then at Penelope—“perhaps we can work on our plan.”

Penelope nodded and rose to tug the bellpull.

By the time Barnaby Adair led Inspector Stokes into the drawing room, the five ladies had settled on the bare bones of their plan.

After performing the necessary introductions for Stokes, then waiting while both men fetched straight-backed chairs from by the wall and joined the gathering, Penelope stated, “Before we can tell you anything, you must swear to hold everything we say in the strictest confidence, to be revealed only to those others we agree need to be informed.”

Now seated, both men stared at Penelope for an instant, then exchanged a long glance weighted with unvoiced male communication. But, eventually, both reluctantly nodded and gave their word, Barnaby with his customary urbanity, Stokes in a rumbling growl.

Penelope smiled approvingly at them both, then invited Henrietta to relate the day’s developments.

She did. When he heard of what had occurred and read the villain’s letter, Barnaby looked grave.

Stokes looked blackly grim.

Before either man could speak, Penelope said, “What we’ve decided must happen is this.” She proceeded to outline their plan.

Henrietta watched as both men digested Penelope’s words. She’d expected them to argue, but neither did; that, she supposed, was one benefit in recruiting Penelope, a lady with established credentials in the dealing-with-dangerous-blackguards sphere. There could be no doubt that Stokes as well as Barnaby treated the situation, them, and their plan seriously, and gave each aspect due consideration. That was apparent in both men’s expressions as they followed the outline of their plan to its, at present rather nebulous, conclusion.

When Penelope fell silent, both men remained silent, too, transparently thinking, assessing and evaluating.

Eventually Barnaby stirred and refocused, first on his wife, then he glanced at the other ladies. “I agree we need to do something along those lines, but . . . frankly, this puts both me and Stokes in a difficult position. You insist that Devil and your other cousins can’t know, and”—he held up a hand to stay their comments—“I understand and agree entirely that we can’t afford to allow them to know, much less be involved with this. However, to ask me, and even more, Stokes, to assist you without anyone—any male—of the family knowing . . .” He looked around at their faces and grimaced. “You can see my point, can’t you?”

Portia, Amanda, and Amelia all grimaced back. “Sadly,” Amanda said, “yes. I see your difficulty.”

“But,” Mary said, sitting up in her corner of the sofa opposite Henrietta, “as long as one relevant adult male of the family knows and approves”—she looked at Stokes, then Barnaby—“that would do, wouldn’t it?”

Stokes frowned. “Who . . . ?”

“Simon.” Portia met Mary’s eyes and nodded. “We can tell Simon and make him understand. He might not like it, but he will understand—he knows how the others will react as well as we do.”

“That would be enough for you, wouldn’t it?” Amanda looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Simon is, after all, Henrietta’s older brother.”

Barnaby nodded decisively. “Yes, and I’m sure he’ll agree with us—with your reasoning as to why this has to be kept secret from Devil and the rest.”

Stokes had raised his brows, considering; now he, too, nodded. “Miss Henrietta’s older brother’s involvement would absolve me of having to inform His Grace.”

“Well,” Mary said, “that’s a relief.”

Which summed up everyone’s reaction.

Penelope and Portia arranged for a message to be sent to Simon.

By the time Simon arrived, also entering via the back door and bringing Charlie Hastings with him, their plan had evolved considerably, with Stokes adding a great deal, not only from his extensive experience but also by way of the personnel he could command.

Simon and Charlie sat, and Simon listened as Henrietta related what had occurred since the previous evening, then Barnaby explained the outline of their plan, and Stokes filled in various details of how the plan would have to be executed.

Amanda then explained the dilemma they faced in that they could not allow any of the above to come to the attention of Devil and the older members of the Cynster clan.

Henrietta concluded their arguments with, “We have to remember that it’s not only my life at risk in this, but James’s, too, and at present he’s in this blackguard’s hands.”

Simon met her eyes, blue meeting blue of a similar shade, for a long-drawn moment, then he sighed. Nodded. “You’re right. If we let the others know, James’s life will be at even greater risk than it already is. It might even be forfeit due to their reactions, and that we cannot have. And the truth is, if we’re successful in laying hands on this villain and rescuing James, while they’ll grumble and grouse about not being told, it’ll be more in the vein of not being involved and so missing out on the excitement, but beyond that they won’t really care. Just as long as we all come out of this with a whole skin and in good health, that’s all they’ll truly care about.”

Amanda nodded. “Well said. So”—she looked about the gathering—“let’s get down to sorting out the details. First point—who else do we need to inform and involve?”

Barnaby drew out a notebook, as did Stokes, and the company settled to walk through the entire plan, from the preparation necessary to ensure Henrietta could respond to the villain’s summons when she received it, to the ultimate end of what was, as Charlie put it, “Rather like a treasure hunt of sorts.”

They discussed and drafted in more husbands and others to help; when they paused for refreshments, Henrietta glanced around the group. And felt hope well; with so many behind her—the small, select army Penelope had decreed—she was starting to feel the first seeds of confidence that by the end of the night, all might be well.

A dangerous confidence. The whisper slid through her thoughts. She took due note of it, acknowledged that Lady Winston’s murderer was far too intelligent, and far too cold-blooded, to be taken lightly, yet . . . she had to cling to hope.

Turning back to the discussion, raging still, she gave herself up to their plan to rescue James.

As long as she got him back, nothing else mattered.

James had dozed throughout the day, waking to shift as much as he could, easing cramped muscles as far as he could, which, with respect to his arms and torso, hadn’t been very far at all.

But he was awake, and wondering, when he heard muffled footsteps approach the basement door, then the bolts were drawn back and the door swung inward.

Judging by the quality of the light slanting through the small windows, it was early evening. James watched as the man he assumed to be Lady Winston’s murderer came down the stairs. Studying the man closely, he confirmed that the man was the one who had left him in the basement the previous night—the same height, the same build, the same gait. Today the villain wore a plain black suit, with a black cloak over all, and with his head and face concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the lower half of his face further masked by a black silk scarf.

Other points of difference were the sharp knife the man held in one fist, and the pistol he held in the other.

James watched as the villain strolled toward him, then halted several yards away. The villain’s eyes fixed on him, studying him with a certain dispassion. Dark, perhaps black, brows, brown eyes paler than James’s; that was all James could see.

After a long moment, unable to help himself, he arched a weary brow.

Behind the scarf, the villain’s lips shifted. “Indeed. I fear you must have been atrociously bored. My apologies.” What little expression had been discernible in his eyes leached to blankness. “But it’ll all be over soon.”

The man’s voice had lowered, growing both softer and harsher, more rasping. James quelled a sudden shiver.

The blackguard stirred, paused, then said, “I’m here to move you upstairs. I’m going to undo the ropes tying you to the chair, and then you’re going to stand.” Slowly, keeping his distance, he started to pace around the chair. “You will not turn around. Once you’re steady on your feet and I give the word, you will walk, slowly and steadily, over to the stairs and up them. I’ll give you directions from there.” He passed out of James’s field of vision. “I’ll be walking behind you, far enough that you won’t have any chance to reach me before I pull the trigger, but also close enough that should you try to make a bolt for it, I’ll have no difficulty shooting you, and then, if necessary, finishing you off with the knife.”

Now standing behind James, the man continued, in the same calm, deadly tone, “While I’m sure by now you realize the futility of your position, I’m equally sure you’ll do everything—cling to every hope—of living to at least see your betrothed alive and well, and to try to get her free. Your best chance of doing that is to cooperate in moving to the room upstairs—the room to which I intend bringing her, regardless of whether you are alive to see it or not.” He paused, then, voice hardening, asked, “Do I make myself clear?”

James pressed his lips tight, holding back the various responses that leapt to his tongue. Rather than trust himself to speak, he nodded.

“Excellent.”

He sensed the murderer draw closer, then felt the rope about his chest tighten and tug as the blackguard undid the knots.

Then the rope loosened and the murderer stepped back, drawing the rope away. “There. You can stand.”

Slowly, feeling his balance teeter, his joints and muscles realigning, James eased upright. Eventually, he straightened to his full height; he closed his eyes in blessed relief as he stretched his spine as well as he could, given his hands were still lashed behind his back.

The murderer gave him a few moments to ease his back and properly regain his balance, then ordered, “Start walking. To the stairs and up them.”

James obeyed. Climbing the stairs, he was curious to see what he could of the building as they moved through it; the more he could learn about the house or whatever it was the better—who knew what might happen once Henrietta arrived?

“Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

Following that and subsequent directions, James walked through a long-deserted kitchen, down a corridor, and into a narrow front hall wreathed in cobwebs. Through various open doorways, he saw that although the place was clearly abandoned, some furniture still remained. As, at the murderer’s direction, he started up the narrow stair, he asked, his tone purely curious, “As I understand your plan, you want to make it appear that Henrietta and I both came here willingly, but why on earth would we be meeting here?”

“For a tryst, why else? You certainly can’t share any intimate interludes at her parents’ house, and for what will appear to be your . . . shall we say, esoteric tastes?—your own house would be too dangerous, so you and your fiancée have been meeting here.” After a moment, the villain added, his voice holding a darker note, “Trust me, I know how to set a stage.”

James wondered what he meant by that—how the comment could possibly relate to Lady Winston’s or her dresser’s murder, neither of which had been made to appear as anything but the violent if not frenzied attacks they were—but had reached no conclusion by the time he gained the top of the stairs and the villain directed him along the gallery, then told him to stop.

James did, then heard the door he’d already walked past being opened.

“Turn to your right, toward the wall, and so, slowly, turn around, then walk back to the open door and go in.”

James did as he was bid, noting that the murderer circled behind him as he turned. A grimy skylight high above the stairwell let in light, more light than he’d yet had; clearly the murderer was taking no chances of him getting any reasonable look at the man’s face. Even now. Even though the villain planned to kill him in just a few hours.

A cautious beggar to the last, James mused.

Walking through the open doorway, he found himself facing a large four-poster bed. The room was of reasonable size, but not huge. If this was the main bedroom of the house, it was a terrace house, not a mansion. That fitted with what he’d seen of the front hall and stairs.

The room was clean, the bed made, but without any counterpane. The curtains over the windows were drawn. A swift glance around confirmed that the furnishings included a washstand and basin, as well as various other little touches that reinforced the image of this being a place currently in use for intimate trysts.

A straight-backed chair had been set to the right of the bed, three yards away and facing it. A stout rope lay coiled behind the chair. A lamp had been lit; turned very low, it sat atop a tallboy set against the wall immediately to the right of the door.

James halted.

“Further.” The end of the pistol barrel prodded his spine. “Walk to the chair and halt, facing it.”

James did, wondering. The villain again told him to turn slowly, this time to his left, allowing the blackguard to circle behind him, confirming that the man was taking extraordinary care to ensure that James saw as little of his face—his largely concealed face—as possible.

Which, James concluded, meant that, if he did get a clear view of the devil’s face, he would know him.

“Sit.”

James did; a second later, the rope looped about him and cinched tight, then looped around him again, lashing him very effectively to the chair.

He waited, saying nothing, trying to think if there was anything more he might ask, might hope to learn. There was really only one more piece of information he needed.

After testing the rope, and that his hands were still securely bound, the murderer stepped back, then walked to the door, showing James nothing but the back of his cloak.

But on reaching the door, with his hand on the knob, the villain turned. And told James what he wanted to know. “I’m off to arrange to meet with your fiancée, and then . . . I’ll bring her here.”

Although he couldn’t see the man’s lips, James knew they were curved when the blackguard added, “And then I’ll bring this whole sorry tale to an end.”

The murderer’s pale eyes gleamed briefly in the lamplight, then he opened the door and went out, closing the door gently behind him.

James stared at where the man had stood. By the door, the lamplight had been strong enough for James to clearly see that part of the blackguard’s face above the band of the black silk scarf. . . . “He’s right.” James frowned. “If I could see more of his face, I would know him—would recognize him.” As it was . . . he knew he’d seen the man before, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.

Setting the puzzle of the man’s identity aside, James waited—counseled himself to patience even though his instincts were urging him to act, and act swiftly.

Presumably the man would send a note to Henrietta and she would come to rescue him. She would accompany the murderer back here, to this house, to this room, and then . . . if James read the man and his ghastly intentions aright, the blackguard would violate her and beat her to death in front of James, and then kill James, staging his murder to appear to be suicide driven by anguished remorse.

“Well,” he muttered, “if Henrietta did die like that trying to save me, I would kill myself out of anguished remorse.”

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Once the devil’s footsteps had receded, then died away down the stairs, after the front door had closed and remained closed for, James judged, long enough to be sure that the fiend wasn’t about to have second thoughts and for whatever reason come back to check his bonds, he carefully eased the long glass shard down from its position under his cuff.

Gripping it carefully between his fingers, he started sawing.

Hudson was waiting to deliver the second note from Lady Winston’s murderer when Henrietta walked out of the dining room after dinner that evening.

As they’d arranged that afternoon, dinner had been transformed into an impromptu family gathering, with Amanda and Martin, Amelia and Luc, and Simon and Portia joining Mary, Henrietta, Louise, and Arthur about the table.

Arthur and Louise had been delighted to have their family all together, the only minor blemish being that, as Henrietta had explained, James had had a prior engagement that had prevented him from joining them.

Expecting the murderer to have been as good as his word, after an hour and a half of concealing her fraught state, assisted by the others, who had done their best to keep her parents’ attention fixed elsewhere, Henrietta led the exodus from the dining room, leaving Martin, Amanda, Luc, and Amelia to delay Louise and Arthur enough for her to accept the note, swiftly read it, then tuck it away in her pocket.

Looking up, she met Simon’s eyes; he and Portia had followed her and Mary from the dining room. Simon arched a brow. “As expected?” He kept his voice low.

Raising her head, Henrietta nodded. “Just a place and a time, and some instructions. Nothing more.”

The rest of the company joined them; they all stood milling in the front hall, talking of the engagements they were about to leave to attend.

Arthur held Louise’s evening cloak for her.

Shrugging into it and settling the folds, Louise glanced at Henrietta. “You’re coming with me and Mary tonight, aren’t you? I know James is otherwise engaged, but—”

“Actually, Mama,” Mary cut in, “I’m feeling rather queasy.” She grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach. “It must have been something I ate.”

Louise was at once solicitous, but Henrietta stepped in to say, “I’ll stay with Mary. I’m really not enthused by the prospect of another night socializing—I could do with a quiet night in. And I know you’re looking forward to seeing Lady Hancock, and you really can’t cry off Mrs. Arbuthot’s soiree.”

Louise grimaced. She glanced at Mary, then nodded. “All right. You two girls have a quiet night and get to bed early.” She looked inquiringly at the twins and their husbands, at Portia and Simon. “So where are you all bound for? Can I drop any of you off on my way?”

The others all had their stories rehearsed; Martin, Luc, and Simon were off for an evening at Boodles—not White’s, wither Arthur was bound. Amanda, Amelia, and Portia were supposedly planning to attend a ball at Hilliard House, but on hearing of Mary’s indisposition, and Henrietta’s, too, the three elected to spend an hour with them before heading out for the evening.

“Very well.” Turning to the door on Arthur’s arm, Louise waved to them all. “Have a pleasant evening, and we’ll catch up with you all tomorrow at the meeting at St. Ives House.”

They all called their farewells; poised about the front hall, on the tiles, on the lower steps of the stairs, they all watched, smiles in place, as Hudson opened the door, then Arthur swept Louise out, waved a cheery farewell, and escorted Louise down the steps to the waiting carriage.

As Arthur shut the carriage door on his wife, then headed for the hackney summoned earlier, Hudson closed the front door and turned. He surveyed all those remaining in the front hall, none of whom made any attempt to move, listening, as they all were, to ensure that Arthur’s carriage as well as Louise’s was well away and unlikely to turn back.

A puzzled frown in his eyes, Hudson studied Henrietta, then, as if making some decision, turned to Simon. “What would you like me to do, sir?”

Simon met his eyes. “They’re not coming back, are they?”

“I wouldn’t expect your parents to return until the end of their evenings.”

“Good.” Simon glanced at the others. “In that case, Hudson, you’re delegated to hold the fort here, and otherwise don’t pass on anything you see or hear, not unless asked directly.”

“Naturally not, sir.” Hudson gave a small bow. “Like the best of my breed, I will endeavor to be deaf and dumb while seeing and hearing all.”

That drew chuckles and grateful smiles from all, but then Luc looked at Henrietta. “What does the note say?”

She drew in a tight breath, fished the note from her pocket, unfolded it, and read, “ ‘Meet me at the corner of James Street and Roberts Street, in Mayfair, at ten o’clock. It should take you no more than fifteen minutes to walk there from Upper Brook Street. Make sure you are alone and that no one follows you. Should you fail to keep this appointment, or think to trap me in any way, your fiancé will die, slowly and painfully. And so will you.’ ”

Henrietta stared at the note, then shivered and folded it again, as if by doing so she could contain the malicious intent that oozed from the page. Looking up, she met the eyes of those around her—her nearest and dearest—all grave, but determined.

“Buck up.” Amanda squeezed her hand. “We’re going to get James back safe and sound, and catch this madman.”

Murmurs of agreement came from all around.

“Right then,” Simon said. “We all know what we have to do. Let’s get to it. I’ll send a note to Barnaby—as arranged, he’ll alert Stokes. Henrietta, whatever you do, don’t leave until you need to. The longer we have to get everyone in place, the better.”

There were nods all around. Henrietta turned and led the way up the stairs. Simon walked off to the parlor to write his note, but everyone else followed Henrietta, hurrying up the stairs in her wake, eager to change and sneak out to take up their assigned positions.