And Then She Fell

chapter Fifteen



At precisely fifteen minutes before ten o’clock, cloaked and veiled, Henrietta descended the front steps of her parents’ house and set off, walking briskly along the pavement toward Grosvenor Square. She felt keyed up, nerves tight, but, surprisingly, her principal emotion wasn’t fear, not even trepidation.

They would get James back, and catch the murderer, and all would be well.

She knew there were any number of things that might go wrong, but her brain had, it seemed entirely of its own volition, shut them out, denying failure any purchase whatever in her mind. She was so determined that it was an effort to walk normally and not march militantly along.

The night was unhelpfully black, with little moon to light her way. Luckily, her path to the appointed rendezvous was along well-lit Mayfair streets; the streetlamps were all burning, and it wasn’t yet so late that there was any real danger, not in that area.

Knowing that, courtesy of their plan, she wasn’t actually alone no doubt contributed to her combative mood. She spotted a familiar street sweeper loitering along one side of Grosvenor Square—directly opposite St. Ives House; Luc was prone to taking such risks. Henrietta didn’t dare look more closely to see where Amelia was, but she knew her sister would be near.

Also comforting was the pistol weighing down her reticule; Penelope had loaned it to her and instructed her in how to fire it. As, along with all the Cynster girls, Henrietta had insisted on being taught about guns along with their brothers, a little instruction was all that had been necessary; the small, American muff pistol felt nice and snug in her grasp.

Penelope had assured her that despite its size, the pistol would put a sizeable hole in the murderer.

Of course, none of the ladies had considered it wise to mention the pistol to any of their menfolk.

Head up, gaze fixed forward, Henrietta walked purposefully along, ignoring the hackney, and its driver, who rolled past as she crossed Duke Street, leaving Grosvenor Square to walk on along Brook Street.

James Street was the second street on the left. She crossed the street, staring up it to the opening of the much narrower Roberts Street, a poorly lit dark maw, but she could see no figure waiting. Resisting the urge to nod in greeting to the apparently old man in a frieze coat who shuffled past, she turned up James Street and walked briskly to the designated corner.

The old man shuffled on across the mouth of James Street, then, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other, turned up the street on the opposite pavement. At the rate he was moving, she would meet the murderer and be long gone before Barnaby reached the spot directly across from Roberts Street.

Taking up position at the corner, closer to the edge of the pavement so she could more easily be seen, she put back her veil and looked around again, searching the shadows. She even turned and peered into the deeper shadows of Roberts Street; courtesy of the light from the lamps in the street at the other end, she could see that there was no figure lurking along the pavements in Roberts Street, either.

Turning back to face James Street, and Barnaby, still puffing and wheezing along, she heaved a sigh and settled to wait.

Two minutes later, the hair at her nape lifted. She stiffened.

“Don’t turn around. Not yet.”

He—the murderer—was standing directly behind her. Her senses screaming, she battled the primitive impulse to whirl about. Gripping her reticule tightly, she raised her head higher, then stiffly nodded. “Very well. Now what?”

“Now I’m going to turn around and walk down Roberts Street, and when I give the word, you will turn and follow. We’re going to walk the streets—I will lead and you will follow, remaining a good yard behind me at all times. If all remains well, I will eventually take you to where I’m holding Glossup.” He paused, then asked, “Is that clear?”

She’d heard him speak before. Not often, and she couldn’t remember where, but there was a faint echo of some shire accent hidden beneath the polished vowels . . . she shook aside the distraction and nodded. “Yes. I’ll stay behind you so I won’t be able to see your face.”

Amusement laced his voice. “Precisely.” Then his tone hardened. “Wait for my word, then follow.”

She did as he’d ordered, holding still when she sensed him moving away; across the street, Barnaby had drawn back into the shadows of a doorway, but he was there, watching.

“Now.”

Turning, she walked into the darkness of Roberts Street and fell in behind the tall, broad-shouldered male figure who steadily paced down the shadowy pavement ahead of her; he was wearing a dark cloak, a wide-brimmed dark hat, plus a dark scarf wound about his neck, and most likely about his lower face, but tonight he carried no cane. Nevertheless, even in the gloom of Roberts Street, very little observation was required for her to confirm that he was, indeed, the man she’d collided with in Hill Street all those evenings ago.

She debated questioning him, and while she didn’t hold much hope he would be overly forthcoming, she asked, “Was it you behind all the attacks—at Marchmain House, then my horse being darted, the stone falling in the ruins at Ellsmere Grange, as well as the attack in the park?”

He didn’t reply for several paces, then said, “Yes. You don’t need to know more than that.”

“Well, at least I now know I don’t have more than one mystery attacker,” she muttered at his back.

“Be quiet. No more talking.”

Yes, sir. Grimly, she set her lips and, for the sheer hell of it, glared at his black back. The weight of the pistol in her reticule was tempting; she could pull it out and shoot him now, and he’d have no chance to stop her, and then he’d be stopped for all time . . . but Penelope had assured her the pistol would put a very big hole in him at close range, which would almost certainly kill him, and then they’d never be able to find and rescue James. Tied up in a room somewhere in London . . . even learning the identity of the murderer wouldn’t guarantee they’d be able to find James.

They were more than halfway down Roberts Street; Davies Street, much better lit, lay ahead. Realizing that walking ahead of her as he was, the villain couldn’t see what she did, she kept her pace steady but turned her head and looked back.

Twenty paces behind her, Barnaby, no longer shuffling, was slipping from dense shadow to dense shadow; he raised a hand in brief salute.

Henrietta faced forward and kept walking. As they neared the better illumination of Davies Street, she realized her lips were curved in an intent and determined, and potentially revealing, smile, and promptly wiped her face of all expression. She wasn’t all that good at charades; she wasn’t sure she could creditably fake the sort of fear the murderer might be expecting her to be experiencing. Better to appear expressionless than to make him suspicious.

They stepped into Davies Street, crossed it, and turned right. South. Another hackney rolled slowly past. Charlie Hastings, disguised as a jarvey, was driving; from the corner of her eye, Henrietta caught a glimpse of Mary’s face as her sister observed her—and even more closely studied the man ahead of her—from inside the hackney.

The villain thankfully didn’t notice Mary; he continued walking, and Henrietta continued following. And the others continued to shadow them wherever they went.

She hadn’t really thought of what he—the murderer—had meant when he’d said they would “walk the streets,” but that was precisely what they did; although he avoided the busier parts of Mayfair, those streets where they might encounter members of her family leaving one event or going to another, he led her along streets she knew, heading east and south toward Bond Street, tacking through narrow mews and then walking short distances along wider streets, before turning into another alley or lane.

Whoever he was, he knew the streets well. From the way he halted every now and then to search their surroundings, even looking back, risking her seeing more of his face—not that she ever got a decent look—it was clear the entire exercise was designed to ensure no one was following them.

He was cautious, in her view to the extreme. And the longer they walked, the more she worried that he might notice her protectors, or, worse, might succeed in losing them.

She’d already seen Barnaby in three different locations, but at least he was changing his appearance each time. The hackneys, driven by Simon, Martin, and Charlie, with, respectively, Portia, Amanda, and Mary as passengers, were harder to disguise; even if the drivers changed hats and coats, the carriages themselves, and even more the horses, remained the same. Against that, the sight of a hackney on a Mayfair street was so unremarkable they were counting on the villain not truly registering the coaches at all.

Luc was with Amelia on foot, and Penelope had paired with Stokes’s wife, Griselda, and Stokes and several of his constables and junior inspectors were also part of the net of protectors scattered about the streets.

Henrietta didn’t fully understand the logistics, but Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes had assured her that at least one observer, if not two, would have her in their sights at all times but would rotate constantly to limit the chance that the murderer would notice them.

The problem was he was choosing certain streets—those with very limited concealment and also limited in length—to pass through again and again; the shorter streets gave those following her very little time to see them go into the street, then get someone into position to watch her come out again and see where he led her next.

Twice, he started down a short, featureless lane, only to turn around halfway along and retrace their steps.

When, more than an hour after he’d met her at the rendezvous, he led her down the short length of Blenheim Street to Woodstock Street, paused at the corner to glance back, then turned left and led her into an unexpected, and largely invisible, little court, she had no idea if any of her protectors were still with her. And no way of checking.

He led her to a row of houses that were clearly all abandoned and empty, most likely due for demolition.

Despite her resolve, her earlier belligerence, her heart was thudding heavily, too rapidly, as she followed him, her would-be murderer, through an ancient wrought-iron gate and up an uneven path to a set of worn, cracked stone steps leading up to a narrow front door.

Would this dark, abandoned house be where her life ended?

The unexpected thought shook her; suddenly flustered, she bundled it from her mind.

Yet there was no denying her instinctive aversion to meekly following him like a lamb to the slaughter.

Pausing on the wide last step, the murderer drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He pushed it wide, then he turned and looked at her, still standing on the path a yard behind him.

The streetlamp in the court was too distant to cast any light on his features, those visible between the low brim of his hat and the black silk scarf swathing his jaw. As in Hill Street, she simply couldn’t see enough of his face to form any real picture.

“Who are you?” The words fell from her lips without conscious thought as she stared, frowning, up at him.

She sensed his smile, heard the satisfaction in his voice as, with one last glance over the empty pavements, the deserted court, he said, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Stepping back, he waved her in, a mocking courtesy. “If you will, Miss Cynster, walk into the hall and halt at the foot of the stairs.”

About to start forward, she halted. Eyeing the narrow, heavily shadowed hall, she asked, “Is James here?”

That and only that would get her over the threshold; only for James would she enter a murderer’s lair.

Again she sensed a certain gloating amusement as the murderer replied, “He is. He’s tied up, but he’s hale and whole. I intend taking you to him directly.”

There was something behind those last words that made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to nod and, raising her skirts, walked calmly up the steps, past him, and on into the darkness of the narrow front hall.

The house smelled dusty, faintly musty. As she halted at the foot of the stairs, unlit and unwelcoming, and looked upward, primal panic gripped her, a clawed hand closing about her throat, sharp nailed and choking.

She whirled. Looking back along the hall she saw her captor bending over a narrow hall table and lighting a small lantern. The familiar clop and rattle of a hackney reached her. The lantern lit, the murderer straightened, playing the lantern’s light over her so she couldn’t easily make him out.

Reaching back, he caught the doorknob and slowly closed the door.

Before he did, a hairsbreadth—a heartbeat—from breaking and running, Henrietta looked out of the door as the hackney she’d heard rolled slowly past.

Simon, on the box, looked directly at her.

She stood at the foot of the stairs, bathed in the lantern’s light, as the door shut.

The instant it did, she drew in a huge, shuddering breath, then she blinked, squinted, held up a hand to shield her eyes and turned her head aside as the murderer walked slowly closer. He’d been focused on her, but it appeared she hadn’t given their game away.

The sight of Simon had acted like a shot of the purest courage tipped directly into her veins. As the effect burned through her, she had to remind herself she couldn’t sneer at the coward before her—not yet.

He halted a good yard from her, then, with the lantern, gestured to the stairs. “Go up.”

Turning, she raised her skirts and started climbing; she couldn’t wait to find James and get this over with. The sooner she could see this man in Stokes’s hands and safely away from her and hers, the better.

As she neared the top of the stairs, the murderer, following a few steps behind her, said, “Turn left and walk along the gallery. Stop at the second door.”

She turned as directed, but once he was walking directly behind her, she raised her reticule and slipped the catch free, opened the neck wide, and, reaching inside, closed her hand firmly about the grip of the small pistol. She didn’t yet pull it free but used her cloak to conceal what she’d done.

Halting as instructed, facing the second door, she drew in a deep breath and steeled herself for what she might find beyond it. Lady Winston’s murderer had a reputation for brutality. He’d said James was alive, hale and whole, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t beaten James badly.

Regardless, James would be tied securely and unable to help her. She would have to rely on herself, on her own resources, until the others burst into the house—which, she was praying, they would do any minute now. . . .

Her senses revolted again, skin crawling, nerves skittering, as the murderer drew close enough to reach around her and open the door.

He set it swinging. “Go in. Your fiancé is waiting to see you . . . one last time.”

The tone of those last words sent a shudder down her spine, but, raising her head high, she stepped into the room and halted.

By the shaft of light cast by the lantern behind her and the weaker glow coming from a lamp on a tallboy beside the door, she saw a bed, but it was empty. She looked further and saw a chair set deeper in the room, to one side of the bed, but she couldn’t see James anywhere. Then she realized there were ropes lying discarded about the chair—

Hard fingers gripped her arm and yanked her sideways—behind the door.

James! Her heart leapt even while he bundled her behind him, into the lee of the door, and swung to face the murderer in her stead.

Only to get the lantern flashed in his face.

The full light of the lantern in his eyes made James instinctively recoil and raise an arm to shield his eyes.

Realizing he’d lost the advantage, he cursed. Lowering his arm, he tried to see, but the light was so bright that he wasn’t even sure exactly where the villain was standing.

Then, ominously, the lantern beam slowly lowered, falling from his face to center on his body.

“Step back, Glossup, or I’ll shoot you now. In front of your bride-to-be.”

James finally managed to focus—and discovered that, yes, the villain now held a pistol aimed directly at his heart.

But . . . thinking furiously, James held his ground. “Me getting shot in the chest won’t fit with your plan. How will your story run if I have a hole in my chest, instead of the side of my head? Not many men commit suicide by shooting themselves in the heart.”

Silence held for a moment, then the murderer replied, amusement and more lacing his words, “That won’t discomfit me in the least. I’ll just turn my story around the other way. You beat Miss Cynster nearly unconscious, and in desperation she grabs the pistol and shoots you in the chest, then, in despair, she shoots herself. It’s all one to me—who gets shot in the head and who in the heart.” The murderer’s voice strengthened. “So why don’t you just step back toward the chair—now.”

James hesitated.

Stunned by the murderer’s intentions, made even more nauseating by being stated aloud, Henrietta clapped a hand over her lips, smothering her spontaneous rebuttal. She could see James thinking, trying to decide what he should do; the noble idiot would sacrifice himself for her, and then where would she be?

Living out the rest of her life alone.

She had to make her next words sound believable. Gulping in a breath, she discovered she didn’t have to try all that hard to make her voice quaver. “James, please . . . do as he says.”

His gaze flicked to her; she opened her eyes wide at him and showed him the pistol she’d pulled free of her reticule.

Understanding held James motionless for a second, then the murderer drawled, “Do as she says, Glossup, and who knows? After I tie you up again, I might let you have one last kiss.”

Henrietta was perfectly certain she could not hate a man more. Settling her weight evenly, she grasped the pistol in both hands, simultaneously making her voice weak and wavery. “Please, James, do what he says. I don’t want him to shoot you—and perhaps he’ll change his mind. We really don’t know who he is, so perhaps he’ll believe us and let us go . . .” She ended with a passable sob.

James met her eyes, then, his lips a thin line, looked back at the murderer and took one step back.

“That’s right.” The murderer was gloating. “Keep going.”

James moved slowly, backing one defined step at a time; Henrietta realized he was keeping his gaze locked with the murderer’s, and his slow, deliberate—clearly reluctant—retreat was keeping the murderer focused on him.

Step by step, James retreated, and, step by step, the murderer came further into the room.

At last, he cleared the open door; his gaze still on James, the villain reached back and caught the edge of the door with the hand holding the lantern and pushed it closed.

He was standing precisely where Henrietta was aiming.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she pulled the trigger.

Two shots roared out, one immediately following the other, the combined sounds deafening in the enclosed space.

On a gasp, Henrietta opened her eyes. Heart thudding, she slowly lowered her pistol. As the echoes of the shots faded, she saw the lantern on the floor near her feet—and the murderer sprawled awkwardly across the floor, his upper back against the tallboy, one hand clamped to a massive hole in one shoulder.

“James?” She couldn’t see him. Panic surged.

Had he been shot?

Killed?

To get around the bed she had to pass the murderer. His pistol lay beside him, spent; she kicked it away from him regardless. She could see he was trying to gather his strength. Drawing back her foot, she kicked him squarely between the legs; he howled and curled up on himself.

Satisfied, she rushed around the bed. “James?”

Then she saw him. “Oh, my God!” He had been shot. He was struggling to sit up, to prop himself against the side of the bed. She rushed to help. “How bad is it?”

James blinked at her as she crouched beside him. He could barely believe it—they were both alive. He drank in her concern and managed a crooked, albeit pained, grin. “Not that bad. I flung myself aside and his ball clipped my arm. It probably looks worse than it is.”

He wasn’t sure she heard him over the thunderous cacophony of God only knew how many people pounding up the stairs. But all he cared about was her; his gaze feasted on her, devoured her face, her beloved features, then settled on her eyes. Lost in the blue, he murmured, “I assume that’s the cavalry. I’m glad you didn’t come alone.”

With his unbloodied hand, he gently touched her cheek, then cupped it. Just that touch was the most wondrous relief.

She looked fierce as a tigress as she raised a hand to cradle the back of his. “I would have come alone if that’s what it took, but I didn’t have to.” She glanced up as a horde of people rushed into the room.

James didn’t care about anyone else; for him, there was only her. Gently, he turned her face back to his, found her gaze, those lovely soft blue eyes, and held it. “I love you. God, how much I love you.” He let himself sink into the blue. “While I was tied up here, all I could think about was that I hadn’t told you that. In facing possible death, that was my one real regret.”

She smiled stunningly—a beauteous sight, sunshine banishing the darkness—and caught his hand in both of hers. “I love you, too. I truly do.” Raising his hand, she kissed his knuckles, held as tightly to his gaze as he was holding to hers. “I am so relieved that you’re alive.”

She leaned in and their lips touched. Softly lingered.

Just that, a simple caress that meant the world to them both.

She drew back and, eyes closed, sighed, then, her grip on his hand tightening, she leaned her forehead against his, and for an instant they both clung—to the moment, to each other. To the inexpressible joy of being together and alive.

Then Stokes arrived. They both looked up as he swept in to join the crowd already standing around the murderer, retribution in their eyes.

Stokes humphed, then bent over the villain and stripped away the black scarf and lifted off the wide-brimmed hat.

The others crowded around to look, to study the murderer’s face, to divine the identity he’d been willing to kill again and again to conceal.

While they were thus engaged, Henrietta rose and helped James to his feet. He was clutching his left arm just below his shoulder. His sleeve was torn and bloodied, but when she got him to ease his grip, the wound bled only sluggishly. As far as she could see in the poor light, as far as he could tell, the ball had passed through and wasn’t lodged in his flesh. Pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed, she stripped the case off one pillow and used the fabric to bind his arm. He smiled more strongly, more definitely at her, and murmured his thanks.

They turned to the others just as Stokes shifted and looked around the circle. “Anyone know who the bastard is?”

“He’s vaguely familiar,” Barnaby said.

“Hmm.” Simon, frowning, nodded. “But I can’t quite place him.”

“I know I’ve seen him about,” Charlie said.

Henrietta realized that, somehow, none of the ladies had made it up the stairs. Linking her arm with James’s uninjured one, she helped steady him on his feet, then they rounded the bed to join the others about the fallen villain.

The others took that as a sign that they could now bombard them with questions, most of which were devoted to confirming that they were, indeed, as well as they appeared. The circle parted to include them, finally allowing them a clear look at the villain who had tried to take their future from them.

Said villain was still half curled, slumped on his side before the tallboy, his face partly in shadow. Someone had roughly bound his wound; it was, Henrietta realized, too high on his shoulder to be fatal. She looked down at him, then pointed to the lantern. “Shine that in his face and let me see.”

Simon was only too ready to oblige. The villain flinched away from the brighter light, turning his head up and away.

Henrietta gasped. “Good God! It’s Sir Peter Affry.”

Stokes grunted.

Charlie stared. “Sir Peter Affry, the MP?”

“Yes.” Henrietta nodded decisively. “He’s been lionized in political circles this Season. He’s certainly been at all the major functions.”

“He was at Marchmain House,” James said. “Someone pointed him out to me there.”

“And he was definitely at the gala,” Barnaby said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stokes said. “He’s done his dash. He’s not going to be able to escape the gallows over this.” Reaching down, Stokes hauled Sir Peter unceremoniously to his feet, then, with a distinct lack of gentleness, propelled the injured MP through the door into the waiting arms of two burly constables. “Take him to the Yard and charge him. Get the doctor to bind him up properly, but keep him under lock and key at all times. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” The constables looked thoroughly thrilled with their captive. They cinched a rope around his wrists, then, each taking one arm, ignoring Sir Peter’s moans and weak protests, they half carried, half dragged him away toward the stairs.

James felt light-headed, but he didn’t think it was from blood loss; euphoric relief was nearer the mark. But he remembered enough to turn to Stokes and say, “He admitted to killing Lady Winston.”

“Good.” Stokes met James’s eyes. “Will you testify, if it comes to that?”

Grimly, James nodded. “Yes. Definitely. I want him to get his just deserts.”

“Don’t we all,” Barnaby said. “At least we now know why he was so hell-bent on hiding his identity. M’father mentioned something about him being considered for Cabinet.”

Stokes looked around the circle, his gray gaze coming to rest on Henrietta and James. “I’m going to need statements from all of you, but if you like, we can put it off until tomorrow.”

They all looked at each other—Simon, Barnaby, Charlie, Martin, and Luc, as well as James and Henrietta—then Martin grimaced, and put what they were all thinking into words. “The others—and the elders—aren’t going to appreciate that they were left out of this. I vote we adjourn to somewhere more comfortable and get all the statements and explanations cleared away tonight, then we can tell the others about it tomorrow, when it’s all done and finished with.”

Agreement was unanimous. Stokes nodded. “I’ll need to go back to the Yard and see him charged, and make sure they understand to hold him regardless of what he says, then I’ll come and interview you.” He glanced at them inquiringly. “Where?”

They decided Barnaby and Penelope’s house in Albemarle Street would be best.

Stokes left, and the others all gathered around. James was amazed at their disguises, while they wanted to know what had happened to him.

Henrietta cut all explanations short with the demand, “What I want to know is what took you so long?” She looked pointedly at Simon. “You knew we were here—I expected you to arrive and overpower the fiend much sooner.”

“Yes, well.” Simon looked sheepish. “He’d put an extra lock on the front door—a bolt. We were intending to pick the lock and creep up on him in case he had a gun—which, as it transpired, he did—but the bolt meant we had to break the door down, which he would have heard . . .”

Barnaby crisply stated, “We were arguing the merits of breaking down the door over forcing a window when we heard the two shots, and nearly died ourselves.” He eyed the pistol as Henrietta, reminded of it, retrieved it from where she’d left it on the bed. “But I see Penelope took her own precautions.”

“Just as well.” Henrietta tucked the pistol back into her reticule. “But speaking of Penelope, where is she? And the others—Mary, Amanda, Amelia, Portia, and Griselda?”

All the men except James exchanged wary, resigned glances, then Luc admitted, “We insisted they stay in the carriages outside. Speaking of which, we’d better go down and explain.”

And grovel, Henrietta thought, but men like these would always act true to their natures, and, at base, all of them were protective to a fault.

The others clattered down the stairs; she and James followed more slowly, using the lantern to light their way.

In the front hall, they left the lantern on the table, turned down the wick, then walked out of the door and pulled it shut behind them. Or as shut as it would go, given it was hanging half off its hinges.

The small court was filled with the three hackney coaches they’d hired for the night. In the light of the streetlamp, various couples were talking, the men reporting, the ladies reprimanding, yet curious to hear every detail.

Arm in arm, Henrietta paused with James on the top step and looked out at the small army of friends who had helped them. She leaned lightly against James, so very grateful to feel the warmth and strength of him beside her again. “They might not have been there at the critical moment, but knowing they were close and would come to our aid gave me the courage to do what I did.”

“Friends. Family.” James closed his hand over hers, twined his fingers with hers and gripped, met her gaze as she glanced at him. “On both fronts we’ve been blessed.”

Henrietta searched his eyes, then softly smiled. “They’re watching us, you know—all the ladies. They don’t want to interrupt, but they’re dying to speak with us, to fuss over us.”

James let his smile deepen. “I suppose we’d better let them—it’s only their due—but before we do . . .” Lifting her hand, he raised it to his lips and, eyes locked with hers, brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Let me say it again—I do so love you.”

Henrietta’s heart overflowed—with love, happiness, gratitude, and relief. And with joy. Simple, unadulterated joy. She held his gaze and, stars in her eyes, gave him back the words. “And I love you. Forever and always.”

His lips lifted in a smile that held the same joy she felt. “I can barely believe it, yet despite all the hurdles, despite the determination of a murderous villain, we have won through.”

“We’ve won our future.” Henrietta beamed. “And now we get to live it.”

Together, they faced forward, and, arm in arm, went down the steps, out of the gate, and onto the pavement, where, as Henrietta had foretold, they were immediately mobbed by a coterie of curiously garbed ladies. After hugging them both, and oohing and aahing over James’s wound, said ladies dismissed their husbands’ reports as inept and insisted on hearing all in James’s and Henrietta’s own words—once they’d repaired to the comfort of Penelope’s home.

No one argued. Instead, everyone piled into or onto the hackneys, and the company adjourned to Albemarle Street.