And Then She Fell

chapter Nine



Along with the rest of Lady Ellsmere’s houseguests, James and Henrietta quit Ellsmere Grange after a leisurely breakfast the next morning. No lurking danger had surfaced to disturb their sated slumber, yet James remained alert and on edge, although he made an effort to rein in any overly protective impulses.

Especially as Lord Ellsmere gave every indication of having already forgotten their previous evening’s conversation.

James knew what he knew, and his first concern was to get Henrietta safely back under her parents’ roof. To his mind, and even more to his instincts, she was now his—his to protect, to keep safe. As he’d driven his curricle to the grange, he rolled sedately along behind the Cynsters’ carriage, much to his horses’ dissatisfaction; only by traveling behind the coach could he be sure of spotting any threat, even if that meant eating a certain amount of dust.

Once they reached the cobbled streets of Mayfair, he turned off the direct route, tacking down several side streets to reach Upper Brook Street before the carriage; when it drew up before the Cynsters’ steps, he was standing on the pavement waiting to hand Henrietta down.

When he opened the door, Henrietta was sitting poised on the seat, eager to give him her hand; as he assisted her to the pavement, eyes bright, expression alight, she said, “It’s only just eleven. Mama and Papa should still be at home.”

Lips curving in an impossible-to-suppress response, he gave her his arm. “Let’s go in and see.”

The butler, Hudson, on admitting them to the house, confirmed that Lady Louise was in the parlor with Miss Mary, while Lord Arthur was in his study.

James exchanged a look with Henrietta, then drew a suddenly tight breath and said, “Please inquire if I might have a few minutes of Lord Arthur’s time.”

Hudson glanced from James to Henrietta, then beamed. “At once, sir.”

Hudson returned in less than a minute with the news that Lord Arthur was prepared to bestow as many minutes as James wished.

Henrietta met his gaze. “I’ll be in the parlor with Mama.” She squeezed his arm, then released him.

Feeling as she imagined a cat on a hot tin roof might feel, Henrietta watched James disappear in Hudson’s wake down the corridor to her father’s study. Then, dragging in a huge breath, she held it, paused for a moment to define what—how much—to reveal to her mother and sister, then she determinedly walked down the other corridor to the parlor the ladies of the family used for informal relaxation.

Opening the parlor door, she saw her mother and Mary sitting on the window seat, flicking through a stack of ivory cards—doubtless deciding which of the various morning teas they would attend that day. Both had glanced up; the instant they set eyes on her both straightened, alert, their gazes locking on her face.

Realizing she still wore her traveling cape and was clutching her reticule rather tightly, Henrietta went in, closed the door, then walked, carefully, almost tentatively, to stand before the window seat.

Her mother’s eyes searched her face, then Louise reached out and took one of her hands. “What is it?”

Henrietta dragged in a breath past the constriction that had suddenly cinched tight about her chest. “James . . . is asking Papa for my hand.”

For an instant her mother and sister stared, then both shot to their feet and enveloped her in simultaneous scented hugs.

“Excellent!” Releasing her, Mary all but bounced with delight.

“My dear, dear girl! This is wonderful!” Louise drew back to look into Henrietta’s face. “I’m so glad for you both.”

Henrietta smiled back, aware of the relief lurking behind her mother’s pleased and thoroughly satisfied expression; she knew Louise had started to worry that her activities vetting gentlemen for other young ladies would influence her view of gentlemen as a whole to the point that she wouldn’t accept any gentleman herself.

Glowing with maternal benevolence, reassured and expectantly thrilled, her mother released her and stepped back to the window seat, waving Henrietta to join her. “Come, sit, and tell us all about it.”

Henrietta obliged. Flanked by her mother and Mary, both eager to hear every last detail, she related an edited account of her and James’s association, repainting what her mother at least had taken to be a platonic friendship into something more closely resembling their reality. “So, you see, because of James’s grandaunt’s will, we’ll need to hold an engagement ball all but immediately, and we have to marry before the month is out.”

“Well,” her mother said, “you always did like to be different. And getting engaged and marrying in three weeks is definitely something different for this family.” Her mother beamed at her, then at Mary. “So we’ll all need to dive in and work together to ensure we pull it off.”

“I don’t want a big wedding,” Henrietta hurried to state. “We’ve had a surfeit of those—something nice and comfortable would better suit me—and James, I daresay, and our situation. Speaking for myself, I would prefer not to feel overwhelmed on my wedding day. I really don’t know how the others all coped.”

“Hmm.” Her mother tapped her chin with one fingertip. “Comfortable is as comfortable might be, at least in this family, but”—she nodded—“I’ll speak with the others and Honoria, and see how quiet we can make it.”

Mary had been jigging, waiting to ask something. She opened her lips, but a sound at the door had them all looking that way.

The door opened and Henrietta’s father preceded James into the room; one look at her father’s face told her that James’s suit had met with unqualified approval.

Beaming jovially, her father met her mother’s eyes, then focused on Henrietta.

She rose as he approached.

Her father took her hand and patted it. “Well, my girl, I understand celebrations are in order. Glossup here tells me you and he wish to tie the knot, heh?”

Henrietta’s smiling gaze shifted to James’s face; in her eyes, James saw nothing but unalloyed anticipation for, and confidence in, their joint future. In their shared life.

“Indeed, Papa, we do.” Closing her hand over Arthur’s, Henrietta smiled at her father. “I’m so glad you approve.”

“Approve? Of course! James here has told me everything I need to know.” Lord Arthur cast a paternally approving glance at James. “Very good job he did of it, too. No obfuscation and all aboveboard. I have no hesitation in bestowing your hand on him, my dear—none at all.” Lord Arthur tugged her closer. “Here—come and give your father a hug. This is a happy day for us all.”

Henrietta laughed and obliged.

“Indeed, this is a joyous event!” Louise pressed forward to hug James, then drew his head down to kiss his cheek before stepping back to meet his eyes. “Welcome to this family, James—and it’s simply a delight that we already know you so well. Simon will be thrilled.”

James smiled back, pleased everything had gone so smoothly, so relatively easily; Lord Arthur had been encouraging and understanding. Being a friend of Simon’s and long known to the family had significantly eased his path. “Thank you, ma’am.” Placing a hand over his heart, he bowed. “I will do everything in my power to live up to yours and Lord Arthur’s expectations.”

Louise beamed, patently pleased, and stepped back to allow Mary to hug him.

Henrietta’s sister was jigging up and down, it seemed with sheer exuberance. She planted a quick peck on his cheek—and insouciantly whispered, “Good job!”

The door opened and Hudson swept in with a bottle of champagne and glasses. In an expansive mood, Lord Arthur handed around the glasses, then offered a toast, “To James and Henrietta!”

They all duly sipped, then Lady Louise set down her glass and sank onto the window seat. She looked up at James and Henrietta, who had moved to stand beside him. “Henrietta has told me of your need to marry by the end of the month, which means your engagement will have to be announced and celebrated before that.”

Lord Arthur humphed. “The wedding will have to be by special license, but there’ll be no difficulty there.”

His wife quelled him with a look, one that, to James, suggested that the arranging of his and Henrietta’s betrothal and wedding was Lady Louise’s domain and she wasn’t about to brook any interference. “Naturally.” Her tone was faintly haughty. “However”—she looked back at James and Henrietta—“that means we have no time to waste in setting matters in train.” She focused on James. “I’m assuming you’ll be placing a notice in the Gazette forthwith?”

He nodded. “I’ll go to their office from here. The notice will appear tomorrow morning.”

Louise nodded. “Excellent. So”—she arched her brows—“when would you like your engagement ball to be held?”

Henrietta glanced at James, met his eyes, then turned back to Louise. “How soon can we host such an event?”

Without waiting to be asked, Mary rushed to the escritoire, retrieved an appointment book, and brought it to her mother.

Receiving the book, Louise opened it and flicked through the pages, eventually pausing on one, fingertip tapping, then she looked up. “A week. Seven days from today. We don’t want your ball to clash with too many of the major events, but that evening will do admirably.” She looked at Arthur. “You may start spreading the word to the male half of the family and your friends. Meanwhile”—Louise rose—“I’ll speak with Honoria immediately, and all the others, too.” She met Henrietta’s eyes and smiled with anticipatory relish. “It’ll be a rush, but we’ll manage it.”

Turning to James, Louise added, “As for deciding the wedding day, as I understand it, as long as your marriage occurs before the first day of June, all will be well—is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll have to consult more widely before we can decide on a date”—Louise caught his eye—“but the family will want to informally celebrate your betrothal, so we’ll see you for dinner tomorrow evening, my dear.”

James inclined his head. “I’m hoping to meet with Simon today—I’m going to enjoy seeing his face when I inform him I’ll shortly be his brother-in-law.”

Louise laughed and patted James’s cheek. “He’ll be as delighted as we are.”

They left the parlor. Arthur returned to his study. James took his leave, bowing over Henrietta’s hand, then, his eyes meeting hers, he raised her fingers briefly to his lips before releasing her, finally dragging his gaze from hers, and walking out of the door a beaming Hudson held wide.

As Hudson shut the door, Henrietta sighed, amazingly happy and content, then she turned to see her mother dispatching her dresser, whom she’d summoned to fetch her cloak, bonnet, gloves, and reticule.

Turning to survey Henrietta, her mother said, “You’ll do as you are—the others would never forgive me if I didn’t give them this news as soon as humanly possible.” She turned to survey Mary.

Who was waltzing, twirling, a delighted smile curving her lips, a dreamy expression on her face.

Louise’s eyes narrowed. “I can understand that you might feel happy for Henrietta, but why, my darling Mary, are you so very overjoyed?”

Mary’s smile didn’t waver, but she halted. “Because I’m thrilled that Henrietta will now be able to pass on the necklace to me, and I’ll be able to get my search for my own hero properly underway.”

“Ah.” Louise nodded. “Well, in the meantime, I believe you should accompany us to St. Ives House—your aunt Helena will want to be informed straightaway, as will Honoria—so go and fetch your bonnet and cloak.”

“Yes, Mama.” Her exuberance undimmed, Mary rushed up the stairs.

Henrietta watched her go, and wondered. Mary rarely if ever lied, not outright, but she was a past master at deflection, and even though, as Henrietta understood it, Mary already had her hero in her sights, who knew what her little sister meant by “properly”?

Henrietta turned to her mother to hear Louise confirm for Hudson that “Miss Henrietta is, indeed, engaged to Mr. Glossup.” Her mother went on to sketch their current thoughts on the engagement ball and the wedding.

Hearing the words—words she’d heard so many times before about others, about her older twin sisters, her numerous female cousins—and knowing that this time those words referred to her, Henrietta again felt a species of amazement well.

The Matchbreaker had met her match, and was getting married.

It suddenly occurred to her that it was a very good thing that their wedding would take place as soon as could be. She seriously doubted her patience would bear with the quips and comments that would inevitably rain down upon her; luckily she would only have to grin and bear it for at most three weeks.

Not for the first time, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks for James’s Grandaunt Emily and her farsighted will.

On leaving the Cynster house, James drove his curricle the short distance to the mews behind the house in George Street he’d inherited from his grandaunt. Handing horses and curricle into the care of his grandaunt’s stableman—now his—he crossed to the house and found replies from both Simon and Charlie Hastings already waiting.

Reading the short notes, James snorted. He wasn’t surprised by the alacrity expressed; his request for them to meet with him at Boodles to discuss a major development had been intriguing enough, and the fact that his messages had been delivered by Lord Arthur’s footmen would have made the lure irresistible. Folding both missives, he quickly climbed the stairs; he needed to wash away the dust and change before showing his face in Boodles.

Earlier that morning, while he’d been dressing prior to leaving Henrietta’s room, she’d asked him not to tell her father about her “accidents.” While he’d wanted to oblige—she’d asked, and his first impulse was, apparently, to grant her whatever was in his power to grant—the application of a little thought had forced him to admit that he didn’t feel able not to inform her father of all that had happened, and, more, of what he now feared.

What she now feared, too, yet she’d argued her point, opening his eyes to the likely outcome seen from her perspective, one he’d never before considered. They’d ended discussing the pros and cons at some length. Eventually, he’d agreed to consider carefully how he presented the subject to her father, while she’d reluctantly conceded that he couldn’t conceal the matter entirely.

The drive from Ellsmere Grange to London had afforded him plenty of time for cogitation. Once ensconced with her father in his study, he’d told Lord Arthur all—he couldn’t ask the man to trust him with his daughter and her future while keeping the very real threat to both back—but he’d also explained Henrietta’s understandable reaction to the prospect of being so hemmed in by protectiveness that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy said future. She’d made a strong case that as the victim of the attacks, it was unfair to force her to bear the consequences, especially as they could not know when, or even if, another attack would come.

Lord Arthur had been understandably concerned, and James had made no bones about his own agitation over Henrietta’s safety. Perhaps because Lord Arthur had seen that James’s concern was, if anything, even more acute than his, his lordship had suggested that, for the moment, they might proceed with a simple protective strategy, one Henrietta might not even notice.

As soon as he’d repaired the damage that travel had wrought on his person and changed into attire better suited to St. James, James quit the house, hailed a hackney, and rattled off to Boodles.

Simon and Charlie were already there, waiting at a table tucked away in an alcove at the rear of the club’s dining room. They rose as James arrived; the three shook hands, Simon’s and Charlie’s gazes examining every tiny facet of James’s expression for some clue as to his news.

He’d expected that, and wore an expression of utter inscrutability, even though his lips were impossible to force straight.

Waving them back to their chairs, he sat, too, met Charlie’s gaze across the table, then looked at Simon. “I’ve just come from your parents’ house. I’ve offered for Henrietta’s hand and been accepted.”

Simon’s slow grin broke across his face. “Henrietta’s accepted you?”

That, James had to admit, was a pertinent clarification. He nodded. “We spent the last few days at Ellsmere Grange, and . . .” He shrugged. “We decided we would suit.”

“Wait, wait.” Charlie, although beaming, also managed to look confused. “I thought she was helping you find your necessary bride? That you’d persuaded The Matchbreaker to turn matchmaker?”

“That was how it started,” James allowed, “but the more time she spent in my scintillating company, the more she came to understand that she wanted to marry me herself.”

Both Charlie and Simon made rude, scoffing sounds.

Simon noticed the head waiter passing, hailed the man, and ordered a bottle of the club’s best burgundy, a wine the three of them preferred. Turning back, he said to James and Charlie, “To celebrate.” Looking again at James, Simon, still grinning delightedly, shook his head. “God knows how you did it, but you do realize, don’t you, that you’re going to be the toast of the ton’s gentlemen? Ah.” Simon turned as the head waiter proffered a bottle for inspection, then, at Simon’s nod, poured three glasses.

After passing the filled glasses around, the waiter set down the bottle and withdrew.

Simon raised his glass. “To James—the man brave enough, with fortitude enough, to beguile The Matchbreaker into matrimony.”

“To James,” Charlie echoed, raising his glass, too. “The Matchbreaker’s fate.”

“The Matchbreaker’s mate,” Simon offered, setting his glass to Charlie’s.

James shook his head, raised his glass to both of theirs, and corrected, “The Matchbreaker’s match.”

“Yes—that’s it!” Charlie clinked his glass against the other two. “The Matchbreaker’s match—that’s you.”

Of course, their ribbing didn’t stop there, but as it was all good-natured, and his friends made no secret of how pleased and happy they were over his news, James put up with their more ribald jokes until, finally, they reached the point of asking about the engagement ball and the wedding.

Their meal had arrived by then. While they ate, James told them what he knew, and Simon confirmed that when it came to weddings in the Cynster family, the men were expected to do as they were told and otherwise leave all to the females of the clan.

“It’s not worth trying to get a word in,” Simon warned.

James shrugged. “As long as we front the altar before the first of June, I’m happy to leave it all in their hands.”

Eventually, they pushed their plates aside, refilled their glasses, then relaxed in their chairs, sipping contentedly. Turning his glass in his fingers, James studied the red glints gleaming in the wine and more quietly said, “So I’ve told you all my good news, but, I fear, there’s a more disturbing tale to tell.”

“Oh?” Simon studied his face. “What?”

James told them of Henrietta’s “accidents,” and why he no longer believed they were accidental at all.

Simon and Charlie listened without comment; by the time James reached the end of his report, both were entirely sober.

“Good God,” Charlie said, his wine forgotten, “a massive capstone? You would both have been killed!”

James grimly nodded. “If we’d still been under it when it reached the ground, without question.”

A long moment of silence ensued while Simon and Charlie digested the facts, then Simon said, “So . . . some unknown gentleman, a member of the haut ton, is trying to kill Henrietta and make her death look like an accident. We have no idea who he might be, or why he wants her dead.”

James lowered his glass. “Correct.”

“Clearly we have to expose this beggar and hand him to the authorities.” Charlie looked from James to Simon and back again. “So what’s our next move?”

“Our first priority,” James said, “is to keep Henrietta safe.” He looked at Simon. “I told your father all, of course, and he and I felt that if we can ensure that Henrietta is guarded whenever she isn’t surrounded by the females of your family, then this blighter, whoever he is, will find it difficult to approach her. He seems set on making her death appear an accident, so as long as there are others with her, she should be as safe as we can reasonably make her.”

Simon grunted. “Reasonably being the critical word—Henrietta will hate being ‘guarded.’ ”

“True, but as long as we’re not overly obvious about it, she’s unlikely to get her back up. Luckily, what with our about-to-become-public engagement, with our wedding to follow quickly thereafter, no one—including Henrietta—will think it odd if I’m constantly by her side when she’s in public, and on the few occasions I might not be there, for one of you two to be there instead.”

Both Simon and Charlie nodded.

“The timing of your impending nuptials is helpful,” Simon agreed. “We should be able to pull that off without abrading Henrietta’s feminine sensibilities.”

James nodded. “And your father is going to speak with your mother, so she will ensure that female members of your family are always around while Henrietta is with them, attending their various daytime entertainments. Enough people will know to ensure that she’s never left alone.”

Simon nodded. “All right—we’ve got Henrietta covered, as protected as we can make her in the circumstances.”

James grimaced. “Short of sealing her up in a tower, I can’t see what more we can do. And as she’s been quick to point out, whoever this madman is, we can’t be certain that he’ll try again.”

Charlie’s gaze sharpened. “But we need to find out who he is, just in case he does.”

“True,” Simon said. He met Charlie’s gaze, then James’s. “Any thoughts as to how we might do that?”

They revisited the three incidents again, trying to draw what they could from the facts, but that was precious little. Wine gone, they rose from the table and made their way out into St. James Street.

On the pavement, Simon halted and slid his hands into his pockets. “The incident in Upper Brook Street holds little hope, but I wonder if I can persuade Lady Marchmain to part with her guest list?” He met James’s eyes. “If you’re right about the incident at Marchmain House, then the villain was there, and almost certainly one of her ladyship’s guests.”

James slowly nodded. “It’s a place to start. There must have been a hundred or more there, but only half of those will be men, and from the incident at the ruins, we know we’re looking for a man.”

“More,” Charlie put in, “there’ll be a lot of gentlemen on Lady Marchmain’s list we can immediately exclude. You, Lord Marchmain and his cronies, and probably a host of others.”

“You’re right.” Simon nodded. “We’re looking for a reasonably strong, able-bodied, fit and healthy blackguard—”

“Who’s masquerading as a gentleman of the ton.” James met his eyes. “Exactly.”

After agreeing to share anything they thought of or learned that might help identify Henrietta’s would-be murderer, they parted, Simon sauntering off to see if he could locate Lady Marchmain and inveigle her guest list from her, while Charlie strode off to keep an appointment with his barber.

James headed back to George Street, strolling and wracking his brains, trying to think of what more he could do.

That afternoon, Henrietta was the toast of an impromptu gathering of all the Cynster ladies and the family’s close female connections presently in London. Eschewing the more formal setting of the St. Ives House drawing room, the ladies, one and all, crowded into the more comfortable back parlor, into which footmen had ferried additional chairs, love seats, and sofas.

Every seat was taken, because everyone was there—from Louisa, the young daughter of the house, still in pigtails, to Louisa’s grandmother, Helena, and her even older bosom-bow, Therese Osbaldestone. The younger ladies, Henrietta included, stood chatting in groups wherever there was space between the chairs and occasional tables and behind the sofas. Their elders frequently engaged those standing, especially Henrietta, who was passed from group to group, each clutch of ladies wanting to hear her story—how she came to have decided on and enticed James Glossup to the point of him offering for her hand—directly from her lips.

Although Henrietta normally found such gatherings wearying, to her very real surprise she discovered she enjoyed being caught up in the hubbub of excitement engendered by the news of her unexpected engagement, and the even greater excitement provoked by the demands of organizing her engagement ball and then her wedding, all at such short notice.

Not that she harbored the slightest anxiety on that score; she’d seen these same ladies in action many times before. She had every confidence her engagement ball and her wedding would pass off without a hitch; her mother, her aunts, Helena, Horatia, and Celia, let alone her cousins’ wives, would simply not allow anything else.

Of her cousins’ wives, Honoria, Patience, and Alathea were presently in London, but letters had already been dispatched to all the others, and their ranks would swell as soon as those others could get their horses hitched to their carriages. Henrietta’s sister-in-law, Simon’s wife, Portia, was presently standing by Henrietta’s side, beaming with delight.

Beaming almost as much as Mary, but, viewing her sister as she stood chatting with Louisa, Henrietta honestly didn’t think anyone could possibly be more ecstatic than Mary.

Studying her sister, and wondering yet again which gentleman Mary had in her sights, Henrietta became aware of the necklace about her throat, felt the pendant touching the sensitive skin above her décolletage.

She hadn’t believed in the necklace, but she had worn it, and . . . here she was, betrothed to James and planning her engagement ball and her wedding.

After a moment’s hesitation, she excused herself from Portia and Caro Anstruther-Wetherby, with whom she’d been chatting about the latest style in veils, and made her way across the room to Mary.

Louisa had just been summoned by her mother, which, Henrietta reflected, was just as well; after Mary, the necklace was due to return north to Scotland, and she had no idea whether it would come south again—that was in The Lady’s hands.

Mary turned to Henrietta, and her smile grew brighter. “How are you holding up?”

Henrietta arched her brows. “Surprisingly well.”

“I daresay it’s different when it’s your engagement, your wedding, and you at center stage.” Mary’s tone suggested that while she didn’t begrudge Henrietta the position, she was nevertheless looking forward to the day when it would be her turn to stand in the glow.

“I thought,” Henrietta said as she drew the necklace free of the modest neckline of her day gown, “that as we have reached this stage—me betrothed, with Mama and the others arguing about how many musicians should play at my wedding breakfast—then perhaps it’s time for me to give you this.” She let the pendant dangle from her fingers, swinging before Mary’s gaze, which had fixed on the rose-quartz crystal.

Covetousness shone clearly in Mary’s cornflower blue eyes, but her lips slowly firmed, then pressed into a line, and, slowly, she shook her head; Henrietta got the distinct impression that it took effort for Mary to force herself to do the latter.

Then Mary dragged in a breath and tipped up her head. “No. I want it—obviously—but it has to be right. It has to be passed on to me exactly as it’s supposed to be—as Angelica passed it on to you—at your engagement ball. If I don’t get it in exactly the right way, it might not work as it’s supposed to, and what use will it be to me then?”

An unanswerable question. Henrietta sighed and tucked the necklace back inside her bodice. “In that case, seven evenings from tonight.” She hesitated, then asked, “Why are you so impatient to have it? Why now?”

Mary’s gaze had drifted past Henrietta; looking over the room, she replied, “I told you and Mama this morning. I want to start searching properly for my own hero.”

Henrietta narrowed her eyes on Mary’s face. “But you’ve already started searching, haven’t you? Just without the necklace. So you’re impatient to get the necklace now because—”

“I might have started searching, but I’m not going to say anything more at this point—so don’t ask.” Mary shot her a warning glance.

Henrietta held up her hand. “Very well—seven nights from tonight, the necklace will be yours, and then . . .”

Mary nodded in her usual determined fashion. “And then we’ll see.”

Henrietta saw Honoria waving, trying to get her attention. Quitting Mary’s side, she picked her way across the room to where Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives and wife of the head of the family, Devil Cynster, sat flanked by Patience, Vane Cynster’s wife, and Alathea, the wife of Gabriel Cynster. Now in their forties, all three were stylish matrons accustomed to wielding significant social and familial power, yet to Henrietta they were nearly as close as her older sisters, the twins, Amanda and Amelia, both of whom had yet to reach town. Since their marriages over ten years before, the twins had spent much of their time on their husbands’ estates, administering to said husbands and their bountiful broods. Henrietta frequently visited both households, but Honoria, Patience, and Alathea were usually in London, and usually attended the same entertainments Henrietta did, so they had in large part become her “London sisters”; certainly, that they viewed her in the light of a younger sister was not in any doubt.

Consequently, she wasn’t the least surprised when Alathea caught her hand, tugged her down to sit on a footstool they’d commandeered and had placed before them, then, when Henrietta had settled, stated, “It’s time to tell us the best part—how he proposed.”

When she hesitated, Patience chuckled. “You don’t need to tell us the setting—just give us the words.”

Fighting to straighten her lips, Henrietta said, “Just let me think, so I remember it properly . . . oh, that’s right. He asked if he shouldn’t wait and ask for Papa’s approval first.”

Honoria nodded. “Very proper.”

Henrietta grinned. “But when I told him that wasn’t considered necessary in our family, he said, ‘In that case, will you marry me, Henrietta Cynster, and make me the happiest of mortal men?’ ”

Patience and Alathea sighed.

Honoria smiled approvingly. “That’s very nicely put—James does, indeed, sound as if he’ll do. Given he’s such a close friend of Simon’s, I did wonder.” The last was said with a teasing look.

“It’s so very comforting when they profess their undying love.” Alathea heaved another sigh, then blinked, misty-eyed. “I still remember the rose in a crystal casket that Rupert sent me, with a note saying I held his heart—I still remember how I felt when I opened the casket and read that note.”

“I know just how you feel,” Patience said, in a similar, fondly reminiscent tone. “Although I rather suspect I had to work harder than you to hear the words.”

Honoria snorted. “I never got the words—not as such.”

Patience, Alathea, and Henrietta stared at her.

“Devil never told you he loves you, never vowed undying, unending love?” Patience sounded incredulous.

“Not in words,” Honoria stated. Her lips weren’t entirely straight. “Mind you, years later”—she tipped her head toward Henrietta—“around the time Amelia married, he did ask me, much in the manner of checking that someone hadn’t missed something obvious, whether I did, in fact, know that he loved me.”

“Ah, but wait!” Alathea raised a finger. “I recall hearing something about Devil delivering himself up in front of some madman and allowing said madman to shoot him in order to save you.” Alathea met Honoria’s eyes. “I daresay, after that, you didn’t really need further words.”

“Indeed.” Regally, Honoria dipped her head, but her own gaze, normally so incisive, had softened. “After that little exercise, words were quite redundant. If, combined with all the rest, a man is willing to risk his life for you, there’s not much more that needs to be said.” Focusing on Henrietta, Honoria said, “From what I’ve heard, James has already risked his life for you in leaping to your rescue at Marchmain House.”

And later, and then again; Henrietta smiled back. “And combined with all the rest, yes, it’s true—I really don’t need the words, either. I know he loves me.”

Before they could question her further, or she them, Helena called the four of them to join the conference that was taking place on the other side of the room, principally concerned with fixing the date for the pending wedding.

Henrietta allowed herself to be drawn into the discussion, although her opinion was not as informed as those of the others, all of whom were up with the latest news regarding ton events. She largely left them to it, while Patience’s and Alathea’s words, and even more Honoria’s, circled in her head.

Honoria was right; Henrietta knew beyond doubt that James loved her. He might not have used that precise word, but the reality was there, undeniable and unquenchable. That reality showed in his eyes, in his tone, in the way he’d made love—yes, love—to her. It was very clear in her mind that making love was what they’d done the previous night, just as it had been transparently clear at the time, even to her untutored senses, what emotion had driven them both.

She’d heard that a brush with death could strip aside the veils and reveal love as the powerful emotion it was, compelling and demanding. That was what had happened with them; it was love that had pushed them into intimacy last night, and then further, into their betrothal.

So yes, she knew James loved her, and therefore she did not need further words, yet . . .

By the time the gathering broke up and she was walking the short distance to Upper Brook Street, flanked by her mother and Mary, Henrietta had accepted that while she didn’t need to hear the words, she would nevertheless like to be on the receiving end of an avowal of undying love from James, one impossible to mistake or misconstrue.

Because even though she hadn’t uttered the words either, she was, definitely, absolutely, and irredeemably, in love with him.