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.
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 m
an 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.”
And Then She Fell Page 27
