And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  Freed of her rider, reins flapping, the black mare flew on across the intersection and along the northern side of Grosvenor Square.

  Belatedly, Henrietta’s groom came racing up; he’d been dawdling far in the rear. “I’ll get the mare!” he yelled and urged his own mount on.

  James heard him through a buzzing in his ears. His arms were locked, convulsively tight. His lungs felt starved, and his pulse still pounded. Fear was a dull roar in his mind, even though the firm warmth of Henrietta in his arms, against his chest, assured him that she was safe. Still his.

  Gulping in air, Henrietta clung to the solid pillar of male strength that was James, but as his horse halted, she drew her head from James’s chest and looked toward the Square, where both the mare and her groom had vanished.

  One of her hands had come to rest, fingers spread, on James’s chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart thumping heavily, running a race in rhythm with hers. There were other people around, shocked merchants and delivery boys who had witnessed the drama, but her senses had drawn in; nothing around them felt real.

  She looked up—just as James looked down.

  They stared, desperately searching each other’s eyes as if to reassure themselves she was indeed there, safe in his arms.

  Then he swore beneath his breath, bent his head, and kissed her.

  Hard. Voraciously.

  Forget Miss Fotherby.

  Henrietta closed a hand about his nape and kissed him back.

  Henrietta was still shaking when James helped her into her parents’ front hall.

  The butler who had opened the door to them looked shocked.

  “Miss Cynster’s horse bolted and she was nearly thrown.” As the butler hurried to close the door, James studied Henrietta’s face. “Her groom’s gone after the animal. Please summon Lady Cynster and Miss Henrietta’s maid.”

  The butler snapped to attention. “At once, sir . . . ah, Mr. . . .”

  Henrietta pulled herself together; falling apart in a crisis never helped. Dragging in a breath, she bludgeoned her brain into cooperating. “This is Mr. Glossup, Hudson. He’s a friend of Simon’s, which is why he probably seems familiar.”

  “Ah, yes.” Hudson drew himself up and bowed regally to James.

  “Mama will still be upstairs. If you would send word to her that there was an . . . ah, incident, and tell her I’m resting in the back parlor. No need to summon Hannah—I’m not about to faint.” She made the statement with gritty determination, yet even as the words left her lips she felt a wave of weakness wash over her again.

  James, one hand clamped about her elbow, had been watching her face. Now he muttered something harsh, bent, and swept her up into his arms.

  Instinctively clutching his lapel, she blinked in surprise but felt too weak to protest. From Hudson’s shocked face, she realized that spoke volumes.

  “Where’s the back parlor?” James demanded.

  She waved limply down the corridor. “That way.”

  He carried her, trailing riding skirt and all—a feat she found quite impressive—down the corridor. Hudson came fussing behind; he opened the door and held it while James angled her into the room, then with swift strides carried her to the chaise before the windows and lowered her gently onto the comfortable cushions.

  “Tea.” The request was the sum of her contribution to her own recovery, but tea always helped and was the prescribed remedy for overset nerves. And her nerves, she decided, were definitely overset—far more than they had been when she’d been tipped into the river.

  This time death—horribly violent death—had felt much closer.

  “At once, miss.” Hudson looked at James, who’d crouched by the chaise and—Henrietta belatedly realized—was chafing her hands. “I’ll summon her ladyship.”

  Without looking at Hudson, without taking his gaze from her face, James nodded curtly.

  Hudson left.

  Henrietta tried a smile, but even she could tell it came out rather wan and weak. Drawing one of her hands from James’s clasp, she lightly touched his hair, gently brushing the rumpled locks into better order. “Thank you.” She met his eyes. “That was . . . frightening.”

  Running footsteps sounded in the hall.

  Letting her hand fall, Henrietta looked toward the door.

  James rose; squeezing her hand briefly, he reluctantly released it and stepped to the chaise’s head.

  The door burst open and Mary tumbled in, a maid, presumably Hannah, on her heels.

  Mary’s wide, cornflower blue eyes took in the scene in one sweeping glance, then she focused on Henrietta. “Are you all right?”

  Henrietta’s smile wobbled even as she said, “Yes, it was just”—she waved in weak dismissal—“a trifle oversetting.”

  From the looks on Mary’s and Hannah’s faces, James deduced that Henrietta saying she was a trifle overset was the equivalent of her admitting to being halfway to death’s door; the pair swooped, enveloping Henrietta in effusive, if not smothering, feminine concern. Mary patted her hand and asked questions. Hannah shook out a knitted shawl and spread it over Henrietta’s legs, then the tea tray arrived and, barely pausing for breath, Mary poured.

  James stood beside the chaise, fielding Mary’s questions, relieving Henrietta of that, at least. He watched all the fussing, listened to the chorus of exclamations, and saw Henrietta gradually relax.

  Then the door opened and Henrietta’s mother swept in. After a swift survey of her daughters, Louise’s gaze rose to his face. James inclined his head. Louise smiled briefly in acknowledgment. “Mr. Glossup. I understand we must thank you again for rescuing Henrietta.” Her expression turned wryly understanding. “You seem to be making a habit of it.”

  James glanced at Henrietta, caught her eye. “I’m just glad I was near enough to help.” A chill touched his soul as he realized that, once again, being close enough to rescue her had been pure luck.

  “So tell me—what happened?” Louise sat in an armchair, waved James to another, accepted a cup of tea from Mary, then fixed her gaze on Henrietta. “It’s not like you to lose control of your mount.”

  Henrietta frowned. “I don’t know what happened. Marie suddenly reared—I didn’t see or hear anything that might have caused it.” She glanced at James. “Did you?”

  He shook his head. “And my mount didn’t react.”

  Henrietta nodded. “True. But Marie screamed as if she was in pain and reared, and then she just shot off.” Setting her cup on her saucer, Henrietta visibly quelled a shiver. “That would have been frightening enough in the country, but there I would have been confident I would have been able to ride it out. But in the streets here . . .”

  James looked into his cup and decided no one needed to hear just how close to a fatal fall she’d come. With the barrows, drays, and carts cluttering the street, if a carriage had come the other way . . . raising his cup, he sipped, and glanced again at Henrietta, reassuring himself that she was indeed there, was indeed hale and whole, albeit a trifle overset.

  Color was gradually returning to her cheeks, and her gaze was alert as she listened to her mother and sister debate her state.

  James tuned in to their comments as Louise and Mary exchanged projections as to Henrietta’s recovery, much to Henrietta’s fond annoyance, but Louise was adamant in decreeing that Henrietta rest for the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon. In wholehearted agreement, James held his peace. If he could have, he would have wrapped her in the proverbial wool and sequestered her away somewhere out of everyone’s reach, at least until he learned enough to soothe the protectiveness currently prowling, anxious and concerned, just beneath his skin. But, it seemed, he could rely on Louise and Mary to act in his stead.

  Hannah, who had lingered, suggested a warm bath, as Henrietta wasn’t going out again that morning. Henrietta agreed, and James approved; she was, apparently, taking the need to rest and recuperate seriously.

  “And we can pack for the house party th
is morning, as well,” Henrietta called to Hannah as the maid headed for the door.

  “Yes, miss.” Hannah bobbed and opened the door. “I’ll get a footman to fetch your bag and bandbox from the box room.”

  James stared at the closing door, then looked back—first at Louise and Mary, sipping their tea apparently unconcerned—then at Henrietta. “You’re not still going to Ellsmere Grange?”

  Eyes widening, Henrietta looked at him. “Yes, of course I am.” She looked faintly puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Because you’ve just had a too-close brush with death? James bit back the words; trapping her gaze, he said instead, “Under the circumstances, I imagine you might be better served by resting, at least until you’re sure you’ve fully recovered from the shock.”

  The look she bent on him was faintly exasperated, as if she’d expected better from him. “I’m not such a weak thing—I’ll be perfectly well by this afternoon, and I won’t have to set out until then. Ellsmere Grange is only in Essex, after all.”

  “Yes, but . . .” He frowned. They’d originally agreed to attend the house party at Ellsmere Grange in order to pad out and ultimately to finalize the short list for his necessary bride; even though that was no longer their aim, he’d assumed they would use their time there—in a setting removed from the hubbub of the ton—to further explore their alternative path. However, he was now very aware that his concern for Henrietta’s well-being trumped any consideration of his quest, however urgent. Setting down his cup and saucer, he met her eyes. “There’s no pressing need to attend, is there? And a quiet few days would allow your nerves more time to settle.”

  Henrietta’s expression turned stubborn. “My nerves are already well on the way to being settled again. The incident might have been a shock, but it was only an accident, after all. A poor thing I would be to allow that to affect me for more than an hour or two. Besides”—she glanced at Louise—“Lady Ellsmere is expecting us. It’s far too late to cry off now.”

  James looked at Louise, expecting—at least hoping—that she would support him.

  Both Louise and Mary, he realized, had been quietly sipping, and watching the exchange between him and Henrietta. Now Louise set her cup on her saucer and stated, “I have to agree with Henrietta.” Louise met his eyes, her gaze that of the softhearted and kindly grande dame that she was. “I would be very surprised were any daughter of mine to need days to recover from an incident such as this, and Henrietta is correct in saying that for both of you to cry off at this late hour, with no broken bones or similar disaster to excuse you, would be seen as a snub to the Ellsmeres. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, and I certainly couldn’t countenance it, certainly not for Henrietta, so she, at least, will be attending as expected.”

  Despite the kindliness, a spine of steel lurked beneath Louise’s soft-seeming exterior. She held James’s gaze for an instant, then arched her brows. “So, given Henrietta will be going, am I to take it you will attend as planned, too?”

  He didn’t look, but he could feel the weight of Henrietta’s gaze, and Mary’s, as well. He kept his gaze on Louise’s blue eyes—very like Henrietta’s—then, lips tightening, capitulated. “Yes. Of course.” He glanced at Henrietta and was met by a brilliant smile. At least he’d made her happy.

  Apparently his surrender had made Mary happy, too; her smile was simply dazzling.

  Which left him feeling confused. Deeming retreat the course of wisdom, he rose. He bowed politely to Louise, then looked at Henrietta. After that kiss in the street, he would have liked to speak privately with her—just a word, a touch, perhaps another kiss—but at the same time, he didn’t want her to bestir herself unnecessarily. He inclined his head. “I’ll see you at Ellsmere Grange this afternoon.”

  She held out her hand, her face uptilted, her expression grateful and relaxed. “Indeed—and thank you again. I’m steadfastly not thinking about what would have happened had you not joined me this morning.”

  He wished he could do the same, but that thought was firmly embedded in his brain. However . . . he bowed over her hand, then, releasing it, nodded to Mary and strode from the room.

  Henrietta watched him go. She really had no business feeling so very thrilled over the outcome of a potentially fatal accident, but what had been revealed by his responses and hers—that scorching kiss they’d shared in the middle of Upper Brook Street, which thankfully no one of any note socially had seen—had been their truth. In that moment, what was evolving between them had flared like a flame, indisputably true; to know that, to have been afforded that insight, was worth almost any price.

  And she hadn’t, after all, been harmed in the least.

  Transferring her gaze to her mother’s curious face, she smiled reassuringly. “I truly am fine.”

  Louise’s lips curved with that deeper understanding only a mother possessed. “Indeed, so it seems. Now go up and have your bath, and you would be wise to take a nap. Mary and I will be out for luncheon, but we’ll be back to see you off this afternoon.”

  After quitting the back parlor, James paused in the front hall, then glanced at the butler, Hudson. “Have you heard whether the groom caught Miss Cynster’s mare?”

  “Yes, sir. Gibbs caught up with the beast on the other side of Grosvenor Square, when some carriages blocked it in.”

  “So the animal’s back in the stables?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “And where might your master’s stables be?”

  Directed to the mews, James found the stables easily enough. The stableman, an older, experienced man, was walking the black mare, now perfectly placid again, on the cobbles before the stable doors, studying the horse’s finely shaped black legs, no doubt checking for any wounds.

  Hands in his pockets, James walked up and halted beside the man. “Good morning. Hudson told me where to find you. I was riding with Miss Cynster this morning—I’m a friend of Mr. Simon Cynster.”

  “Oh, aye.” The stableman regarded him. “You’re the one who saved our lassie.” He nodded respectfully. “You have our thanks and more besides, sir. Miss Henrietta’s a game rider, but from what Gibbs—her groom—said, she’d never have been able to rein in Marie here.”

  “Indeed. Miss Cynster told me the horse came from her cousin Demon’s stable. And that, I admit, makes me curious.” James tipped his head toward the horse. “Marie here was perfectly placid earlier, all the way until she screamed and reared, and I can’t imagine Demon Cynster allowing any of his female cousins to possess a horse with an uncertain temper, or any other susceptibility that might result in what I saw this morning.”

  “No, indeed.” The stableman’s face darkened. “You’re right there, but it’s no wonder that Marie screamed as she did.” Moving to the horse’s rump, the stableman lifted a corner of the blanket currently draped over Marie’s back. “Just look at what some bastard did to her.”

  James looked at where the man pointed. A small wound was still seeping blood. It took him an instant to realize what it meant. “A dart?”

  Straightening, he looked incredulously at the stableman, who nodded grimly. “Aye—that’s my guess. Some idiot boy out for a lark, I suppose—throw the dart and watch the fine lady flying off her horse.” The stableman snorted. “If me or my boys could lay hands on the blighter, he wouldn’t be smiling.”

  “No, indeed.” But they’d have to get in line. James quashed the sudden impulse to violence, and nodded at the stableman. “Thank you for showing me—I thought it must have been something like that.”

  They parted with goodwill and good wishes all around.

  James walked slowly back up the mews, lips twisting as he wondered . . . but there was no reason to suppose that the dart had been aimed specifically at Henrietta’s horse, and not, as the stableman assumed, simply at the horse of some fine lady.

  Chapter Seven

  James left London early in the afternoon. Driving his curricle, he reached Ellsmere Grange in good time. After greeting his
hosts, Lord and Lady Ellsmere, friends of his parents, and being shown to his room, he descended to the drawing room to lounge and chat with the other guests who had already assembled.

  Miss Violet Ellsmere, the daughter of the house, had recently become engaged to Viscount Channing. James and Channing had known each other for years; James duly ribbed Channing over his soon-to-be lost freedom, which, James noted, Channing bore with the smugness of a well-satisfied cat.

  Which only made James all the more restless as he prowled the gathering while constantly keeping one eye on the forecourt.

  Finally, a black carriage rolled up the drive—the right black carriage; James recognized the Cynsters’ coachman. By the time the coach rocked to a halt on the fine gravel of the forecourt, James was stepping off the porch, waving the footman back as he reached for the carriage door.

  He swung it open. Henrietta blinked at him, then smiled. Happily. She was clearly suffering no ill effects from their morning’s excitement.

  Extending her hand, she let him help her down. “Thank you.” When he offered his arm, with a laughing smile, she twined her arm in his. “Are you intending to monopolize me?”

  He smiled back. “Why else do you imagine I came?”

  Her soft laughter made him smile even more as he led her into the house.

  She went through the usual process of greetings, then Violet escorted her upstairs to the room she’d been assigned, but soon enough they both returned, rejoining James and Channing in the drawing room.

  The four of them sat and chatted while the rest of the company ebbed and flowed around them. Afternoon tea came, was consumed to the last tasty crumb, then they settled to an exchange of the latest ton stories.

  Guests continued to arrive; by the time the dressing gong resonated through the house, James had counted twenty guests, not including their hosts, Violet, and Channing. All those lounging in the drawing room rose and, in couples and groups, headed up the stairs.