And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  Chapter Ten

  The following morning, Henrietta, accompanied by Louise and Mary, attended a well-publicized at-home at Celia Cynster’s house in Dover Street.

  The notice of James and Henrietta’s betrothal had duly appeared in the Gazette that morning. The Cynster ladies had chosen Celia’s long-scheduled event as Henrietta’s first foray into the wider ton as a formally affianced young lady. Several of those Cynster ladies—Honoria, Patience, and Alathea among them—were there in support, but the older ladies had deemed their presence unnecessary, and potentially too overwhelming; no one wished to deny Henrietta her moment.

  As the steady stream of guests ascending Celia’s front steps attested, the announcement in the Gazette had been noted at many a ton breakfast table that morning. Matrons and their daughters flocked to Dover Street, correctly divining that there they would learn everything—all the relevant details—behind the unexpected engagement, and would thus be best placed to spread the news through the upcoming luncheons, promenades, and afternoon teas.

  On gaining Celia’s drawing room, all the ladies made a beeline for Henrietta; standing with her back to the fireplace, facing the long room, she almost felt besieged. But as soon as they’d passed on their felicitations, the matrons fell back, circling to join Louise or one of the other Cynster ladies, hoping to extract further pertinent details from them. Meanwhile, the younger ladies, those not yet betrothed and those recently engaged or married, remained in a knot about Henrietta, excitedly aski
ng about her engagement ball and speculating over when she and James would wed. The latter was something Henrietta and her mentors had decided to keep private for the moment, not that that deterred those speculating in the least.

  The company was in constant flux; groups arrived, remained for twenty minutes, then departed, well primed with facts to share.

  Once again to her surprise, Henrietta found herself swept up in the giddy whirl. She felt particularly gratified when several young ladies she’d helped through the years to make up their minds to accept or decline various offers arrived to press her hand and enthusiastically congratulate her on having found her own true love.

  Phillipa Hemmings was typical of those who gathered to wish her well. Clasping Henrietta’s hands, Phillipa beamed. “You helped me when I needed it, and many others, too, and steered us away from unhappiness. Now that you yourself stand on the brink of the ultimate happiness, I couldn’t be more happy were it me in your shoes.”

  A chorus of “Hear, hear” echoed around the group.

  “Thank you!” Beaming back, Henrietta squeezed Phillipa’s hands and released them, then scanned the bright faces surrounding her. “I had no idea you would all feel so . . . delighted on my behalf.”

  Constance Witherby, now the younger Lady Hume, laughed. “Henrietta, my dear, you’re twenty-nine—you’ve been helping young ladies like us for nearly a decade and you’ve never, to my knowledge, steered us wrongly. Of course there are many who wish you well. Heaven help you, you’ve earned it!”

  Everyone laughed, and the pleasant exchanges continued.

  Later in the hour, several grandes dames arrived, haughtily sailing in, agog to discover how such a development had escaped their notice. Henrietta was pleased to leave the task of enlightening them to the other Cynster ladies, who swiftly stepped in to divert the armada-like attack.

  Eventually the flood of incoming guests slowed to a trickle; the event was nearly at an end when Mrs. Wentworth and Melinda Wentworth came in. Smiling happily, both made straight for Henrietta. With not a hint of insincerity, Mrs. Wentworth congratulated her, then moved on to speak with Louise and Celia.

  Melinda beamed at Henrietta and very prettily wished her well.

  Henrietta felt distinctly awkward, but she kept her politely delighted façade in place and chatted inconsequentially . . . until Miss Crossley, by then the only other young lady standing with Henrietta and Melinda, was called away by her mama.

  The instant Miss Crossley was out of earshot, Henrietta turned to Melinda. She searched her friend’s face; there was no less-frank way to phrase it, so she bluntly said, “I do hope you don’t feel that I stole James from you—I assure you it didn’t happen like that.”

  Melinda blinked, clearly taken aback, then her smile rebloomed. “Of course I don’t think that, silly.” Reaching for and squeezing Henrietta’s fingers, Melinda searched her face in turn. “It honestly never occurred to me. I know you told me the truth, and you were perfectly correct—James and I wouldn’t have suited. But if making you consider him on my behalf was instrumental in opening your eyes, yours to him and his to you, then I can only say I’m delighted to have been of service—so there.”

  Henrietta let her relief show. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re not upset.”

  “Not a bit of it.” Melinda glanced at her mother, still engaged with Louise and Celia, and lowered her voice. “Indeed, I can’t thank you enough for being so honest with me over James, and forcing me to look to my own motives. If you hadn’t done so, I don’t know where I would be now, but . . .” Melinda’s voice rose on a note of excitement. Shifting closer to Henrietta, tightening her grip on her fingers and leaning near, Melinda whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk about it because discussions are still going on, but I expect to be where you now stand in a week or so’s time.”

  “You’re getting engaged, too?” Henrietta felt her own happiness well. “Truly?”

  Melinda nodded, lips compressing as if she could barely contain her joy. After a moment, she went on, “I always liked Oliver—he’s a distant cousin—but he’s nowhere near as handsome as James, and while I had James on my string, so to speak, I refused to even look at Oliver.” Melinda met Henrietta’s gaze. “But once you forced me to turn from James and look elsewhere, I saw Oliver much more clearly, and then he made a push, and, well . . .” Her joy threatening to break free, Melinda smiled dazzlingly. “Here I am.” She shook Henrietta’s hands. “Here we both are!”

  Henrietta smiled back, unrestrainedly joyous. “Indeed. How wonderful! You must let me know the instant”—Henrietta glanced at Mrs. Wentworth—“that I’m allowed to know.”

  “Oh, I will,” Melinda assured her.

  They stood for a moment, side by side, absorbing the news that they were both soon to be wed.

  Abruptly, Melinda shivered. “Oh—I meant to tell you, but all this happiness, both yours and mine, simply swept it from my head.”

  When Henrietta looked at her in question, Melinda lowered her voice and went on, “That evening you joined us in Hill Street, to tell me what you’d learned about James?”

  “What of it?”

  Eyes rounding, Melinda whispered, “There was murder done next door!”

  Henrietta stared at her friend—and remembered the gentleman she’d bumped into on the pavement outside the Wentworths’ house. A chill swept through her, but then she grabbed hold of her wits and asked, “Who was killed? And when? Do you know when it happened?”

  “It was Lady Winston. She lived next door. She was a widow, and apparently she was killed sometime that evening. No one’s certain exactly when because she was in the habit of sending her staff off for the night every now and then—they all assumed she was entertaining some gentleman friend, very privately.”

  “I see.” Henrietta fought to bring order to the stream of thoughts cascading through her mind.

  “Melinda!”

  They both turned to see Mrs. Wentworth beckoning Melinda to join her, clearly preparing to depart.

  “Coming, Mama.” Melinda wound her arm in Henrietta’s, and together they followed Mrs. Wentworth, Celia, and Louise as the three ladies headed for the door. “Remember,” Melinda whispered, her gaze on her mother’s back, “you must pretend that I haven’t told you anything about my pending engagement, or, for that matter, the murder. Mama was even more insistent that I keep my mouth closed over that. Well . . .” Melinda blew out a breath. “A horrible murder just next door—mere yards away from where I sleep.” She shivered again.

  Henrietta patted Melinda’s hand absentmindedly; in something of a stunned daze, she went through the motions of farewelling the Wentworths, thanking her aunt Celia for hosting the event, and climbing into her mother’s carriage for the journey back to Upper Brook Street.

  With a contented sigh, Louise settled back against the squabs. “That went well, I thought.”

  Mary, seated opposite Louise and already engaged in looking out at those strolling the pavements, made a sound of agreement.

  “Hmm.” Seated alongside her mother, Henrietta stared unseeing at the empty seat opposite while her mind raced, juggling possibilities . . .

  By the time the carriage halted outside her parents’ house, she’d worked out enough to realize she needed to speak with James as soon as she possibly could.

  Much to Henrietta’s disgust, what with the demands of her day and, apparently, his, she and James didn’t manage to meet until she walked into the front hall of St. Ives House that evening and found him waiting.

  Smiling with his customary charm, debonair and, to her at least, riveting in his evening clothes, he lifted her cloak from her shoulders and handed it to Webster, Devil’s butler, then, capturing her hand, raising it to his lips and trapping her gaze, James pressed a kiss she felt to the tips of her toes on the backs of her fingers.

  Then he smiled into her eyes. “My butler told me you’d sent a footman with a message while I was out. What did you want to see me about?”
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  She’d lectured herself that maintaining an appropriate façade throughout the evening, and allowing herself to genuinely enjoy the informal family dinner party Honoria and the others had arranged to celebrate their betrothal, was essential, but every time she thought of what Melinda had told her, maintaining her smile and her air of pleased delight required significant effort . . . and once she told James what she’d learned, she had little doubt that he would find enjoying the evening appropriately while concealing his reactions near impossible. So she smiled back and murmured, “Not now. I’ll tell you later.”

  He studied her eyes, trying to decide if he should push.

  She arched a brow, then, sliding her hand into his arm, she turned to the archway leading to the drawing room. “Come along—it’s our moment to face the family.”

  He humphed, but obliged, and walked by her side into the drawing room, into the waiting storm of congratulations and felicitations, smiles and good-natured laughter.

  The evening went well, a comfortable, relaxed gathering of the immediate Cynster family, all those presently in London coming together to do what they most enjoyed doing—celebrating another alliance, another, as Devil put it in his toast, twining of branches on two old family trees that would, in the fullness of time, lead to new buds and more branches in the future.

  The company drank to their health. Several times.

  James was entirely at ease in this milieu. It helped that, just as he was Simon’s oldest and closest friend, other members of his family, both male and female, were longtime friends with their Cynster peers; the Glossups and the Cynsters numbered among the oldest families in the ton, so the connections were many, and solid and sound.

  He had no difficulty navigating these waters; in many ways, he felt more at home among the socially active Cynsters than in his own family, who had largely retreated from the wider ton.