“He wore gloves?”
“Yes, very nice gloves. Cordoba leather at a guess—Bond Street, definitely.”
“The silver head of his cane—describe that. Was it a flat top, engraved, or . . . ?”
She hesitated. “It was some sort of heraldic design.” She glanced at James, then Barnaby. “You know the sort of thing. An animal, most likely—I know Devil has an old cane of our grandfather Sebastian’s that has a silver stag’s head on the top.” She looked at Stokes. “The stag is the animal on the family crest.”
“I see,” Stokes said. “Did you see what animal it was?”
“No.” She thought, picturing the scene again in her mind, then grimaced. “The light was poor and . . .” She raised her right fist and pressed it to her upper left arm. “He had it clutched in his right hand, so it was at the corner of my vision and the head was tipped away. And when he released me and straightened . . .” She examined the moment carefully in her mind, then sighed. “His hand covered the cane’s head, of course, so I never did get a clear look at it.”
Stokes humphed. “That would have been too easy.” He read through his notes. “Let’s move on to his face. What did you see of it?”
“Very little.” She considered her mental image. “He had the hood of his cloak up—right up and over his head, so that the cowl shaded his face. The nearest streetlamp was to my left, a little way along the pavement and somewhat behind him, so the light fell obliquely across his jaw.” She refocused on Stokes. “Only the part of his face below his lower lip was lit enough for me to see. All the rest was just shadow. I couldn’t see his eyes at all, nor even his cheeks enough to tell you the shape of his face. And I didn’t see his hair—color or style—at all.”
“Was there any identifiable mark on the part of his face you did see? A scar or mole—anything like that?”
She shook her head. “Nothing at all. It was a perfectly ordinary face.” She grimaced. “Nothing I saw would allow me to pick him out from any group of tonnish men of similar height and build—and even his height and build were unremarkable.”
“What about his voice?” Barnaby asked. He met her gaze. “Close your eyes and replay what he said in your head. Listen to the cadence and rhythm of his speech. Was there any discernible accent—any hint at all?”
She did as he asked. The room remained silent for a minute, then she opened her eyes and grimly shook her head. “All he said was, ‘My apologies. I didn’t see you.’ He had no obvious accent, but those are too few words to say he doesn’t have one. All I could say was that his diction was definitely tonnish—I couldn’t see him even as a wealthy merchant. From his appearance I took him to be a gentleman, and his voice fitted perfectly.”
Stokes nodded. He looked through his notes again. “Now tell me about these ‘accidents’ of yours.”
James took the lead in recounting the details of the three incidents.
While Stokes scribbled, Barnaby listened intently; when James came to the end of his recitation, eyes narrowed, gaze unseeing, Barnaby murmured, “So putting everything together, he’s a gentleman of the ton—that’s absolutely certain—and further, is currently moving among the upper echelons, the haut ton.”
“He has to be to have been on Lady Marchmain’s guest list,” Simon said. “I’d intended to see if I could extract that list from her ladyship. We know the villain’s name will be on it, and while we won’t be able to pick him out of the ruck, it’ll at least give us a place to start.”
“Or finish.” Stokes looked at Simon. “If nothing else, that will be corroborative evidence. Think you can persuade her ladyship to let you have it?”
Simon grinned grimly. “I can but try.”
“I’ll leave you to that, then, but if she won’t, I’ll ask officially, but I’d prefer to do it your way—discreetly—without having to explain my reasons for wanting it.”
James exchanged a look with Simon, then said, “It seems we’re all in agreement that it’s the gentleman who killed Lady Winston who is now attempting to kill Henrietta, presumably because he believes she saw enough to be able to identify him, thus putting a noose around his neck.” James studied Stokes, then glanced at Barnaby. “What I don’t understand is why there has been no hue and cry. None of us had heard that Lady Winston had been murdered, and it seems the whole affair has been hushed up.” He refocused on Stokes. “And now you don’t want to explain to Lady Marchmain why you want her guest list.” Again he glanced at Barnaby, then looked back at Stokes. “What’s going on?”
Stokes met James’s gaze, then looked at Henrietta, then glanced—faintly questioningly—at Barnaby.
Barnaby hesitated, then nodded. “We need to tell them all of it.” He met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “We can’t risk leaving you operating in the dark and not understanding what we’re up against with this villain.”
Stokes grimaced, but nodded. He cleared his throat. “Right then. What I’m going to say now . . . I won’t say it can’t go past this room, but be careful who you tell. We can’t afford panic in Mayfair—that’s why you haven’t heard about Lady Winston’s murder.”
Stokes paused as if gathering his facts, ordering his thoughts, then he said, “Lady Winston was murdered sometime that evening. She’d sent her staff off for the night—they were not to return until midnight. She’d been in the habit of doing this for the past several months—since late January, at least. The staff don’t know precisely why, but they concluded her ladyship was entertaining a gentleman, and their view was that it was he who had insisted on that level of secrecy. Her ladyship was a widow of long-standing, and had entertained lovers at her home before, but never before had she ordered her staff away. None of them have any idea who the gentleman was. They never saw or heard or found any hint or clue to his identity.
“So—that night, he killed her. He beat her near to death with his bare fists, then strangled her.” Stokes paused, then, his voice rougher, added, “Seemed like he’d enjoyed doing it, too.” He glanced at Simon and James. “If you know what I mean.”
Meeting Stokes’s eyes, understanding what he was trying to convey, James felt ill.
“So . . .” Stokes drew in a breath. “He killed her ladyship—and left via the area steps. He stepped onto the pavement and bumped into Miss Cynster, which must have been a shock.”
“Oh . . .”
Everyone looked at Henrietta, only to discover she’d paled. She was staring at Stokes.
James reached for her hand, held it.
“What is it?” Stokes asked.
She blinked, then softly said, “I just remembered. There was an instant—a pause. He ran into me, steadied me—then he looked at my face. I had my cloak on, but my hood wasn’t up, and the light came from over his shoulder. He must have seen my face quite clearly. He was holding me—one of his hands gripping each of my upper arms—and he . . . hesitated. I remember wondering what he was going to do—whether he’d recognized me and was someone I knew, or . . . and then Gibbs called out and the man released me, nodded, and quickly walked away.”
An instant of silence ensued, then Stokes cleared his throat. “You might want to give that groom of yours a tip. Whoever this blackguard is, he likes to hurt women, and you met him at a very . . . fraught moment.” Stokes sighed. “Which probably helps explain why he thinks you’ve seen too much.” He paused, then rather glumly said, “But there’s more. We questioned all the staff the next day, of course, and I’d swear all of them told us the truth, told us all and everything they knew.” Stokes glanced at Barnaby, tipped his head his way. “Adair was there.”
Barnaby nodded; his expression had grown even grimmer. “And I agree—I’d take my oath all the staff, including her ladyship’s dresser, told us everything they knew—which in terms of identifying the villain amounted to nothing.”
“But,” Stokes said, “two days later, her ladyship’s dresser—she’d gone to stay with her sister in Clapham—was murdered, too. Same way as her ladyship—
beaten near to death, then strangled. Her sister went out just before noon and came home later in the afternoon, and found her.”
Quiet horror engulfed the room, then Simon said, “So he killed her, too, in the same god-awful way, even though she knew nothing?”
Stokes’s lips tightened. “It’s possible she did know something and had contacted him—tried to blackmail him—but . . .” He glanced at Barnaby. “Neither Adair nor I think that’s the case. The woman—the dresser—was an honest sort. She was devoted to her ladyship—had been with her from when her ladyship was a bride. If the dresser had known anything about this beast, she would have tripped over her own tongue to tell us.”
“So yes,” Barnaby said, “Stokes and I, at least, feel certain this blackguard killed her just in case. Just to make sure there was no chance she knew something she hadn’t yet thought of.”
Stokes nodded grimly. “He’s covering his tracks, regardless of whether he actually needs to or not. Which brings us to the attacks on Miss Cynster.”
James glanced at Henrietta, tightened his grip on her hand. “He thinks you know something—”
“Or that you might know something even if you haven’t realized it yet,” Barnaby put in.
“Or,” Simon said, his tone hard, “that you might have seen enough of his face that if you see him—come upon him at some event—you’ll recognize him then.”
“Any or all of those.” Stokes shut his notebook. “It won’t matter to him. He wants you dead, and the fact that you haven’t any information that might identify him won’t stop him.”
“He views you as a potential threat.” Barnaby met Henrietta’s gaze. “And he’ll keep on until he succeeds in silencing you.”
James felt the moment grow heavier as they absorbed that apparently incontestable fact. After a moment, he said, his tone cold, “To return to my earlier question—why no hue and cry? How on earth are we to find this villain without going after him?”
Stokes looked at Barnaby.
Barnaby leaned forward, speaking to Henrietta, James, and Simon. “There’s been discussions aplenty at the highest levels about how to handle this case. The excuse of not wanting to cause panic in Mayfair, at the height of the Season no less, is true enough, but that’s a more minor consideration. The truth is that laying hands on this villain is not going to be easy—we knew that after investigating Lady Winston’s death and finding nothing to identify him—but when he murdered her ladyship’s dresser, he told us one thing we hadn’t known before.”
Barnaby met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “To wit, he intends to stick around. He intends to remain a part of the ton—the haut ton, almost certainly—and has no intention of quitting the scene. That’s why he’s now turned his sights on you—and, more, is trying to make your death look like an accident, or at least the result of an attack not specifically aimed at you. He doesn’t want to create more noise within the ton, or to focus attention on you—on why someone might want you dead. But if, at this point, we raise a hue and cry and openly try to pursue him . . . we have nothing. He simply has to sit tight and wait us out, and if he’s wary of you, simply avoid you for a time—which, all in all, would be easy enough.”
“But ultimately he wants to be able to move freely among the upper echelons of the ton,” Stokes said, “so at some point, when he feels safe again, he’ll come after you again. He isn’t going to let you live, even if he has to be careful for a time.”
James held Stokes’s gaze. A moment passed, then he said, “What you’re saying is that the only way to keep Henrietta safe—permanently safe—is to conceal the fact that we’re aware of this gentleman-villain, aware of his intention to kill her, and to . . . what? Let him have a chance at her?”
“Not exactly,” Barnaby said. “We need to keep Henrietta safe and thoroughly protected—that goes without saying—but we need to play our hand quietly, stalk this man silently, and let him think it’s safe enough to have another try at her. But when he does, we’ll be there, and then we’ll have him.”
“As it stands,” Stokes said, “regardless of what any of us might wish, the only way we can permanently ensure Miss Cynster’s continued health is to identify and catch this man. And the only way we can do that is to let him think it’s safe enough to step out of the crowd and show us his face.”
Chapter Eleven
They spent the rest of the morning discussing the most pertinent question, namely how to keep Henrietta safe. To James’s relief, his lady love, once she’d recovered her composure and her customary poise, deigned to agree with him and the others; they were given to understand that, in light of the seriousness of the situation, she was willing to suspend her usual independence and endure being guarded, essentially twenty-four hours a day.
After defining ways to achieve that, and agreeing over who needed to be apprised of the situation, Stokes and Barnaby departed.
Along with James, Simon stayed for luncheon. As luck would have it, both Lady Louise and Lord Arthur were also lunching in; over the dining room table, James, Henrietta, and Simon shared all they knew, and, after the inevitable shock and exclamations, outlined how they all needed to proceed.
Lord Arthur wasn’t happy, but he accepted that their plan was the only sure way forward.
Lady Louise was eager to support any move by Henrietta to repair to the safety of the country—to Somersham Place, perhaps—but was reluctantly persuaded by Henrietta, who most effectively capped her argument by reminding her mother that, aside from avoiding being murdered, she had an engagement ball coming up, and a wedding shortly thereafter.
Mary, also present, listened to the tale wide-eyed, then, in typical Mary fashion, swung the discussion to the subject of how best to organize everyone into doing what they needed to do.
While James would normally have found Mary’s bossy nature trying, in this case, he was grateful. She soon had her mother and father organized to spread the word; they’d decided to limit the information, at least in the first instance, to members of the family and the staff of the Upper Brook Street house. Between those two groups, along with Charlie Hastings, Barnaby, and Penelope, Henrietta could be sure of always having others about her. That she readily accepted the need for being so constantly guarded was balm to James’s soul.
He, of course, was designated as Henrietta’s most frequent guard, a role Mary glibly assigned to him and with which he had no argument at all. In that capacity, once luncheon was over and Lord Arthur left to hunt down his brothers and his nephews, Simon left to find Charlie and later speak with Portia, and Lady Louise and Mary set out for Somersham House to speak with Honoria and from there to spread the word, to keep Henrietta amused James suggested that he and she do something useful with their afternoon and visit his house in George Street. “You can take a look around and see what you might like to have changed.”
With very real gratitude, Henrietta agreed. Although James’s house was only a few blocks away, she bowed to his request and ordered the smaller town carriage, the one she usually commandeered, to be brought around.
As Hudson, and via him the rest of the staff, had already been informed of the need to keep her constantly guarded, she wasn’t surprised to discover not only Gibbs and the coachman on the box but also Jordan, one of the footmen, up on the step behind.
She merely nodded at the trio, all stern-faced and looking watchfully around, and allowed James to hand her up into the carriage.
The house in George Street was a surprise; she’d expected a narrow town house, but instead James led her up the steps of a substantial older house with wide windows on either side of a porticoed front door. The front door itself was painted to a high gloss, and the brass knocker gleamed; James opened the door with a latchkey and held it wide . . . stepping over the threshold, eyes widening, she looked around, drinking in the elegant sweep of the staircase, the detailed moldings around the doors and arches, the oak half-paneling, and the paintings—lush landscapes—that hung on the green-papered wa
lls.
“My grandaunt Emily’s, but I rather like them.” Closing the door, James came to stand by Henrietta’s side. Head tipping, he tried to see the scene through her eyes. “The paintings have grown on me.”
“They suit the place.” She swiveled in a circle. “This has a nice feel, a nice sense of balance. Elegant, but not overdone.”
He smiled, then the door at the rear of the hall swung open and his butler, Fortescue, came through.
“Good afternoon, sir.” Fortescue saw Henrietta, and his ageing eyes lit.
James introduced Fortescue; his staff knew of his betrothal and were eager to meet the lady who would be their new mistress.
Somewhat rotund, but turned out in impeccable style, with a regal demeanor and an innate stately air, although well past his prime Fortescue had forgotten more about butlering than most butlers ever learned; his low bow was nicely judged. “Welcome to this house, miss. The rest of the staff and I look forward to serving you in whatever way we may.”
“Thank you, Fortescue.” Henrietta looked questioningly at James.
“I’m going to take Miss Cynster on a tour of the house, but I suspect, this time, we’ll restrict ourselves to the principal rooms.” Meeting Henrietta’s gaze, James reached out and twined his fingers with hers. “We’ll start with the reception rooms on the ground floor, and then head upstairs.” He looked at Fortescue. “Perhaps you would warn Mrs. Rollins—we’ll have tea in the drawing room when we come down.”
“Indeed, sir.” Fortescue bowed to them both, then walked back to the staff door.
Retaining his hold on her hand, James drew Henrietta to the double doors to the right of the hall. “Mrs. Rollins is the housekeeper. Like Fortescue, I inherited her. Indeed, other than my man, Trimble, all the staff date from Grandaunt Emily’s day.”
“Fortescue appears perfectly personable, and he seems assured and experienced.”
“He is, as are the rest.”
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