And Then She Fell

by Stephanie Laurens

  The move jarred his head so badly he saw stars. He lay on the floor, panting, until the spinning stopped, then, carefully, he stretched his fingers, feeling, searching.

  He had to shift a trifle further, but finally his fingers brushed the shard. He teased it nearer, into his hand, careful not to cut himself. Blood would only make the glass harder to hold, harder to work with.

  Exhaling, he filled his lungs and waited until his heart slowed and his mind sharpened again, then he turned the shard and set what felt to be the sharpest edge to the rope—

  Wait, wait, wait!

  What if the murderer didn’t bring Henrietta down to the basement?

  James lay awkwardly twisted on the floor and tried to think. Forced himself to put himself in the murderer’s shoes, at least as far as he was able.

  The murderer wanted to stage a double murder and make it appear to be a believable murder-suicide, with echoes of Lady Winston’s murder thrown in, and chances were he intended to carry out the foul deeds in the order he’d described, namely killing Henrietta first . . . and given the murderer’s cold-bloodedness, James had no difficulty believing that the blackguard intended to kill Henrietta in front of his own eyes.

  From all Barnaby and Stokes had said, the murderer was more than sadistic enough for that.

  But killing Henrietta and James in the basement wouldn’t support the fiction of a murder-suicide; such a setting would strike a discordant note, especially if Henrietta’s murder was supposed to be a replay of Lady Winston’s. The basement was hardly the place for a lovers’ rendezvous, and this murderer was very intelligent, and very aware of how the ton thought. So he would shift James to some more believable location.

  “For instance, a room upstairs.” Twisting his still aching head, James glanced at the basement stairs, closer to him now; in the strengthening morning light he could see them clearly. There was no landing at the top, and the door opened inward. If he were free and ready to engage, and standing on the stairs when the murderer opened the door . . . James grimaced. “He’ll have plenty of time to shoot me, and if we grappled, I would be the one most likely to end falling down the stairs and breaking my neck.”

  While that might put a crimp in the murderer’s plans, it wasn’t how James wanted this to end.

  And such an end wouldn’t save Henrietta, and that, after all, was his principal and dominant aim.

  From his strained position on the floor, he glanced at the windows, then sighed. Even once he was free, there was no way he could break out of the basement; the door was bolted on the outside, the windows were small, too small to fit through even if he could break their thick glass, and the murderer had told him the houses were deserted, so there was no reason to suppose that there would be anyone passing outside the windows for him to hail.

  It took him a little while to convince his brain of what would have to be, and even longer to get his body to cooperate. Getting up onto his legs again was an excruciating feat, but eventually he managed it, and managed to laboriously work his way back across the room and set the chair down, with him still lashed to it, in exactly the same place where the murderer had left him. There was, thankfully, enough dust layered on the floor, smudged not just by the murderer’s boots but by countless others previously, for his shuffling progress across it to have left no obvious trail, and the murderer must have dragged him in, because his evening clothes were already too filthy for his recent brush with the floor to have made any additional impression.

  Shifting on the chair, James settled again; closing his eyes, he concentrated, and managed to ease and inch the glass shard up beneath his shirt cuff, along the inside of his right wrist. He wriggled his fingers, shifted his hands, but the shard remained safely tucked away, ironically held in position by the rope that bound his hands.

  Slumping in the chair, he ran through the possible scenarios again, but there was nothing more he could think of to do.

  Closing his eyes, he worked at relaxing his muscles and getting what rest he could—until the murderer returned to fetch him to wherever the blackguard intended to bring Henrietta.

  Henrietta kept her distressing news entirely private all through the morning. Not because she wished to but because she had to; given that James’s life was at risk, she had to take the murderer at his word and assume he would know if her family was alerted to his plan. So she couldn’t allow anyone who might react precipitously to know of the murderer’s demand. And she had to go about her life as if nothing at all was wrong.

  It was early afternoon before, by dint of a whispered word at this at-home, at that morning tea, she managed to arrange a meeting restricted to those she felt sure she could trust—her three sisters and her sister-in-law. They, she knew, would understand her predicament; at the very least she could rely on their advice.

  After reassuring her mother that she would remain safely indoors and would be sufficiently well entertained by the other four, all of whom, having answered her summons, seconded that assurance, Henrietta watched Louise leave on her usual afternoon social rounds, then she shooed the others, all curious as to why she was suddenly so intent, into the back parlor and firmly shut the door.

  Turning, she watched as Amelia and Amanda sank onto the old chaise, and Portia sat in one armchair, while Mary curled up in her usual position on the love seat. Walking to the armchair facing the chaise, as the others settled and focused their attention on her, Henrietta surveyed their expressions, intrigued, expectant, and eager to hear what she had to tell them.

  Looking up at her, Amanda blinked her eyes wide. “Well? You perceive us agog, as Lady Osbaldestone would say.”

  Henrietta felt her composure falter. “I need your help.” She twitched the folded letter from her pocket and held it out to Amanda. “Read that, and tell me what you think.”

  Taking the letter, Amanda smoothed it out, briefly scanned, then, her expression abruptly somber and serious, returned her gaze to the top of the letter and read the villain’s message aloud.

  Hearing the words, flatly rendered in Amanda’s clear voice, underscored the dread Henrietta felt, crystalized the threat to her life, to her and James’s future. She abruptly sat, hands clasping tightly in her lap.

  Amanda reached the end of the letter and its chilling closing sentence.

  A brief moment of silence ensued, then Mary looked sharply at Henrietta. “You haven’t told anyone.” Statement, not a question.

  Henrietta gestured at the letter. “How can I? If I tell Papa he’ll send word to Devil, and then . . . well, you all know what will happen.”

  “Heaven help us, but we can’t have that,” Amelia said. “They’ll be roaring around rattling sabers in the streets.”

  “Exactly.” Grim-faced, Amanda decisively stated, “They—Devil and the rest—cannot be allowed to know.”

  Portia leaned forward and laid a hand over Henrietta’s tightly twined fingers. “You’ve done the right thing—come to the right people. We’ll help—of course we will.”

  Henrietta managed a genuine, albeit weak, smile. Looking from Portia’s earnest expression to her elder sisters’ faces, she watched them grimly, determinedly nod, the same sisterly support lighting their eyes. She glanced at Mary.

  Just as Mary stated, “The first thing we need to do is to work out a plan to defeat this villain, and then”—eyes narrowing, she went on—“decide what help we require to make our plan work, and then decide who we can trust to assist us. And then make it happen.”

  They all studied Mary for a moment, then Amelia said, “That’s true enough, but I think we can agree from the outset that whatever our plan is, we cannot—simply cannot—let Devil and Vane and the rest of that lot know anything about this at all.”

  “Indeed,” Portia said. “And if you think of who this villain must be—a gentleman of the ton, of the right age for Lady Winston to have had as a lover, and the right sort to have been present at the gala—then his way of monitoring whether you tell others and alert the family w
ill almost certainly be via watching them—Devil, Vane, and your older male cousins.”

  “Indeed,” Amanda said. “They—our male cousins—are the ones he’ll be watching to see if you keep his secret. If they know of it, they’ll give it away instantly—he’ll only need to look at their faces, at the set of their jaws, the way they stalk about.”

  “And most likely he belongs to the same clubs as they do,” Mary put in.

  “That,” Henrietta said, “is why I haven’t told anyone else.” She glanced around at their faces. “Only you four. Mama or Papa would insist on telling Devil—to their minds, that’s the way difficulties are always dealt with.”

  “Precisely.” Amanda nodded. “So let’s all agree that, while we appreciate that they’re going to be very unhappy about not being told of this, we cannot tell anyone who will involve Devil and the others, and that in meeting this challenge we can’t call on their aid. We have to go forward and deal with this ourselves. So”—she glanced at Mary—“as Mary said, let’s work out our plan.”

  “Obviously,” Amelia said, resettling her shawl, “you’re going to wait for the villain’s next note, and then go and meet him wherever he stipulates. Until you learn where he’s keeping James, you’ll need to do exactly as the blackguard says.”

  “Once we know where James is,” Mary said, “we can act against the villain, but not before.”

  They fell silent, all thinking. Eventually Portia said, “That’s our first hurdle—working out how Henrietta can go and meet with this murderer in safety, without us doing anything that will alert him to others knowing. He has to believe that you”—she glanced at Henrietta—“are quite alone. Only then will he lead you to wherever he’s keeping James.”

  No one argued, just vaguely nodded in agreement. Henrietta waited, glancing around the faces, all faintly frowning as they tried to see how . . .

  Portia drew in a deeper breath and said, “I’d like to suggest that we seek advice from someone who knows more about dealing with villains than we do. Someone we can trust with this, who’ll understand our situation.”

  Amanda opened her eyes wide. “Who?”

  “Penelope,” Portia said. “If anyone can help us devise a workable plan to capture a murderer, it’ll be she.”

  “Of course.” Amelia looked at Henrietta. “Penelope will know how to manage this.”

  Amanda raised her hand. “I third the motion.” She glanced at Mary, then looked at Henrietta. “What say you two?”

  “I’m in favor,” Mary said. “I don’t know enough about villains, and Penelope assuredly does.”

  Henrietta pressed her lips together, but she really had only one question. She looked at Portia. “How can we arrange to see Penelope without alerting our villain?”

  “That’s easy enough,” Amelia said. “It’s early afternoon—the perfect time for us as a group to pay a family call on Penelope to see her baby son, little Oliver.”

  “We can make it appear that you’re reluctant,” Mary said, standing and shaking out her skirts, “but that the four of us are dragging you out, insisting that you can’t sit at home alone.”

  “Projecting the right image will be easy,” Amanda said, “and we can make our diversion to Albemarle Street appear spontaneous, an unplanned visit—one with no ulterior motives—just in case the blackguard has people watching this house.” She glanced at Portia. “Do you think Penelope will be in?”

  Portia nodded and rose. “Knowing my little sister, at this hour, with Oliver so small, Penelope’s sure to be at home, most likely consorting with some ancient Greek.”

  “Ancient Mesopotamian, actually.” Penelope ushered the five of them into her drawing room half an hour later. Following, she shut the door. “Jeremy’s given me some of his translations to read. Quite fascinating.”

  The others, engaged in taking seats on the twin sofas, exchanged glances but didn’t respond.

  Waiting until they all sat, then resuming her position in the armchair angled to one side of the fireplace, a massive old tome lying open on a small table alongside, Penelope surveyed them. “But what brings you here?” Her gaze sharpened as she looked from one to the other. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes.” Henrietta, seated between Amanda and Amelia on one sofa, decided to take charge before anyone else did. “The blackguard has seized James and is dangling him as bait to force me to give myself up to him—to the villain.”

  “Well!” Penelope looked simultaneously shocked and intrigued. “That certainly is a development.” She paused, then said, “Do you mean to tell me he saw through our plan last night, and rather than fall into our trap, refashioned it for his own use?”

  Henrietta nodded decisively. “That, indeed, is how it appears.”

  Penelope blinked. “How very impertinent.” She refocused on Henrietta. “So tell me all.”

  Henrietta proceeded to do so, punctuated by various belligerent and militant comments from the other four. She concluded with, “So we’ve come to you for advice and any help you can give.”

  “We walked from Upper Brook Street and through Grosvenor Square,” Portia put in, “all the while making it appear that we were dragging Henrietta along for an outing, and that diverting here was purely an impulse, a spontaneous female family call.”

  Penelope was nodding. “Excellent. You’ve done exactly as I would have—exactly as you should have.”

  Henrietta caught Portia’s eye and, despite all, struggled to keep her lips straight; they all understood that from Penelope, the words “exactly as I would have” were high praise indeed. It was widely accepted that in a family well-endowed with intelligence, Penelope nevertheless took the cake.

  “We thought,” Amanda said, “that, clearly, Henrietta has to go to this rendezvous and meet with the villain.”

  “And she has to go along with whatever he says until she learns where James is being held,” Mary added.

  Penelope looked around the circle of faces, at the last considered Henrietta, then nodded. “I agree. I can’t see any way around that—not if we want to rescue James, and, of course, we do.”

  “Yes, but we can’t just let Henrietta swan off all alone to meet this murderer who wants to kill her,” Amelia said, “but equally we have to make it appear that she is, indeed, all alone.”

  “And more,” Amanda said, “we cannot allow even the slightest whisper of this to reach our male cousins, or the elders, who will promptly refer it to said male cousins.”

  “Oh, no.” Penelope waved a hand. “I quite agree. Telling them, or letting them learn of it, would be entirely counterproductive in this case.”

  “So . . .” Eyes on her younger sister’s face, Portia gestured for her to go on. “How do we manage it—what should we do?”

  Penelope gazed unseeing at the narrow table between the sofas for several moments, then she looked up and met the others’ eyes. “We’re going to have to recruit a small and highly select army—those we can trust to do what we need them to do and to keep quiet while they’re about it. We need sufficient numbers, but we also need a degree of expertise.” She paused, her gaze resting on Henrietta, then said, “I would strongly advise that we involve Barnaby, of course, but also, through him, Inspector Stokes. Both already know of the murderer and his previous attempts on your life. I believe if we present this correctly to them, both will see the necessity for secrecy, and the sense in the plan we propose.”

  Mary opened her eyes wide. “We have a plan?”

  Penelope smiled intently. “We will have by the time they arrive.” She looked at Henrietta. “In the circumstances, it’s your decision, but I know Barnaby and Stokes are at Scotland Yard at this moment, and I can send word and have them come here via the mews and the back door.”

  Henrietta knew she needed help, and this was the sort of help she’d come there to find. She nodded. “Yes, please do send word. And meanwhile”—she glanced at her sisters, sister-in-law, then at Penelope—“perhaps we can work on our plan.”


  Penelope nodded and rose to tug the bellpull.

  By the time Barnaby Adair led Inspector Stokes into the drawing room, the five ladies had settled on the bare bones of their plan.

  After performing the necessary introductions for Stokes, then waiting while both men fetched straight-backed chairs from by the wall and joined the gathering, Penelope stated, “Before we can tell you anything, you must swear to hold everything we say in the strictest confidence, to be revealed only to those others we agree need to be informed.”

  Now seated, both men stared at Penelope for an instant, then exchanged a long glance weighted with unvoiced male communication. But, eventually, both reluctantly nodded and gave their word, Barnaby with his customary urbanity, Stokes in a rumbling growl.

  Penelope smiled approvingly at them both, then invited Henrietta to relate the day’s developments.

  She did. When he heard of what had occurred and read the villain’s letter, Barnaby looked grave.

  Stokes looked blackly grim.

  Before either man could speak, Penelope said, “What we’ve decided must happen is this.” She proceeded to outline their plan.

  Henrietta watched as both men digested Penelope’s words. She’d expected them to argue, but neither did; that, she supposed, was one benefit in recruiting Penelope, a lady with established credentials in the dealing-with-dangerous-blackguards sphere. There could be no doubt that Stokes as well as Barnaby treated the situation, them, and their plan seriously, and gave each aspect due consideration. That was apparent in both men’s expressions as they followed the outline of their plan to its, at present rather nebulous, conclusion.

  When Penelope fell silent, both men remained silent, too, transparently thinking, assessing and evaluating.

  Eventually Barnaby stirred and refocused, first on his wife, then he glanced at the other ladies. “I agree we need to do something along those lines, but . . . frankly, this puts both me and Stokes in a difficult position. You insist that Devil and your other cousins can’t know, and”—he held up a hand to stay their comments—“I understand and agree entirely that we can’t afford to allow them to know, much less be involved with this. However, to ask me, and even more, Stokes, to assist you without anyone—any male—of the family knowing . . .” He looked around at their faces and grimaced. “You can see my point, can’t you?”