And Then She Fell
Page 29
“Meaning,” Luc said, “that nothing would be done?”
Stokes smiled one of his quick, sharklike smiles. “That’s not quite how it works. Mullins sits on the case—it remains active—until we see if Sir Peter makes any further mistakes. But, of course, the file’s contents aren’t bruited about, so I didn’t know about the similarities in the killings, and, as we’d kept Lady Winston’s murder and that of her dresser secret, too, Mullins hadn’t heard about them. We wouldn’t have connected the cases if Sir Peter hadn’t been caught.”
“Which he now has been,” Portia said. “So will he be tried for all the murders?”
Stokes nodded. “Without doubt. I took a quick look at the descriptions of the bodies—there can be no question that it was the same fiend who committed all the crimes.” He looked at his wife, reached out, and grasped her hand. After a moment, he glanced at the others. “I’ve sent my fair share of villains to the gallows, but this will be one I’ll be glad to see hang.”
Agreement was universal.
When he’d finished his coffee, Stokes got down to business. Assisted by Penelope, who acted as his secretary and wrote down all that was said, Stokes formally interviewed and took detailed statements from Henrietta, James, Barnaby, Martin, Simon, Charlie, and Luc.
Once the statements had been reviewed and signed, Stokes nodded. “That should do it.” Gathering the papers, he stood. “I haven’t yet interviewed Affry. I’ll do that tomorrow, now I have all the facts, but from what little he let fall, I gather he couldn’t believe that you”—Stokes nodded at Henrietta—“wouldn’t recognize him, all but instantly, if you ever got a clear view of his face.”
She frowned. “But I never saw his face—I only saw him as the murderer that once in Hill Street, and his face was almost all in shadow . . .” Eyes on Stokes, she tipped her head. “Perhaps that was it? He didn’t know—and couldn’t tell—where the shadow fell across his face. He thought I saw more than I did.”
Stokes nodded. “Most likely. He’s got a scar that runs between his upper lip and his nose. If you’d seen that, chances are you would have recognized him the next time you came face-to-face with him in some ballroom, or over a dinner table.”
“And from his point of view, that would have happened at some point, and he couldn’t have that.” Barnaby rose, along with all the others. “So it was misplaced ego, in a way, that brought Affry down. If he’d just waited patiently to see if Henrietta ever said anything, and did what he could to avoid her meanwhile, he would have got away cleanly.”
“Overweening ego,” Simon said, “seems to be a trait that brings down a lot of villains.”
“For which,” Stokes said, “I, for one, am perennially grateful. The ego of villains—long may it be their Achilles’ heel.”
On that rousing note, the company broke up. Buoyed by collective satisfaction and unalloyed triumph, they exchanged farewells and drifted off, in the hackneys or on foot, to find their respective beds.
Henrietta asked Charlie to drive her and James to George Street. Very happy to oblige, Charlie left them on the steps of James’s house and, with a flourish of his whip, drove away.
“He’ll have to return the hackney to its stable, I suppose.” James hunted in his pocket for his latchkey.
“I’m sure it will all have been arranged.” Her arm still supportively twined with his, Henrietta waited patiently by his side. “Penelope’s organizing is always very thorough.”
James grunted. Fitting the key to the lock, he opened the door, then waved Henrietta in. Walking into the hall, she paused by the central table and set down her reticule.
James shut the door, waited until she glanced his way, then arched a brow.
She smiled. “Set the locks. I’m staying.”
“If you’re sure.” Which wasn’t really in question. Using his good arm, he slid the bolts home.
“Aside from anything else”—she studied the way he moved while she shrugged off her cloak—“your wound needs tending. I’m certainly not about to leave you alone with such an injury.”
James glanced at his bound arm. Grimaced. “I would say, if that’s the case, then I’m almost glad he shot me—but it hurts too much.”
Smiling in sympathy, she crossed to take his good arm and steer him toward the stairs. “Come along—I’m sure Mrs. Rollins will have left all the supplies we’ll need waiting.”
“Speaking of which.” Allowing Henrietta to guide him onto the stairs and up, James glanced frowningly down into the hall. “Where is everyone? Seeing I didn’t return home last night—”
“I sent around a note, of course.” Henrietta met his gaze. “It was one of the first things I did after I got Affry’s note this . . . no, yesterday morning. He threatened to kill you if I raised any alarm, any hue and cry, and, of course, the same applied to your household, except Affry didn’t know you didn’t just have lodgings. I realized I needed to reassure Fortescue and Mrs. Rollins, and make sure they didn’t make any fuss, either, so I did.” Facing forward, she went on, “Then when we reached Penelope’s this evening, I sent another note to tell them all was well, but that you had been shot in the arm, a flesh wound, and I would need cloths and hot water and bandages to tend it, but we wouldn’t be home until late and they shouldn’t wait up for us.”
Reaching the top of the stairs and stepping into the gallery, she halted and faced him. “I told them we’d see them tomorrow, meaning this morning.” She tipped her head. “I hope that’s all right?”
James smiled—found he couldn’t stop smiling. “It’s more than all right. Did you realize you just called this house ‘home’?”
She lightly shrugged but didn’t take her eyes from his. “I suppose that’s because I already think of this house as my home.”
He felt—literally felt—every last iota of tension, of uncertainty for their future—fall from him. Holding her gaze, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed. “That makes me beyond happy.”
She smiled at that, one of her radiant, glorious smiles. “Good.” Linking her arm with his again, she turned them toward the master suite.
They went in, and sure enough, Mrs. Rollins had left all the required supplies laid out on the chest of drawers, along with a samovar of hot water. Henrietta helped him remove their rough bandage and ease out of his coat, then cut him out of his shirt and dampened the fine material that had stuck to the wound in order to peel it away.
The gash looked ugly, red and raw; she bathed it, then applied the salve Mrs. Rollins had left, and between them they bound the wound tightly.
“With luck,” he said, testing his arm, “there won’t be too much of a scar.”
Standing by the chest of drawers and drying her hands, Henrietta drank in the sight of him, seated on the low table, naked to the waist, his magnificent chest bared to her gaze, and smiled, then she considered the bandage and softly said, “I don’t mind if there is a scar. Every time I see it, I’ll think of how you got it.” She met his eyes. “How you worked to keep Affry’s gaze, his attention, fixed on you—his pistol trained on you—away from me, so that I could shoot him. Even though that put you in danger of being shot, even knowing you very likely would be.” She held his gaze steadily. “Don’t think I didn’t see that. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate that for what it was.”
Transparently uncomfortable, he shrugged the words away, then rose and came toward her. Prowled toward her, intent edging his features, his approach designed to distract, but she kept her gaze on his face, drank in the now familiar, well-beloved features, and thought, I know you now.
Outwardly, he remained a wolf of the ton—an ex-wolf, perhaps, yet the pelt was still there—but beneath the glamour he was a man who moved quietly through life, who did what needed to be done, what should be done, what was right. He didn’t see that as any distinguishing feature, as anything special, but . . . that made him the right man for her.
So she smiled and opened her arms, opened her heart and embraced him.
It started as that, as a compulsively necessary worshipping of life, of living, in the aftermath of escaping death’s shadow.
A simple matter of acknowledging they still lived, that they still breathed, still desired, still needed.
But as they shed their clothes, as their skins met and the flames flared, then raced over and through, claiming them, and they fell, limbs tangling, on the big bed, the engagement transformed into something more. Something broader, grander, more wild and joyous and passionately enthralling—a true celebration of their wider triumph.
Built on the joy of having found each other, of having discovered, uncovered, and learned. Of having grasped the challenges that fate had sent them, of having met those challenges and succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
Of having forged a relationship, sound and true, a partnership that had seen them through the last fraught hours and brought them safely home.
To home.
To having won through to that blessed place.
They came together with open hearts, with passion driving them, and desire filling them, but, above all, with love fusing their souls. Recognized, acknowledged, and freely given, it bound them, held them, and made them more, forged in its fire into the very best they could be.
“I love you.”
“I love you.”
The words fell from their lips again and again, in soft murmurs and gasps, in passion and in frenzy.
Then the cataclysm caught them, wracked them, and they flew, then they knew no more, were blind and senseless to all but the ecstasy.
To the glorious, scintillating, coruscating delight.
Gradually, the sensual nova faded, and the golden pleasure that was love made all but tangible wrapped them in its succoring folds, and held them safe, protected and cared for, shielded from the world in each other’s arms.
Epilogue
The engagement of the Honorable James Glossup and Miss Henrietta Cynster had titillated the perennially jaded interest of the ton. No one had seen it coming; not one of the grandes dames could claim to have predicted it, nor anything like it, for either participant.
Consequently, despite the short notice, their engagement ball, held in the magnificence of St. Ives House, was viewed as an event of signal significance, one everyone honored with an invitation braved hell and high water to attend. But prior to the ball itself, a formal family dinner was held to toast the engaged couple; every Cynster—even Catriona, Richard, Lucilla, and Marcus—gathered in the long formal dining room to feast, drink, and delightedly commend the pair. And, of course, to hear the tale of their brush with a madman, and their role in bringing one of the more heinous villains of recent years to justice.
The news of Sir Peter Affry’s arrest and incarceration pending trial, a trial those lords and parliamentary dignitaries who had been permitted to view the evidence had confirmed could have only one end, had deeply shocked the ton. So many had welcomed Sir Peter into their homes, so many had shaken his hand, so many had judged him worthy of support that on learning of his perfidy, all of society felt deeply disturbed and, indeed, betrayed.
From up-and-coming politician and potential minister, he became a pariah in a matter of hours.
But within St. Ives House on that happy evening, the talk rarely strayed into darker spheres. Indeed, possibly in reaction to the darkness Sir Peter represented, everyone attending turned their minds and their hearts to embracing the shining hope and expectations for a joyous future embodied by the engaged couple.
In many ways, they, and the promise of their upcoming union, were the perfect and most appropriate antidote to lift the shaken spirits of the ton.
The family dinner ended with a traditional round of toasts to the affianced couple—ending with a warning to all, delivered by Honoria, that they would soon be summoned back to St. Ives House for the wedding breakfast. The date for the wedding was confirmed by Arthur, a beaming Louise by his side, then the gathering broke up to repair to the ballroom upstairs with everyone in a mellow mood and a delighted, expectant frame of mind. Every lady had more than enough fact and speculation to never be at a loss for conversation over the next several weeks, while as they climbed the stairs, the gentlemen traded opinions and quips on the benefits of a rapid engagement, and an even more rapid wedding thereafter.
Recalling one last duty she had to perform before taking her place in the receiving line upstairs, Henrietta drew her hand from James’s sleeve and, leaving him chatting with Gabriel and her father, turned—to discover Mary standing directly in her path, looking pointedly at her.
Henrietta laughed. “Yes, I have it.” Catching Mary’s hand, flown with her own happiness, she drew her younger sister—the last of the Cynster girls of their generation yet unwed—to the side of the room. “Here. This is where Angelica gave it to me, so . . .” Opening her silver reticule, Henrietta fossicked inside, then drew out the gold links and amethyst bead necklace, with its long, tapered, rose-quartz pendant.
She held it up, dangling from her fingers; both she and Mary studied it for a moment, then Mary reached for it—but Henrietta whisked it away. “No.” She met Mary’s eyes. “Let me put it on for you.”
Mary smiled delightedly and presented her back. Henrietta was significantly the taller—Mary was, if anything, shorter than Angelica—so looping the necklace into position was a simple matter.
Fiddling with the clasp, Henrietta softly said, “I didn’t believe, and if it weren’t for your pushing I never would have worn it—and I honestly don’t know if I would ever have found James, if he and I would ever have found our way to the happiness we now have, without it. Without The Lady’s help.”
Raising one hand, Mary touched the fine necklace, holding it against her skin. On her, the pendant hung fully between her breasts. “But you believe in the necklace now.”
“Oh, yes.” Henrietta was still fiddling. “If anything I would say I believe in it, in its power, even more than you. I’ve seen what it can do, experienced what it can bring. There!”
Feeling Henrietta pat the clasp at her nape, Mary turned, looking down at the necklace, at how it sat against her creamy skin; the cornflower blue of her satin ball gown, chosen to match her even more vivid eyes, echoed the purple hues of the amethyst beads. Looking up, she met Henrietta’s gaze. “Thank you.”
“No.” Henrietta held her gaze steadily. “Thank you. I know you’ve been waiting for this—to receive the necklace and be able to wear it and so find your own hero—literally for years. Even though you’re generally so impatient, you waited patiently—and then you pushed at just the right moment. I truly believe you were influenced by The Lady in that, that you’ve already felt Her hand, for you certainly played a major part in bringing me and James together.”
Henrietta paused to draw in a huge breath, then she smiled one of what Mary privately dubbed her over-the-moon-joyous smiles. “For that—for all of that—I wish you the very best of success in finding your own hero.”
Mary felt the warm wash of affection as Henrietta swooped and embraced her. She returned the hug with equal joy; she was sincerely happy, from the depths of her heart happy, to see Henrietta so perfectly matched. This was her sister’s fairy-tale ending; now it was her turn to go out and find hers.
“Henrietta!”
Releasing each other, they both straightened. Turning, they saw Louise beckoning imperiously. “Come along—we need you in the receiving line. And Mary, too—you should already be upstairs.”
Mary and Henrietta shared a glance, then they laughed and hurried to where Louise waited. Together, they swept their harried mother up the stairs.
“Really, I don’t know what’s got into you,” Louise said to
Mary once the receiving line had been reached. Louise noted the necklace around Mary’s throat, hesitated, but then said, “But off you go and enjoy yourself.” With one hand, she made a shooing motion. “Just behave.”
“Yes, Mama!” Delighted—with the evening, with life in general—Mary was only too ready to obey. Her first task was to quarter the room, to see who was there and note the new arrivals as they streamed into the fabulous white, pale green, and gilt ballroom.
Very soon, the room was pleasantly crowded. Then more guests arrived, and the event became a certified crush.
Mary tacked through the groups, stopping to chat as the mood and the company took her; as a Cynster young lady raised very much in the bosom of the ton, such an event held no terrors. She’d cut her eyeteeth on the correct way of doing things, and knew every possible way around any social situation. Even the grandes dames, after observing her over the past four years, had accepted that she was entirely at home in this sphere and unlikely to put her dainty foot wrong, even while stubbornly following her own path.
Tonight, however, there was no advance to be made on her already defined way forward; the name of the gentleman she’d set her sights upon had not appeared on the guest list. Consequently, she had no particular aim beyond obeying her mother and enjoying herself.
Then the violins started playing the engagement waltz, and James and Henrietta circled the floor, so lost in each other’s eyes, with James so blatantly proud and Henrietta positively glowing with joy, that the company was held spellbound. When the affianced couple completed their circuit and other couples started to join them on the floor, Charlie Hastings, with whom Mary had been conversing, solicited her hand, which she happily granted.
Waltzing with Charlie was pleasant; Mary viewed him as an older brother. He had his eye on Miss Worthington, a young lady Mary was acquainted with, and she was pleased to encourage him by telling him all she knew.
But as the evening wore on, she drifted closer and closer to the wall. While she could chatter and converse with the best of them, and usually, when she had some end in view, she found the exercise stimulating, now, when she knew there was no point—when there was nothing she could or wished to gain from any conversation—she found her interest flagging.