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?”
>
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.
After due discussions with Lord Arthur, and subsequent meetings with both James’s and the Cynsters’ men-of-business, the settlements had been decided on, and after a day James deemed well-spent, he and Lord Arthur could join with Louise and Henrietta to announce to the assembled company the date for their official engagement ball, which, in keeping with Cynster tradition, would be held in the ballroom of St. Ives House.
Seated around the long table, the family cheered and applauded, then cheered even more when Lord Arthur added that the wedding would follow on the thirtieth of May, two days before James’s grandaunt Emily’s deadline.
Later, when the company returned to the long drawing room, with Henrietta on his arm, James went from group to group, renewing acquaintance with those Cynsters he knew less well.
“I gather,” Henrietta confided as they left one group, “that all the others not in London are on their way. Most—like Lucifer and Phyllida—will be here in time for the engagement ball, but those further north might not be able to reach town in time. We’re hoping Richard and Catriona, at least, will be here for the wedding, but, of course, no one’s heard back as yet, and Celia and Martin are hoping very much that Angelica and Dominic can make the journey.”
The following hour passed in cheery, often jovial conversation. Henrietta bided her time; there was no sense in disrupting their evening by telling James of her unnerving discovery prematurely. She was safe in St. Ives House, surrounded by family; no matter who the gentleman-villain was, he wouldn’t be able to reach her there . . . and she definitely didn’t want to risk being overheard and the disquieting information spreading to the rest of the family—not until she’d had time to discuss the situation and how to deal with it with James.
At last, the company started to thin. On James’s arm, she weighed her options while James and Simon chatted. Soon, her mother would summon her and she would have to leave with her parents; she couldn’t afford to wait much longer, but Simon and James showed no signs of parting—indeed, from what she’d overheard, they intended to leave together to meet with Charlie Hastings at some club.
Did she really care if Simon learned about what was going on?
Even as the question formed in her mind, she realized that—with James and Simon being so close—it was more than likely that Simon already knew about her three “accidents.”
Seeing Louise leave Helena and glide over to speak with Honoria, Henrietta drew breath and turned to join James’s and Simon’s conversation.
Both looked at her; both sensed she had something momentous to say.
Simon wrinkled his nose at her. “Do I have to leave?”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes. “You can stay if you promise to be good.”
Simon’s smile flashed. “I’m not sure I can promise that, but”—he gestured encouragingly—“do tell.”
She shot him a warning look, then transferred her gaze to James. “I met Melinda Wentworth this morning.”
“Oh.” James’s expression blanked. He swiftly searched her eyes. “Was she difficult?”
Henrietta shook her head dismissively. “No, not at all. That isn’t it.” She paused to draw breath and order the revelations in her mind. “She told me that on the evening I visited the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street to tell Melinda and her parents my findings about you, Lady Winston, a widow who lives—lived—next door, was murdered.”
Both James and Simon visibly stiffened. His expression abruptly sober, James nodded. “Go on.”