She nodded. “I’ll stay in.”
James squeezed her hand. “I’ll call and wait with you.”
Simon said, “Barnaby will want to hear all about the accidents, too.”
They all spotted Simon and Henrietta’s aunt Horatia sweeping regally down on them; the three exchanged glances, then turned and smiled welcomingly.
Horatia halted before them, eyes scanning their faces. “Now what are you three planning?”
“A wedding, as it happens,” Henrietta said. “Do you think Simon will do as James’s best man?”
It was the perfect distraction, and then the evening was over. Those still present gathered in the front hall, confirming plans for the next days and making their farewells.
They were the last to leave; Henrietta quit the house with her parents and Mary, while James left with Simon to hunt down Charlie Hastings, then put their heads together and revisit the now even more urgent necessity of keeping Henrietta safe.
From a murderer who, in order to escape justice, was apparently convinced he needed to murder again.
It was ten o’clock the following morning, and Henrietta was pacing, restless and distracted, before the windows in the back parlor in Upper Brook Street.
Leaning against the back of the sofa, James watched, and otherwise worked at maintaining an outwardly calm façade. He had no idea how long breakfast in the Adair household might take, much less if Adair would be free to speak with them today—
The door opened; James turned and saw Simon walk in. His friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law presumably still had a latchkey to this house, his childhood home. A gentleman with curly fair hair, whom James recognized as the Honorable Barnaby Adair, followed Simon through the door.
Straightening, James rounded the sofa.
Simon stepped back and closed the door, then waved at Barnaby. “Behold, the very man we need.”
“Glossup.” Barnaby shook the hand James offered, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Anyone would think he’d had to bend my arm, while in reality, nothing could have kept me away.” He smiled at Henrietta as she joined them; married to Penelope, who was sister to Portia and also to Luc, Henrietta and Simon’s older sister Amelia’s husband, Barnaby was a connection several times over, and was well known throughout the Cynster clan. “Henrietta.” Barnaby took her hand, gently squeezed her fingers. “It seems you’ve unexpectedly become the target for a murderer.” His expression sobering, he glanced at James before saying to Henrietta, “I hope you don’t mind, but given the seriousness of the situation, I sent word to my colleague from Scotland Yard, Inspector Basil Stokes.”
Barnaby looked at James. “Glossup here, as well as Simon, and indeed, Portia, can add their recommendations to mine—they worked with Stokes during the incident at Glossup Hall several years ago.” Refocusing on Henrietta, Barnaby continued, “Stokes is a sound man, and I fear we’ll need him and his people to help us with this.”
Henrietta summoned a smile, although it felt weak at the edges. “I’ve already heard much about Inspector Stokes from Penelope—she’s sung his praises more than once. I’ll be happy to make his acquaintance.”
Barnaby was, she realized, studying her face, as if to gauge how upset she was—or, perhaps, was likely to become; she straightened her spine and looked him in the eye—and he faintly smiled. “Excellent. In that case—”
The doorbell jangled. They looked at the parlor door.
“That’ll be Stokes,” Barnaby said.
Simon cast him a glance. “That was quick. He must have set out the moment he got your note.” Simon went to open the parlor door.
“If you had any idea how much of a confounding problem Lady Winston’s murder has become,” Barnaby said, “you would be more surprised if he hadn’t come at the run.”
Brows rising, Simon opened the door and stepped out. “Stokes! This way. Thank you, Hudson.” Simon paused, listening to a rumble from Hudson, glanced at Henrietta, then looked up the corridor. “No tea just yet—perhaps later.”
“Tell Hudson I’ll ring,” Henrietta said.
Simon relayed the message, then stepped back to allow a tall, dark-haired man, with slate gray eyes and a rather brooding expression—as if he was constantly observing all about him and didn’t expect to be favorably impressed—to enter the room.
Barnaby made the introductions. Stokes clearly remembered James and Simon; the quick flash of his smile lightened his face. Then Barnaby introduced Henrietta, and Stokes’s gray gaze fastened on her.
When she offered her hand, he shook it with an easy, understated elegance that belied his working-class station in life. “I understand, Miss Cynster,” Stokes said, his voice deep, his tone even but with an autocratic edge, “that on departing the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street nine evenings ago, you encountered a gentleman leaving the house next door.”
Henrietta nodded. “Although it would be more accurate to say he encountered me.” Turning, waving Stokes and the others to the armchairs, she walked to the sofa and sat.
James sat alongside her; Simon took the armchair to her right, Barnaby the armchair to the left of the sofa, leaving Stokes to take possession of the large armchair directly across the small table from Henrietta.
After drawing a notebook from his pocket, along with a pencil, Stokes sat, opened the notebook, balanced it on his knee, and looked up at Henrietta. “I would appreciate it, Miss Cynster, if you would tell me what happened—all that you can remember, every little detail no matter how small or apparently inconsequential—from the instant you stepped onto the Wentworths’ front porch.” Stokes met her gaze and smiled encouragingly. “Take your time, as much time as you like.”