And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Henrietta drew in a deep breath, fixed her gaze past Stokes’s left shoulder, and called up the scene in her mind. “It was cold—chilly—and there was fog, enough so I couldn’t see the end of the street. That made the light from the streetlamps seem dimmer than usual, so overall the light wasn’t strong.” She paused, but no one interrupted her, so she continued, “It was bitter, so I told Melinda—the Wentworths’ daughter—to go inside and shut the door. My coachman had halted the carriage—my parents’ carriage—on the other side of the street, and both my groom and the coachman were there, and—” She broke off, then said, “There was no one else nearby. I just realized—I’d already looked up and down the street by then, because that was why I felt so confident about being left alone to cross to the carriage.” She met Stokes’s eyes. “At that point, there was no one on the nearer pavement close enough to reach me—to intercept me—before I crossed the road.”

Stokes asked, “Did you see any others further along the road?”

She thought back, bringing the memory to

life in her mind. . . . “Yes. There were two gentlemen walking away toward North Audley Street, and in the other direction, much further away, there was a couple who had just come out of a house and were getting into a hackney.”

“Very good.” Stokes was busy making notes. “So what happened next?”

“With the chill in the air you may be sure I didn’t dally. I walked down the steps—I was holding my cloak around me, and I had my reticule in one hand. I was looking down, placing my feet. Then I reached the pavement and lifted my head—and that’s when he barreled into me.”

“You didn’t hear footsteps?” Barnaby asked.

She thought back, then, frowning, shook her head. “Not coming along. I heard maybe two quick steps, but by the time I’d even registered them, he’d already run into me.” Frowning more definitely, she looked at Barnaby. “That’s odd, isn’t it? If he’d come up the area steps, wouldn’t I have heard him?”

Barnaby glanced at Stokes. “Not those area steps. The staff had put down matting because the steps got too slippery in winter. The matting’s quite thick, more than enough to muffle the sound of footsteps.” Barnaby looked back at her. “That you didn’t hear him coming only makes it more likely that the gentleman who ran into you did, indeed, come up those steps.”

Head down as he jotted notes, Stokes was nodding. “If he came from anywhere else, you would have heard enough to have been aware of his approach before he collided with you. But even more telling, if he hadn’t come up very quickly from those particular area steps, he would have seen you in good time to avoid any collision.” Pencil poised, he looked up at her. “Did your groom or coachman see where the man came from?”

“I don’t know—I didn’t think to ask. I doubt Johns, the coachman, saw anything—he was looking at his horses—but Gibbs should have.”

“Leave them for now—I’ll speak with them later. Let’s go on with what you saw.” Stokes looked down at his notebook. “The gentleman’s just run into you—go on from there.”

She did, recounting as best she could exactly what she’d seen of the mystery man. Between them, Stokes and Barnaby questioned each of her observations.

“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?”