And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

arie around in a wide arc preparatory to riding back to the start of the track.

Looking up and ahead, she saw James emerging from the misty distance. She waved and called a halloo.

He spotted her, smiled, and raised a hand in salute.

Grinning, she leaned forward—

Crack!

James saw Henrietta jerk, then start to crumple a fraction before the sharp report of a pistol reached him. Shock hit him like a fist to the chest.

Digging in his heels, he sent his mount racing over the sward.

Fear sank icy talons around his heart and squeezed. . . .

Then he was hauling his gray in alongside the confused and skittish black mare. He was vaguely aware of the two grooms milling close, putting themselves, horses and bodies, between Henrietta and the thick bushes from where the shot must have come. But his focus, all his awareness, all his senses, were locked on Henrietta. She lay slumped forward, arms limply embracing the mare’s glossy neck. Blood was trickling down the side of her face, disappearing into the black hide.

She looked pale as death, but her back rose slightly and fell.

Throttling his panic, dropping his reins, he reached for her. It took a moment of juggling to free her from her sidesaddle, then he lifted her across and into his arms, settling her before him.

Cradling her close, he felt her chest expand and contract. Rhythmically and repeatedly. Carefully moving her head, he gently examined her wound, an ugly furrow above one ear, then he blew out a breath. Sucked in another as his reeling wits steadied. “She’s alive.” He glanced at the anxious grooms. “She’ll live. It’s only a bad graze.”

He looked down at her face. Pain and shock had knocked her unconscious, and she was losing copious amounts of blood, but she wasn’t going to die.

Relief swamped him; if he’d been standing, it would have brought him to his knees.

Awkwardly searching for, then folding, his handkerchief, he pressed it firmly to the angry wound, then glanced at the grooms. Meeting their worried gazes, he realized they were torn—should they try to catch the villain or stay and help with their mistress?

“I’ll take her straight home.” Lips tightening, he nodded at the bushes. “Take the mare, and see what you can find.”

They didn’t need further urging; one seized the mare’s reins, then they both raced off.

He didn’t dally to see where they went; managing his gray with his knees, he cantered as fast as he dared straight out of the park, then up Park Lane to Upper Brook Street.

“He picked his moment.” A glass of brandy in his hand, James stood before the fireplace in the drawing room, his gaze locked on Henrietta; in a fresh day gown with her wound bathed and bound, she was seated on the chaise flanked by a pale-faced Louise and a grim-faced Mary, each clutching one of her hands. Lord Arthur sat in the armchair facing the chaise, his pallor verging on ashen.

The rest of the room was full of Cynsters. Other members of the family, alerted, James assumed, by Lord Arthur and Lady Louise, had started arriving within half an hour of him carrying Henrietta, unconscious and still bleeding, into the front hall.

Pandemonium had, unsurprisingly, ensued.

Now, nearly two hours later, the room was awash in stylish day gowns and morning coats, their owners overflowing with concern or bristling with protectiveness, or, in some cases, both.

Henrietta had, to his intense relief, quickly recovered her wits and a degree of her composure, at least, but as was to be expected, she was shaken and shocked.

As was he. Taking another sip of brandy, he continued his report—for her benefit as much as that of the others in the room. “At the time of the shot, the other riders who’d been there had left. I could see them in the distance, but they didn’t even hear the shot. It was just plain luck that he had such a window of opportunity, but given where he’d hidden, he would have been able to take his shot regardless of whether anyone else was around.”

“Nevertheless,” Devil Cynster said, his deep voice just above a growl, “that point’s important. It was early—did anyone else notice you while you were riding back?”

James hesitated, then replied, “Not that I was aware of, but”—he met Devil’s gaze—“I wasn’t looking around to see who we shocked.”

“Just so.” Helena spoke crisply. “But what you are wanting to know, I think”—she caught her son’s eye—“is whether it is likely that the whole ton now knows of this incident, or if it is still only us”—with a regal wave, she indicated the family gathered around—“who know of this cowardly attack.”

Devil nodded. “Correct. We agreed to keep the attacks—that they were attacks and not accidents—to ourselves, but no one’s going to label being shot in Hyde Park an accident.”

“Indeed, but”—Helena glanced at the other ladies—“I believe we, the ladies, are best placed to learn what the rest of the ton knows, so . . . who has luncheons to attend?”

Several ladies admitted to having such engagements; in the end, fully half the skirts and several of the morning coats departed the room, their owners sallying forth on their fact-finding mission.