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And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

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hysically, Henrietta drew James down to sit on the arm of the chaise, the corner of which she—as the lady most likely to be feeling frail—was instructed to take.

Devil claimed his usual position before the fireplace, flanked by his cousins Vane and Gabriel. Her father sat in an armchair alongside; his brothers, George and Martin, occupied chairs next to his. The other males ranged around the walls, or leaned against the backs of chairs and sofas. The ladies, not the full complement as the others had yet to return, disposed themselves around the circle of available seats.

Henrietta watched as Devil scanned the faces. This was just the family, all of them connected directly by blood or marriage. The connections weren’t present. What was discussed in this room would be family business, and unless agreed otherwise, would be restricted to the family only.

“Let us assume,” Devil began, “that the rest of the ton don’t know about the shooting this morning. Given there’ve been no inquiries made at the door here, I suspect that’s a reasonable assumption, but the rest of our number will return shortly and bring confirmation. So . . . the question we currently face is what to do next, specifically how we can identify the gentleman who, quite aside from already being a double-murderer, apparently thinks it’s wise to take aim at a Cynster.”

A rumble, a ripple of instinctive response, ran around the room. Ignoring it, Devil turned to James. “It might be helpful if the two of you would outline for the rest of us the earlier incidents—what exactly happened at Marchmain House, in Brook Street, and at the ruins at Ellsmere Grange.”

James nodded. Henrietta was holding his hand tightly, so he stayed where he was and addressed the company from there, outlining the three incidents, describing what had happened from his point of view; Henrietta chipped in with her observations as they went along.

Everyone listened in attentive silence, broken only by a few shrewd questions put by some of the gentlemen.

When they’d finished describing the morning’s events, Devil stated, “Scotland Yard, in the form of Inspector Stokes, knows everything bar this morning’s happenings. Before we inform him of those, however, I suggest we discuss what steps we intend to take to catch this blackguard. There are things we might do that Stokes might have difficulty condoning, and we don’t need to place him in any unenviable position. So let’s decide what we’re going to do first.”

There was general agreement with that sentiment, and also with the need to bring the matter to a head sooner rather than later.

“We don’t want him taking any more potshots at Henrietta,” her uncle Martin growled.

The ladies and gentlemen who had gone out over luncheon to assess the ton’s state of knowledge returned with the news that, overall, the ton remained oblivious.

“It seems,” Heather, now Viscountess Breckenridge, said, as she sat on a straight-backed chair her husband had fetched for her, “that it was simply too early and no one was about.”

“Or if they were, they weren’t awake enough to take proper notice.” Jeremy Carling set a chair for his wife alongside Heather’s; Eliza swept her skirts close and sat. Jeremy looked at Devil. “There wasn’t so much as a whisper at any of the clubs.”

“Good,” Devil said. “So the blackguard will most likely think that this morning’s incident is the first we’ve got wind of him and his lethal intentions, and that not having any idea what might be behind them, we’re in the dark and”—he waved around the room—“gathering in a panic and not yet actively doing anything. The longer he remains ignorant of our intention to trap him the better—the easier our task will be.”

The door opened and Simon entered; he’d gone to see if he could winkle Lady Marchmain’s guest list from her. Everyone looked at him hopefully. He grimaced. “She’s happy to share it, but it’s at Marchmain House. She’ll send it by rider the instant she gets home.”

James nodded his thanks but pointed out, “We need to remember that, given the number on it, at best all that list will do is narrow our field. It won’t get us all that much closer to identifying the killer.”

“True.” Devil looked around the room. “So who can think of a plan to draw the blackguard out?”

Various options—some rather fanciful—were aired. Henrietta sat back and let the discussions rage . . . until they started to peter out. Then, speaking more strongly than she had to that point, she stated, “We all know there’s really only one way.”

The look Devil cast her told her very clearly that he’d understood that from the first but had chosen to exhaust every other avenue before even considering it.

Before he could take charge again, she said, “The only way to trap him, to lure him into stepping out of the ton crowd, is to use me as bait.”

She wasn’t surprised by the resulting furor.

Under cover of the arguments being tossed back and forth, James, her hand trapped in his, leaned closer to say, “I don’t want you to do it—to risk yourself like that.”

Henrietta looked into his eyes. “I know. I don’t want to take the risk—but it’s the only way.” She squeezed his hand, held tight. “The only way we’ll get to live in your grandaunt Emily’s house, the two of us together, free of any threat, the only way I’ll ever be able to see the scenes she painted in real life, at Whitestone Hall.” She held his gaze for a moment more, then quietly but determinedly said, “I don’t wish to take any risk, but to have the future we both want, we need me to do this, and so I will. Please don’t make it more difficult.”

He returned her regard for a long moment, then . . . with palpable reluctance, he nodded and looked up, at Devil. “St. Ives.”

When Devil glanced his way, James said, “Let’s cut to the chase. Henrietta’s right. There is only one way.”

His eyes on James’s, Devil hauled in a huge breath, then he glanced at Henrietta, saw her resolution, and sighed. Nodded. Then Devil raised his voice, called the family conclave to order, and stated, “There’s no point arguing. This has to be done. So how, exactly, do we do it?”

Silence fell as everyone paused and drew breath.

Then step by step, point by point, layer of protection upon layer of protection, acting in concert, bringing their collective experience to bear, the Cynster family formulated a plan to trap Lady Winston’s murderer, the malefactor who had had the temerity to target one of their own.

Later that night, James climbed through the back parlor window of Lord Arthur Cynster’s house. “Thank you,” he whispered to the shadowy figure who had opened the window and waved him inside.

“If you want to thank me, just make sure Henrietta gets through this, happy and alive.” Mary closed the window, locked it, paused, then amended, “In reverse order will be perfectly acceptable.”



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