Nothing needed to be said. Sliding deeper into the bed, dragging up the covers, they turned into each other’s arms, and slept.
Chapter Thirteen
The following evening, Sir Thomas Grenville, Trustee of the British Museum and prominent bibliophile, had elected to host a gala to raise funds for the continuing construction of the new museum. Sir Thomas had had the happy notion of staging his gala in the part of the new East Wing known as The King’s Library Gallery, a completed section of the new works until that evening forbidden to any but the curators, hence assuring attendance by all those of the ton lucky enough to receive an invitation.
As most of the upper echelon of the ton was presently in residence for the Season, the event was destined by design to be the most horrendous, albeit select, crush—literally everyone who was anyone could be counted on to be there.
“It truly is the perfect venue for our trap,” Henrietta murmured. On James’s arm, she stood just behind her mother and father in the reception line; tall though she was, she couldn’t see over, much less through, the sea of heads and shoulders bobbing and nodding as those in the line ahead of their party chatted excitedly. Everyone was anticipating a highly memorable evening. Sir Thomas, an old hand at staging fund-raising events, had been extremely cagey over the entertainment he intended providing, letting speculation build and do his job for him.
As a consequence, all those invited had turned up en masse.
“I heard,” James said, bending his head to murmur in her ear, “that those senior hostesses who had intended to host events tonight have, by and large, cancelled them.”
Henrietta nodded. “There was no point persevering. Everyone is going to be here, and as it’s a gala, few will be likely to leave until it’s over.”
“Which, again, will presumably play into our hands.” Raising his head, James glanced around. “I can see St. Ives ahead, and Gabriel and Alathea are ten yards behind us.” He swept his gaze ahead, then back along the densely packed line of would-be revelers again. “I can’t see any of the others.”
“They’ll be here, somewhere, although with such a crowd I’m relieved we don’t have to meet up with any of them. Finding anyone will be well-nigh impossible.”
“Unless you’re watching and waiting.” James felt his jaw set. After a moment, he relaxed it enough to ask, “Remind me again—who are the ones elected to supply our façade of obliviousness?”
Henrietta glanced around, but the noise generated by the crowd was already such that she seriously
doubted even her mother, directly ahead of her, would hear anything she said. Nevertheless, she leaned nearer to James and lowered her voice. “Devil and Honoria, Vane and Patience, Gabriel and Alathea, Lucifer and Phyllida, and Demon and Flick, as well as Simon and Portia, Amanda and Martin, and Amelia and Luc.” She shifted her gaze forward. “And my parents, of course—and Mary, too.” Her sister was standing on Arthur’s other side. “Plus all the older generation—Aunt Helena, Martin and Celia, and George and Horatia. They’ll all be here, and all will be playing their part.”
They’d all agreed that her would-be murderer would definitely know enough to be wary of those named. He would watch them for their reactions, possibly even be bold enough to test them, and if they showed any hint of being alert and on guard, then no matter how tempting the lure they cast, he wouldn’t step free of the crowd to pursue it. Consequently, the above-named members of the wider company who had come there that night intent on capturing the murderer would project a façade of supreme unawareness of any potential threat. That was their role—to convince the murderer that no one was expecting him to do anything so outrageous as to strike again that night, certainly not at the gala, and that therefore no one was maintaining any particular watch on Henrietta.
“So,” James said, “we have Adair and Penelope, Charlie Morwellan and Sarah, Dillon Caxton and Pris, Gerrard Debbington and Jacqueline, your cousins Heather, Eliza, and Angelica, and their husbands, and Charlie Hastings playing the part of the surreptitious watchers.”
They shuffled forward in the line and Henrietta nodded. “Along with Christian and Letitia, Wolverstone and Minerva, and other members of that special club of theirs, as well as some of their army friends, and all their wives.” She glanced up at James. “There’ll be many more watching me than the murderer could possibly guess.”
James fought not to let his inner grimness show. He was supposedly there to enjoy what was widely expected to be the highlight of the Season, with his newly affianced bride-to-be on his arm, but projecting the correct image was proving a difficult task given his preordained role in their drama.
He still didn’t know how he’d come to agree to it—to agree to stage a disagreement with Henrietta of sufficient intensity to support the fiction of them parting, of her storming into the crowd and him turning on his heel and stalking off in the opposite direction.
Facing forward, Henrietta added, “And don’t forget Stokes and his men waiting outside.”
James wasn’t about to forget that the nearest the police could get was the outside of the building. If anything, Stokes liked their plan even less than James did, but, like James, he’d been largely helpless to prevent it being carried out, so had elected to lend his support as best he could. With a small cohort of his junior detectives and several eager constables, Stokes had set up a continual watch on all the exits from the building. If something occurred and the villain attempted to flee, he would run into the waiting arms of the Metropolitan Police.
James glanced at Henrietta. She appeared entirely calm, her attention focused outward, exchanging smiles and nods with others in the crowd.
Only he was near enough to detect the wary watchfulness lurking in her soft eyes; only he could feel, through her hand lying on his sleeve, the tension thrumming through her. She was wound as tight as he.
They reached the head of the reception line, and Sir Thomas greeted them with jocular good cheer. After exchanging the usual brief pleasantries, and receiving Sir Thomas’s congratulations on their engagement, James led Henrietta in Louise, Arthur, and Mary’s wake. All of them looked about them as they walked, tacking around other couples and groups likewise caught in admiration of the elegance of a room reputed to be the finest in all of London.
The gallery, built to house the King’s library, was three hundred feet long; over most of that length, it was thirty feet wide, but the central section, delineated by four spectacular columns of polished Aberdeen granite, was said to be nearly double that width.
“Just look at that ceiling.” Head tipped back, Henrietta stared upward at the ornate plasterwork in creams, pale yellows, and gold. “That must be at least forty feet high.”
“At least.” Grasping her hand, James wound her arm in his and started them on a course separate from her parents and sister. “Those balconies all around will afford an excellent view of the room.”
“Hmm.” Henrietta glanced his way, caught his eye. “Anyone on them, up there above the crowd, will also be in easy view of anyone watching them.”
James’s lips twisted. “Precisely my thought.” He dipped his head to murmur, “Up there would be the perfect place to stage our disagreement. We should keep an eye out for the stairs leading up.”
Henrietta nodded. The balconies in question ran above the bookcases lining the long sides of the room; about halfway up the forty-foot-high walls, the balconies formed narrow walkways that ran over the top of the deep bookcases and in front of the long windows set in the upper halves of the walls. Delicate, gilded, rail-type balustrades gave the balconies an airy appearance, as if they were suspended over the body of the room.
“According to Adair,” James said, “there are only two doors—the one we came in and another at the far end of the room.” They paused beside one of the beautiful polished desks situated along the room. Examining it, then the marble statue beside it, James shook his head. “I can’t believe this room is intended purely for the use of scholars, and the wider public wasn’t supposed to ever get a chance to appreciate it.” He glanced around as they started off again. “I can see why they’ve claimed it’s the finest room in London.”