And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Her expression reflecting something akin to rapture—a common enough expression on many ladies’ faces at that precise moment—Henrietta turned to James, met his gaze. “We do it now.” Her expression altered, sobering—as if he’d said something to bring her jarringly back to earth.

He nodded curtly, lips already a thin line. “So we’re having an argument.”

She tipped up her head. Chin firming, lips tightening, she flatly stated, “Yes. You’ve said something horrible—God only knows what.”

They’d rehearsed through the afternoon, but that hadn’t been in their script. He narrowed his eyes, tipping his face downward to meet her militant gaze, an aggressive frown hovering over his face. “Don’t you dare make me laugh.”

In response, she tipped her nose higher and all but tossed her head. “Nonsense. A laugh will do you good.”

He scowled blackly; it was easy to make light of what they were doing—their “disagreement” charade. This was the simple part of the plan; what came next was the bit neither of them felt the least inclined to do.

“So I’m going,” she pronounced, turning away, but pausing, as if to allow him one last chance to apologize, or to otherwise say the right thing.

“Take care.” He had to grip the balustrade to stop himself from reaching out to her.

She swung fully away with an almost violent flounce and, her back to him, head high, took the two steps to the spiral stair and, nose still elevated, went very deliberately down.

Stone-faced, jaw clenching, he tightened his grip on the balustrade, then, forcing himself to slowly let go, he turned on his heel and stalked, slowly, rigidly, back along the balcony.

It took effort, real effort, not to turn and glance back at her; it took almost as much effort not to check on the others, especially those who would, by now, he hoped, be trailing her, sticking close by as she made her way through the crowd. They’d reasoned the murderer, unless he had studied the family’s connections, wouldn’t realize the link between, for example, Gerrard Debbington and Henrietta Cynster.

Gerrard and Charles Morwellan were two of those who would shadow Henrietta wherever she went in the crowded room, waiting to see if any gentleman approached her. They’d hypothesized that if the murderer saw her, his target, believably alone, he wouldn’t be able to resist and, under cover of the crowd, would approach and seek to inveigle her out of the room.

So now James had to wait on tenterhooks, wait and suppress every instinct he possessed, all of which, knowing Henrietta was swanning into danger, were desperately urging him to react, to go after her, protect her, to do his all to keep her safe. . . .

Sadly, in this instance, keeping his distance and playing out their charade was the only way he could, ultimately, ensure her safety. Only through capturing her would-be murderer would she ever be safe again.

He paused on the balcony, swiftly scanned the crowd below, then walked down the spiral stair at the balcony’s end, far from where Henrietta had joined the crowd near the room’s center. He’d noted several friends with whom he could pass the time, as he’d be expected to do had their disagreement been real. To preserve the fiction, he would speak with his friends and avoid all members of her family, which was what he proceeded to do.

Of course, all his acquaintances had heard of his engagement and wanted to meet his fiancée. He had a glib answer prepared—that she’d paused to speak with some elderly relatives and would no doubt catch up with him soon.

The effort it cost him was more than he’d expected, yet he held to his role, stayed at that end of the room, and doggedly fought the impulse to search the crowd.

Henrietta, meanwhile, made her way through the throng milling in the room’s center. It was easy to stop and chat, and even to accept the felicitations on her betrothal. Even though James was not by her side, people were so accustomed to her drifting through ton ballrooms alone that few remarked on his absence, and those who did were easily deflected. If they’d just had an argument in reality, she would behave with a high hand and allow no signs of any disturbance to mar the façade she presented to the world.

But as the minutes ticked by and James did not come after her, she might be expected to seek out a quiet place to stop and think. To take stock.

After half an hour of chatting inconsequentially, noting the members of their company who were close by in the throng, she started easing toward the edge of the crowd, slipping t

oward the rear of the wider central section that was opposite the piano.

When the tenor came out to sing, and the crowd re-formed and focused their collective attention on the diminutive man, she was able to step back, into the relative shadows at the rear of the throng, into a space that was far less crowded.

She stood facing toward the tenor, but more or less alone. The nearest couple was standing in front of her, their backs to her. There was clear space on either side of her, the best invitation she could manage for a gentleman to approach her, especially with everyone else absorbed with the tenor, transfixed by his soaring voice.

As she stood there, waiting, fighting not to allow any of her nervousness to show, she was acutely conscious of feeling exposed. What if he’d brought a gun, or a knife . . . but no. They’d discussed those possibilities, and everyone had agreed that trying to kill her in the gallery itself would be futile; the murderer would never be able to get out, get away, without being recognized.

Which was precisely the reason he wanted to kill her, to protect his identity, so . . . he would approach her, and, one way or another, get her to leave the gala with him.

One part of her mind wondered in an academic sort of way what arguments he might use to accomplish that, but most of her nerves were dancing, taut, twitching and twisting with an unnerving blend of impatience and fear.

From the corner of her eye, she could see Gerrard and Jacqueline Debbington at the rear of the crowd to her right, their gazes and their full attentions fixed, supposedly, on the tenor.

Ahead and a little to her left, further into the crowd, stood Jeremy and Eliza Carling, but they, too, had their backs to her.

Rather closer to her left stood a gentleman and lady she’d met but didn’t know well, Rafe and Loretta Carstairs. There were others, too; she wasn’t alone, yet her lungs tightened and she had to fight not to grip her reticule overly tightly.

She waited. Waited.