And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

Before James could respond, the lamp was doused, plunging the room into inky darkness.

Searching for any spark, straining his ears, James heard soft footsteps retreating, strolling away. Then came a scritch, and a match flared, a tiny flame at the far end of the room. The flame and the bulky shadows about it traveled upward at an angle; the murderer was using the match to light his way up some stairs.

The man reached the head of the stairs, and the flame waved and died.

James waited, listening hard to hear what sort of locks or bolts were on what he assumed would be the door into the room . . . was it a basement?

“Incidentally”—the murderer’s disembodied voice floated through the empty space—“you can roar and even scream, but no one will hear you. This house is deserted, as are those on either side, and all the walls are sound, solid stone.” A pause ensued, then the murderer moved. “Sleep well.”

James heard the scrape of wood on stone; a waft of fresh air barreled down the room, then a heavy door thudded shut.

A second later, he caught the metallic scrape of a large bolt being slid home, first one, then another.

Silence fell. The darkness seemed to thicken.

After several moments, James settled as comfortably as he could, gingerly easing his head, still pounding, back on his neck.

He stared upward into the blackness. “Now what?”

He waited, but no answer came.

Chapter Fourteen

“Miss Henrietta.”

Stepping off the stairs onto the tiles of the front hall, Henrietta turned to see Hudson approaching; juggling a silver-domed platter, he was fishing in one pocket as he came.

“This”—Hudson pulled out a letter—“was lying on the tiles by the door this morning.” He tipped his head toward the front door. “Presumably someone delivered it very early this morning or very late last night.”

“Thank you.” She took the note, a neatly folded sheet of parchment with her name inscribed across the front in a bold hand. There seemed to be something enclosed within the folds.

Hudson hovered. “Will you be breakfasting, miss? Would you like fresh tea and toast?”

She flashed him a smile. “Yes, please. I’ll be in in a minute.”

He bowed, turned, and magisterially swept down the corridor and into the breakfast parlor, whither she’d been heading.

Remaining where she was, she broke the plain seal, unfolded the parchment, and caught the small item that fell from the folds . . . stared at it as it rested on her palm.

James’s cravat pin. She recognized it—she’d removed it several times. . . .

Closing her hand around the pin, she smoothed out the parchment and read the words inscribed thereon.

I commend you, Miss Cynster—your charade last night was excellent. However, I was rather more surprised and somewhat disappointed that you and your supporters imagined that I might fall victim to such a ploy. That was presumptuous, not to say insulting, but, on the other hand, I fully appreciated the strategy of employing live bait.

Consequently, my dear Miss Cynster, if you wish to see your fiancé, James Glossup, alive and well, you will follow my directions and do so without fail. You will tell no one of this contact, or of my demands, and yes, I will be watching, just as I was last night. Rest assured I will know if any in your family are alerted—you must take all and every care to do nothing throughout the day to raise anyone’s suspicions. If I judge that you have succeeded in that, and have made not a single wrong move through the day, then over dinnertime, I will send word again as to where you will need to come this evening if you wish to set eyes on Glossup again.

I am prepared to trade your life for his, but only if you follow my instructions to the letter.

The missive was unsigned, of course.

Henrietta read it through a second time, then, moving very slowly, shaking inside, she refolded the parchment and tucked it into her skirt pocket. She looked down at James’s cravat pin, turned it in her palm, then, lips tightening, carefully pinned it to the inside of her bodice, above her heart.

Straightening her spine, she drew in a deep, deep breath, held it for a second, then she forced her lips to ease, found and plastered on an unconcerned expression, and walked down the corridor to the breakfast parlor as normally as she could.

From the cheery, comfortable sounds emanating from within, the rest of her family was already present.

She was, of course, going to rescue James, but . . . she would play the role the murderer had scripted for her until she’d worked out how.