And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

As long as she got him back, nothing else mattered.

James had dozed throughout the day, waking to shift as much as he could, easing cramped muscles as far as he could, which, with respect to his arms and torso, hadn’t been very far at all.

But he was awake, and wondering, when he heard muffled footsteps approach the basement door, then the bolts were drawn back and the door swung inward.

Judging by the quality of the light slanting through the small windows, it was early evening. James watched as the man he assumed to be Lady Winston’s murderer came down the stairs. Studying the man closely, he confirmed that the man was the one who had left him in the basement the previous night—the same height, the same build, the same gait. Today the villain wore a plain black suit, with a black cloak over all, and with his head and face concealed beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the lower half of his face further masked by a black silk scarf.

Other points of difference were the sharp knife the man held in one fist, and the pistol he held in the other.

James watched as the villain strolled toward him, then halted several yards away. The villain’s eyes fixed on him, studying him with a certain dispassion. Dark, perhaps black, brows, brown eyes paler than James’s; that was all James could see.

After a long moment, unable to help himself, he arched a weary brow.

Behind the scarf, the villain’s lips shifted. “Indeed. I fear you must have been atrociously bored. My apologies.” What little expression had been discernible in his eyes leached to blankness. “But it’ll all be over soon.”

The man’s voice had lowered, growing both softer and harsher, more rasping. James quelled a sudden shiver.

The blackguard stirred, paused, then said, “I’m here to move you upstairs. I’m going to undo the ropes tying you to the chair, and then you’re going to stand.” Slowly, keeping his distance, he started to pace around the chair. “You will not turn around. Once you’re steady on your feet and I give the word, you will walk, slowly and steadily, over to the stairs and up them. I’ll give you directions from there.” He passed out of James’s field of vision. “I’ll be walking behind you, far enough that you won’t have any chance to reach me before I pull the trigger, but also close enough that should you try to make a bolt for it, I’ll have no difficulty shooting you, and then, if necessary, finishing you off with the knife.”

Now standing behind James, the man continued, in the same calm, deadly tone, “While I’m sure by now you realize the futility of your position, I’m equally sure you’ll do everything—cling to every hope—of living to at least see your betrothed alive and well, and to try to get her free. Your best chance of doing that is to cooperate in moving to the room upstairs—the room to which I intend bringing her, regardless of whether you are alive to see it or not.” He paused, then, voice hardening, asked, “Do I make myself clear?”

James pressed his lips tight, holding back the various responses that leapt to his tongue. Rather than trust himself to speak, he nodded.

“Excellent.”

He sensed the murderer draw closer, then felt the rope about his chest tighten and tug as the blackguard undid the knots.

Then the rope loosened and the murderer stepped back, drawing the rope away. “There. You can stand.”

Slowly, feeling his balance teeter, his joints and muscles realigning, James eased upright. Eventually, he straightened to his full height; he closed his eyes in blessed relief as he stretched his spine as well as he could, given his hands were still lashed behind his back.

The murderer gave him a few moments to ease his back and properly regain his balance, then ordered, “Start walking. To the stairs and up them.”

James obeyed. Climbing the stairs, he was curious to see what he could of the building as they moved through it; the more he could learn about the house or whatever it was the better—who knew what might happen once Henrietta arrived?

“Turn left at the top of the stairs.”

Following that and subsequent directions, James walked through a long-deserted kitchen, down a corridor, and into a narrow front hall wreathed in cobwebs. Through various open doorways, he saw that although the place was clearly abandoned, some

furniture still remained. As, at the murderer’s direction, he started up the narrow stair, he asked, his tone purely curious, “As I understand your plan, you want to make it appear that Henrietta and I both came here willingly, but why on earth would we be meeting here?”

“For a tryst, why else? You certainly can’t share any intimate interludes at her parents’ house, and for what will appear to be your . . . shall we say, esoteric tastes?—your own house would be too dangerous, so you and your fiancée have been meeting here.” After a moment, the villain added, his voice holding a darker note, “Trust me, I know how to set a stage.”

James wondered what he meant by that—how the comment could possibly relate to Lady Winston’s or her dresser’s murder, neither of which had been made to appear as anything but the violent if not frenzied attacks they were—but had reached no conclusion by the time he gained the top of the stairs and the villain directed him along the gallery, then told him to stop.

James did, then heard the door he’d already walked past being opened.

“Turn to your right, toward the wall, and so, slowly, turn around, then walk back to the open door and go in.”

James did as he was bid, noting that the murderer circled behind him as he turned. A grimy skylight high above the stairwell let in light, more light than he’d yet had; clearly the murderer was taking no chances of him getting any reasonable look at the man’s face. Even now. Even though the villain planned to kill him in just a few hours.

A cautious beggar to the last, James mused.

Walking through the open doorway, he found himself facing a large four-poster bed. The room was of reasonable size, but not huge. If this was the main bedroom of the house, it was a terrace house, not a mansion. That fitted with what he’d seen of the front hall and stairs.

The room was clean, the bed made, but without any counterpane. The curtains over the windows were drawn. A swift glance around confirmed that the furnishings included a washstand and basin, as well as various other little touches that reinforced the image of this being a place currently in use for intimate trysts.

A straight-backed chair had been set to the right of the bed, three yards away and facing it. A stout rope lay coiled behind the chair. A lamp had been lit; turned very low, it sat atop a tallboy set against the wall immediately to the right of the door.