James halted.
“Further.” The end of the pistol barrel prodded his spine. “Walk to the chair and halt, facing it.”
James did, wondering. The villain again told him to turn slowly, this time to his left, allowing the blackguard to circle behind him, confirming that the man was taking extraordinary care to ensure that James saw as little of his face—his largely concealed face—as possible.
Which, James concluded, meant that, if he did get a clear view of the devil’s face, he would know him.
“Sit.”
James did; a second later, the rope looped about him and cinched tight, then looped around him again, lashing him very effectively to the chair.
He waited, saying nothing, trying to think if there was anything more he might ask, might hope to learn. There was really only one more piece of information he needed.
After testing the rope, and that his hands were still securely bound, the murderer stepped back, then walked to the door, showing James nothing but the back of his cloak.
But on reaching the door, with his hand on the knob, the villain turned. And told James what he wanted to know. “I’m off to arrange to meet with your fiancée, and then . . . I’ll bring her here.”
Although he couldn’t see the man’s lips, James knew they were curved when the blackguard added, “And then I’ll bring this whole sorry tale to an end.”
The murderer’s pale eyes gleamed briefly in the lamplight, then he opened the door and went out, closing the door gently behind him.
James stared at where the man had stood. By the door, the lamplight had been strong enough for James to clearly see that part of the blackguard’s face above the band of the black silk scarf. . . . “He’s right.” James frowned. “If I could see more of his face, I would know him—would recognize him.” As it was . . . he knew he’d seen the man before, but he couldn’t put a name to the face.
Setting the puzzle of the man’s identity aside, James waited—counseled himself to patience even though his instincts were urging him to act, and act swiftly.
Presumably the man would send a note to Henrietta and she would come to rescue him. She would accompany the murderer back here, to this house, to this room, and then . . . if James read the man and his ghastly intentions aright, the blackguard would violate her and beat her to death in front of James, and then kill James, staging his murder to appear to be suicide driven by anguished remorse.
“Well,” he muttered, “if Henrietta did die like that trying to save me, I would kill myself out of anguished remorse.”
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Once the devil’s footsteps had receded, then died away down the stairs, after the front door had closed and remained closed for, James judged, long enough to be sure that the fiend wasn’t about to have second thoughts and for whatever reason come back to check his bonds, he carefully eased the long glass shard down from its position under his cuff.
Gripping it carefully between his fingers, he started sawing.
Hudson was waiting to deliver the second note from Lady Winston’s murderer when Henrietta walked out of the dining room after dinner that evening.
As they’d arranged that afternoon, dinner had been transformed into an impromptu family gathering, with Amanda and Martin, Amelia and Luc, and Simon and Portia joining Mary, Henrietta, Louise, and Arthur about the table.
Arthur and Louise had been delighted to have their family all together, the only minor blemish being that, as Henrietta had explained, James had had a prior engagement that had prevented him from joining them.
Expecting the murderer to have been as good as his word, after an hour and a half of concealing her fraught state, assisted by the others, who had done their best to keep her parents’ attention fixed elsewhere, Henrietta led the exodus from the dining room, leaving Martin, Amanda, Luc, and Amelia to delay Louise and Arthur enough for her to accept the note, swiftly read it, then tuck it away in her pocket.
Looking up, she met Simon’s eyes; he and Portia had followed her and Mary from the dining room. Simon arched a brow. “As expected?” He kept his voice low.
Raising her head, Henrietta nodded. “Just a place and a time, and some instructions. Nothing more.”
The rest of the company joined them; they all stood milling in the front hall, talking of the engagements they were about to leave to attend.
Arthur held Louise’s evening cloak for her.
Shrugging into it and settling the folds, Louise glanced at Henrietta. “You’re coming with me and Mary tonight, aren’t you? I know James is otherwise engaged, but—”
“Actually, Mama,” Mary cut in, “I’m feeling rather queasy.” She grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach. “It must have been something I ate.”
Louise was at once solicitous, but Henrietta stepped in to say, “I’ll stay with Mary. I’m really not enthused by the prospect of another night socializing—I could do with a quiet night in. And I know you’re looking forward to seeing Lady Hancock, and you really can’t cry off Mrs. Arbuthot’s soiree.”
Louise grimaced. She glanced at Mary, then nodded. “All right. You two girls have a quiet night and get to bed early.” She looked inquiringly at the twins and their husbands, at Portia and Simon. “So where are you all bound for? Can I drop any of you off on my way?”