And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

The tenor ended his performance, and no gentleman had approached her. Stifling a sigh, she forced herself to plaster on a smile and move into and through the crowd again. She chatted with friends, smiled and nodded to acquaintances as she made her way across the wider central section of the room. Several gentlemen, spotting her alone, halted and smiled and passed the time, but all were known to her, and none made any attempt to engage with her other than in mundane social ways.

Eventually, she circled back behind the pillar opposite the piano, as if seeking refuge from the constant chatter and press of bodies; when the soprano and tenor came out together for their final duet, she was standing in the lee of the pillar, as concealed from the body of the crowd as she could get even had said crowd not been focusing on the singers. Once again, everyone’s back was to her.

Once again, she waited.

Waited.

And, once again, no gentleman or, indeed, anyone else, approached her.

“I don’t believe it,” she muttered beneath her breath as the tenor and soprano ended their aria and the crowd again burst into thunderous applause. Grimacing faintly, she put her hands together and politely clapped, but the truth was she’d heard not a single note.

The crowd started to shift, to drift, its focus dissipating; presumably the singers had departed.

Henrietta looked around. “What now?” she whispered. They’d been so sure the murderer wouldn’t be able to resist her as bait that his refusing the lure was the one eventuality for which they hadn’t planned.

As if in answer to her question, Sir Thomas raised his voice, thanking all for their attendance, then informing them that, as this was the museum and the event was at an end, they were now free to leave via the doors at either end of the room.

The crowd started to break up. People searched for others of their party, then headed toward the doors. As the bodies thinned, Henrietta dithered, unsure, then she heaved a sigh, marched around the pillar to the side fronting the central part of the room, and, somewhat glumly, took up station there, waiting again, but this time for James. He, she had no doubt, would come for her.

James didn’t know what he felt as he realized the gala had come to an end and no disturbance of any kind had marred the evening. Disbelief, relief, and frustration all vied for dominance in his mind; jaw setting, he stepped free of the stream of guests heading for the nearer door and turned back up the room, scanning for someone who could confirm their failure.

Devil saw him first and hailed him. James waved and they met, Devil with Honoria on his arm, by one side of the room.

“Nothing.” Devil bit off the word; he looked as disgusted and deflated as James felt. “Perhaps, after all, he wasn’t here.” Devil tipped his head toward the furthest of the four granite pillars. “Henrietta’s waiting at the base of that pillar. I’d suggest you make it appear as if you’ve both come to your senses and wish to make up, rather than allow whoever this cursed villain is to guess that we’d planned anything.”

“We’re holding a debriefing in Upper Brook Street.” Honoria smiled faintly, then stretched up and planted a kiss on James’s cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.” Drawing back, she nodded regally. “We’ll expect to see you soon—don’t dally.”

James’s lips twisted wryly and he bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Then he turned toward the far pillar.

Henrietta was, as Devil had said, standing at the base of the pillar, waiting. What Devil hadn’t said was that she was looking lost, even forlorn.

That made his own approach—and the fiction Devil wanted them to promulgate—rather easier.

Smiling ruefully, he approached. Eyes on hers, he halted, then, after a moment, held out his hand. “Pax?”

“Yes, please.” Henrietta placed her hand in his, then shifted closer as he twined her arm with his, then she sighed and tipped her head so it rested fleetingly against his shoulder. “That was one hellish waste of time.”

All their supporters who had attended the gala congregated in the drawing room in Upper Brook Street. Tea was dispensed and distributed, along with sweet biscuits. Everyone partook, putting off revisiting their failure for as long as they could.

But Royce, Duke of Wolverstone, arguably the one person there most experienced in such intrigues, cut directly to the heart of the matter. “So it didn’t work, but I fancy I know why.”

Devil narrowed his eyes at Royce. “Why?”

Royce’s lips twitched, but he immediately sobered. “Your plan was sound, but it was a plan designed to catch a different type of villain.” Across the room, he met James’s and Henrietta’s gazes. “A different sort of murderer. If our villain in this instance had been a typical ton gentleman who had, for whatever reason, found himself murdering not just Lady Winston but then her dresser as well, and now attempting to kill Henrietta, all out of panic, out of blind fear of his identity becoming known . . . then he would have, almost certainly, approached Henrietta at the gala. Even if he made no move to harm her there, or to remove her, because he hadn’t planned it, nevertheless he would have approached her and spoken with her and assessed his chances, maybe tried to establish himself as someone she might, next time they meet, trust.” Royce set down his cup. “But he didn’t do any such thing.”

“But can we be sure he was there?” Gabriel said.

“Oh, I think so.” Royce steepled his fingers before his face. “I do think the assumption that he would have been there was sound, but you can check that by comparing the guest lists from Marchmain House and tonight.”

“I know Sir Thomas quite well,” Horatia said. “I can ask him for his list.”

Royce inclined his head. “Please do. At this stage, we need every little piece of intelligence we can gather.” He glanced around the room. “Because I have to warn you that the fact the murderer didn’t take the bait tonight does not bode well.”

Silence hovered for several seconds, eventually broken by Lucifer’s growled “How so?”

Royce paused, then said, “Because I don’t think he