And Then She Fell (The Cynster Sisters Duo 1)

saw through our plan.” He looked at James and Henrietta, seated on the sofa opposite. “Your charade was”—Royce smiled faintly—“exquisitely gauged. It was not too much, not too obvious. You kept in character. No one who was watching, as I was, would have thought anything other than what you intended them to think—so that wasn’t the reason he didn’t act.”

Letting his gaze travel the room, Royce went on, “And I watched everyone else, too—we all played our roles to perfection. No one gave our game away.”

“So why didn’t he take the bait?” Barnaby asked.

Royce glanced at Devil, then looked at Barnaby. “I believe the reason he didn’t act was because he evaluated the possibility and found it wanting. He walked through it, both in his mind and at least in part in actuality. As you’d theorized, he couldn’t murder Henrietta in the gallery itself—he had to get her to leave with him. But, and you couldn’t have known this before we arrived there tonight, there are only two doors to that room—and because of the valuables stored in the gallery, the doors were manned by museum staff. There were at least six staff at each door throughout the evening. In addition, because of the gala and the peculiar structure of the room with the doors being at either end, none of the guests were going in and out. Hardly any left during the event, only at the end.

“So there was no way our man could have left the room with Henrietta and not have been seen, not have been noted.” Royce paused, then added, “It was too great a risk. He wanted to take the bait, but he resisted because he evaluated the chance and decided the odds weren’t in his favor.”

Once again, Royce looked around the small crowd disposed about the drawing room. “And that,” he continued, “is what’s so disturbing. A murderer who, despite his most desired bait being dangled before him, can resist acting, more, can resist reacting at all, is a very dangerous man.”

“Ah.” Barnaby grimaced. “So we have ourselves an intelligent murderer.”

Royce glanced at Barnaby. “As I said, a profoundly dangerous man.”

If they’d felt deflated before, that realization, one no one could dispute, cast a further dampener on the debriefing.

As no one had any further insights to offer, much less any new and better plan, and it was already late, the gathering soon broke up. The key players agreed to meet, not the next day but the morning after, to plot their next move; Henrietta promised to, in the meantime, take all reasonable care.

Both she and James stood in the front hall to farewell all those who had answered their call, thanking them for their help, unproductive though the evening had been. Her disappointment was somewhat ameliorated by the unwavering resolution universally displayed, reflected in Amanda’s staunch reassurance, “Don’t worry. We’re not going to stop until we catch this blighter.”

With a swift, hard hug and a kiss on Henrietta’s cheek, Amanda allowed her husband, Martin, to escort her down the steps to their waiting carriage.

They were among the last to leave. Minutes later, Arthur waved Hudson to close the door, then turned to his wife and daughter. He smiled a trifle wearily, but before he could speak, Louise did, squeezing Henrietta’s hand as she said, “Amanda put what we all feel into words. Don’t lose heart, my dear. We’ll find this blackguard, and catch him, too.”

Releasing Henrietta’s hand, Louise patted her cheek, then smiled at James and patted his shoulder as she passed on her way to the stairs. “Come along, Arthur. Leave the two of them to their good-byes.”

Arthur snorted, leaned down, and bussed Henrietta on the cheek, clapped James rather more vigorously on the shoulder, then followed his wife up the stairs.

Leaving Henrietta facing James, looking into his lovely brown eyes; he looked as tired as she felt.

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, then his lips lightly lifted. “We’re both wrung out—it was all that tension. I’ll head home. I want to let everything settle in my mind overnight.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face and kissed her.

A gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.

Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes, then released her and stepped back. “Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll come by in the morning. A turn about the park might do us both good.”

She managed a smile. “That would be refreshing—I’ll look forward to it.”

Rather than summon Hudson, who had discreetly withdrawn to give them privacy, she opened the front door herself. With a last, lingering brush of his fingers over hers, James stepped out, went quickly down the steps, then strode away into the night.

Henrietta watched him go, then sighed, stepped back, and shut the door. She would have preferred him to stay, but he was right. Tonight, they would be no good company, not even for each other; better they rest and regroup. Stifling another sigh, she turned and headed for the stairs, and her cold and lonely bed.

Head down, his hands in his pockets, James walked along Upper Brook Street, then turned left into North Audley Street.

He couldn’t stop mentally juggling facts, turning over every detail of the four attempts on Henrietta’s life, searching for some clue they’d missed, anything that might give them some inkling or any type of hint as to who the murderous villain was.

Hostage to his thoughts, he crossed North Audley Street and several paces later turned right down Brown’s Lane, a habitual shortcut to his house in George Street. As usual, the narrow laneway was lit only by reflected light shining down from the high sides of the buildings to either side, and shafting in from the streets at either end. The relative darkness barely registered; he’d walked this way countless times before, very often late at night. He paced along, the echo of his footsteps a reassuringly familiar beat.

Was there anyone he could remember as definitely being at the Marchmain event, anyone who had paid particular attention to Henrietta? Wrack his brains though he did, no one stood out clearly in his memories.

There were two small courts along Brown’s Lane. Frowning to himself, James walked through the first, the cobbles illuminated by two small lamps above narrow doors, then plunged back into the, in contrast, deeper darkness of the section of the lane between the courts.

Simon had received the Marchmains’ guest list. Hopefully, tomorrow, Horatia would secure Sir Thomas’s list, and they’d be able to compare the two, and perhaps make a shorter list of possible suspects.

A faint sound registered, the scrape of a shoe on the flags.

There was someone behind him. James started to turn—