And Then She Fell(100)

Stokes frowned. “Who . . . ?”

“Simon.” Portia met Mary’s eyes and nodded. “We can tell Simon and make him understand. He might not like it, but he will understand—he knows how the others will react as well as we do.”

“That would be enough for you, wouldn’t it?” Amanda looked at Stokes, then Barnaby. “Simon is, after all, Henrietta’s older brother.”

Barnaby nodded decisively. “Yes, and I’m sure he’ll agree with us—with your reasoning as to why this has to be kept secret from Devil and the rest.”

Stokes had raised his brows, considering; now he, too, nodded. “Miss Henrietta’s older brother’s involvement would absolve me of having to inform His Grace.”

“Well,” Mary said, “that’s a relief.”

Which summed up everyone’s reaction.

Penelope and Portia arranged for a message to be sent to Simon.

By the time Simon arrived, also entering via the back door and bringing Charlie Hastings with him, their plan had evolved considerably, with Stokes adding a great deal, not only from his extensive experience but also by way of the personnel he could command.

Simon and Charlie sat, and Simon listened as Henrietta related what had occurred since the previous evening, then Barnaby explained the outline of their plan, and Stokes filled in various details of how the plan would have to be executed.

Amanda then explained the dilemma they faced in that they could not allow any of the above to come to the attention of Devil and the older members of the Cynster clan.

Henrietta concluded their arguments with, “We have to remember that it’s not only my life at risk in this, but James’s, too, and at present he’s in this blackguard’s hands.”

Simon met her eyes, blue meeting blue of a similar shade, for a long-drawn moment, then he sighed. Nodded. “You’re right. If we let the others know, James’s life will be at even greater risk than it already is. It might even be forfeit due to their reactions, and that we cannot have. And the truth is, if we’re successful in laying hands on this villain and rescuing James, while they’ll grumble and grouse about not being told, it’ll be more in the vein of not being involved and so missing out on the excitement, but beyond that they won’t really care. Just as long as we all come out of this with a whole skin and in good health, that’s all they’ll truly care about.”

Amanda nodded. “Well said. So”—she looked about the gathering—“let’s get down to sorting out the details. First point—who else do we need to inform and involve?”

Barnaby drew out a notebook, as did Stokes, and the company settled to walk through the entire plan, from the preparation necessary to ensure Henrietta could respond to the villain’s summons when she received it, to the ultimate end of what was, as Charlie put it, “Rather like a treasure hunt of sorts.”

They discussed and drafted in more husbands and others to help; when they paused for refreshments, Henrietta glanced around the group. And felt hope well; with so many behind her—the small, select army Penelope had decreed—she was starting to feel the first seeds of confidence that by the end of the night, all might be well.

A dangerous confidence. The whisper slid through her thoughts. She took due note of it, acknowledged that Lady Winston’s murderer was far too intelligent, and far too cold-blooded, to be taken lightly, yet . . . she had to cling to hope.

Turning back to the discussion, raging still, she gave herself up to their plan to rescue James.

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.