And Then She Fell(104)
There were nods all around. Henrietta turned and led the way up the stairs. Simon walked off to the parlor to write his note, but everyone else followed Henrietta, hurrying up the stairs in her wake, eager to change and sneak out to take up their assigned positions.
Chapter Fifteen
At precisely fifteen minutes before ten o’clock, cloaked and veiled, Henrietta descended the front steps of her parents’ house and set off, walking briskly along the pavement toward Grosvenor Square. She felt keyed up, nerves tight, but, surprisingly, her principal emotion wasn’t fear, not even trepidation.
They would get James back, and catch the murderer, and all would be well.
She knew there were any number of things that might go wrong, but her brain had, it seemed entirely of its own volition, shut them out, denying failure any purchase whatever in her mind. She was so determined that it was an effort to walk normally and not march militantly along.
The night was unhelpfully black, with little moon to light her way. Luckily, her path to the appointed rendezvous was along well-lit Mayfair streets; the streetlamps were all burning, and it wasn’t yet so late that there was any real danger, not in that area.
Knowing that, courtesy of their plan, she wasn’t actually alone no doubt contributed to her combative mood. She spotted a familiar street sweeper loitering along one side of Grosvenor Square—directly opposite St. Ives House; Luc was prone to taking such risks. Henrietta didn’t dare look more closely to see where Amelia was, but she knew her sister would be near.
Also comforting was the pistol weighing down her reticule; Penelope had loaned it to her and instructed her in how to fire it. As, along with all the Cynster girls, Henrietta had insisted on being taught about guns along with their brothers, a little instruction was all that had been necessary; the small, American muff pistol felt nice and snug in her grasp.
Penelope had assured her that despite its size, the pistol would put a sizeable hole in the murderer.
Of course, none of the ladies had considered it wise to mention the pistol to any of their menfolk.
Head up, gaze fixed forward, Henrietta walked purposefully along, ignoring the hackney, and its driver, who rolled past as she crossed Duke Street, leaving Grosvenor Square to walk on along Brook Street.
James Street was the second street on the left. She crossed the street, staring up it to the opening of the much narrower Roberts Street, a poorly lit dark maw, but she could see no figure waiting. Resisting the urge to nod in greeting to the apparently old man in a frieze coat who shuffled past, she turned up James Street and walked briskly to the designated corner.
The old man shuffled on across the mouth of James Street, then, placing one foot tentatively in front of the other, turned up the street on the opposite pavement. At the rate he was moving, she would meet the murderer and be long gone before Barnaby reached the spot directly across from Roberts Street.
Taking up position at the corner, closer to the edge of the pavement so she could more easily be seen, she put back her veil and looked around again, searching the shadows. She even turned and peered into the deeper shadows of Roberts Street; courtesy of the light from the lamps in the street at the other end, she could see that there was no figure lurking along the pavements in Roberts Street, either.
Turning back to face James Street, and Barnaby, still puffing and wheezing along, she heaved a sigh and settled to wait.
Two minutes later, the hair at her nape lifted. She stiffened.
“Don’t turn around. Not yet.”
He—the murderer—was standing directly behind her. Her senses screaming, she battled the primitive impulse to whirl about. Gripping her reticule tightly, she raised her head higher, then stiffly nodded. “Very well. Now what?”
“Now I’m going to turn around and walk down Roberts Street, and when I give the word, you will turn and follow. We’re going to walk the streets—I will lead and you will follow, remaining a good yard behind me at all times. If all remains well, I will eventually take you to where I’m holding Glossup.” He paused, then asked, “Is that clear?”
She’d heard him speak before. Not often, and she couldn’t remember where, but there was a faint echo of some shire accent hidden beneath the polished vowels . . . she shook aside the distraction and nodded. “Yes. I’ll stay behind you so I won’t be able to see your face.”
Amusement laced his voice. “Precisely.” Then his tone hardened. “Wait for my word, then follow.”