And Then She Fell(107)
As she neared the top of the stairs, the murderer, following a few steps behind her, said, “Turn left and walk along the gallery. Stop at the second door.”
She turned as directed, but once he was walking directly behind her, she raised her reticule and slipped the catch free, opened the neck wide, and, reaching inside, closed her hand firmly about the grip of the small pistol. She didn’t yet pull it free but used her cloak to conceal what she’d done.
Halting as instructed, facing the second door, she drew in a deep breath and steeled herself for what she might find beyond it. Lady Winston’s murderer had a reputation for brutality. He’d said James was alive, hale and whole, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t beaten James badly.
Regardless, James would be tied securely and unable to help her. She would have to rely on herself, on her own resources, until the others burst into the house—which, she was praying, they would do any minute now. . . .
Her senses revolted again, skin crawling, nerves skittering, as the murderer drew close enough to reach around her and open the door.
He set it swinging. “Go in. Your fiancé is waiting to see you . . . one last time.”
The tone of those last words sent a shudder down her spine, but, raising her head high, she stepped into the room and halted.
By the shaft of light cast by the lantern behind her and the weaker glow coming from a lamp on a tallboy beside the door, she saw a bed, but it was empty. She looked further and saw a chair set deeper in the room, to one side of the bed, but she couldn’t see James anywhere. Then she realized there were ropes lying discarded about the chair—
Hard fingers gripped her arm and yanked her sideways—behind the door.
James! Her heart leapt even while he bundled her behind him, into the lee of the door, and swung to face the murderer in her stead.
Only to get the lantern flashed in his face.
The full light of the lantern in his eyes made James instinctively recoil and raise an arm to shield his eyes.
Realizing he’d lost the advantage, he cursed. Lowering his arm, he tried to see, but the light was so bright that he wasn’t even sure exactly where the villain was standing.
Then, ominously, the lantern beam slowly lowered, falling from his face to center on his body.
“Step back, Glossup, or I’ll shoot you now. In front of your bride-to-be.”
James finally managed to focus—and discovered that, yes, the villain now held a pistol aimed directly at his heart.
But . . . thinking furiously, James held his ground. “Me getting shot in the chest won’t fit with your plan. How will your story run if I have a hole in my chest, instead of the side of my head? Not many men commit suicide by shooting themselves in the heart.”
Silence held for a moment, then the murderer replied, amusement and more lacing his words, “That won’t discomfit me in the least. I’ll just turn my story around the other way. You beat Miss Cynster nearly unconscious, and in desperation she grabs the pistol and shoots you in the chest, then, in despair, she shoots herself. It’s all one to me—who gets shot in the head and who in the heart.” The murderer’s voice strengthened. “So why don’t you just step back toward the chair—now.”
James hesitated.
Stunned by the murderer’s intentions, made even more nauseating by being stated aloud, Henrietta clapped a hand over her lips, smothering her spontaneous rebuttal. She could see James thinking, trying to decide what he should do; the noble idiot would sacrifice himself for her, and then where would she be?
Living out the rest of her life alone.
She had to make her next words sound believable. Gulping in a breath, she discovered she didn’t have to try all that hard to make her voice quaver. “James, please . . . do as he says.”
His gaze flicked to her; she opened her eyes wide at him and showed him the pistol she’d pulled free of her reticule.
Understanding held James motionless for a second, then the murderer drawled, “Do as she says, Glossup, and who knows? After I tie you up again, I might let you have one last kiss.”
Henrietta was perfectly certain she could not hate a man more. Settling her weight evenly, she grasped the pistol in both hands, simultaneously making her voice weak and wavery. “Please, James, do what he says. I don’t want him to shoot you—and perhaps he’ll change his mind. We really don’t know who he is, so perhaps he’ll believe us and let us go . . .” She ended with a passable sob.
James met her eyes, then, his lips a thin line, looked back at the murderer and took one step back.