And Then She Fell(109)

They turned to the others just as Stokes shifted and looked around the circle. “Anyone know who the bastard is?”

“He’s vaguely familiar,” Barnaby said.

“Hmm.” Simon, frowning, nodded. “But I can’t quite place him.”

“I know I’ve seen him about,” Charlie said.

Henrietta realized that, somehow, none of the ladies had made it up the stairs. Linking her arm with James’s uninjured one, she helped steady him on his feet, then they rounded the bed to join the others about the fallen villain.

The others took that as a sign that they could now bombard them with questions, most of which were devoted to confirming that they were, indeed, as well as they appeared. The circle parted to include them, finally allowing them a clear look at the villain who had tried to take their future from them.

Said villain was still half curled, slumped on his side before the tallboy, his face partly in shadow. Someone had roughly bound his wound; it was, Henrietta realized, too high on his shoulder to be fatal. She looked down at him, then pointed to the lantern. “Shine that in his face and let me see.”

Simon was only too ready to oblige. The villain flinched away from the brighter light, turning his head up and away.

Henrietta gasped. “Good God! It’s Sir Peter Affry.”

Stokes grunted.

Charlie stared. “Sir Peter Affry, the MP?”

“Yes.” Henrietta nodded decisively. “He’s been lionized in political circles this Season. He’s certainly been at all the major functions.”

“He was at Marchmain House,” James said. “Someone pointed him out to me there.”

“And he was definitely at the gala,” Barnaby said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stokes said. “He’s done his dash. He’s not going to be able to escape the gallows over this.” Reaching down, Stokes hauled Sir Peter unceremoniously to his feet, then, with a distinct lack of gentleness, propelled the injured MP through the door into the waiting arms of two burly constables. “Take him to the Yard and charge him. Get the doctor to bind him up properly, but keep him under lock and key at all times. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Yes, sir.” The constables looked thoroughly thrilled with their captive. They cinched a rope around his wrists, then, each taking one arm, ignoring Sir Peter’s moans and weak protests, they half carried, half dragged him away toward the stairs.

James felt light-headed, but he didn’t think it was from blood loss; euphoric relief was nearer the mark. But he remembered enough to turn to Stokes and say, “He admitted to killing Lady Winston.”

“Good.” Stokes met James’s eyes. “Will you testify, if it comes to that?”

Grimly, James nodded. “Yes. Definitely. I want him to get his just deserts.”

“Don’t we all,” Barnaby said. “At least we now know why he was so hell-bent on hiding his identity. M’father mentioned something about him being considered for Cabinet.”

Stokes looked around the circle, his gray gaze coming to rest on Henrietta and James. “I’m going to need statements from all of you, but if you like, we can put it off until tomorrow.”

They all looked at each other—Simon, Barnaby, Charlie, Martin, and Luc, as well as James and Henrietta—then Martin grimaced, and put what they were all thinking into words. “The others—and the elders—aren’t going to appreciate that they were left out of this. I vote we adjourn to somewhere more comfortable and get all the statements and explanations cleared away tonight, then we can tell the others about it tomorrow, when it’s all done and finished with.”

Agreement was unanimous. Stokes nodded. “I’ll need to go back to the Yard and see him charged, and make sure they understand to hold him regardless of what he says, then I’ll come and interview you.” He glanced at them inquiringly. “Where?”

They decided Barnaby and Penelope’s house in Albemarle Street would be best.

Stokes left, and the others all gathered around. James was amazed at their disguises, while they wanted to know what had happened to him.

Henrietta cut all explanations short with the demand, “What I want to know is what took you so long?” She looked pointedly at Simon. “You knew we were here—I expected you to arrive and overpower the fiend much sooner.”

“Yes, well.” Simon looked sheepish. “He’d put an extra lock on the front door—a bolt. We were intending to pick the lock and creep up on him in case he had a gun—which, as it transpired, he did—but the bolt meant we had to break the door down, which he would have heard . . .”