And Then She Fell(68)
Later, when the company returned to the long drawing room, with Henrietta on his arm, James went from group to group, renewing acquaintance with those Cynsters he knew less well.
“I gather,” Henrietta confided as they left one group, “that all the others not in London are on their way. Most—like Lucifer and Phyllida—will be here in time for the engagement ball, but those further north might not be able to reach town in time. We’re hoping Richard and Catriona, at least, will be here for the wedding, but, of course, no one’s heard back as yet, and Celia and Martin are hoping very much that Angelica and Dominic can make the journey.”
The following hour passed in cheery, often jovial conversation. Henrietta bided her time; there was no sense in disrupting their evening by telling James of her unnerving discovery prematurely. She was safe in St. Ives House, surrounded by family; no matter who the gentleman-villain was, he wouldn’t be able to reach her there . . . and she definitely didn’t want to risk being overheard and the disquieting information spreading to the rest of the family—not until she’d had time to discuss the situation and how to deal with it with James.
At last, the company started to thin. On James’s arm, she weighed her options while James and Simon chatted. Soon, her mother would summon her and she would have to leave with her parents; she couldn’t afford to wait much longer, but Simon and James showed no signs of parting—indeed, from what she’d overheard, they intended to leave together to meet with Charlie Hastings at some club.
Did she really care if Simon learned about what was going on?
Even as the question formed in her mind, she realized that—with James and Simon being so close—it was more than likely that Simon already knew about her three “accidents.”
Seeing Louise leave Helena and glide over to speak with Honoria, Henrietta drew breath and turned to join James’s and Simon’s conversation.
Both looked at her; both sensed she had something momentous to say.
Simon wrinkled his nose at her. “Do I have to leave?”
Henrietta narrowed her eyes. “You can stay if you promise to be good.”
Simon’s smile flashed. “I’m not sure I can promise that, but”—he gestured encouragingly—“do tell.”
She shot him a warning look, then transferred her gaze to James. “I met Melinda Wentworth this morning.”
“Oh.” James’s expression blanked. He swiftly searched her eyes. “Was she difficult?”
Henrietta shook her head dismissively. “No, not at all. That isn’t it.” She paused to draw breath and order the revelations in her mind. “She told me that on the evening I visited the Wentworths’ house in Hill Street to tell Melinda and her parents my findings about you, Lady Winston, a widow who lives—lived—next door, was murdered.”
Both James and Simon visibly stiffened. His expression abruptly sober, James nodded. “Go on.”
“As one might expect, Melinda doesn’t know much—just that the murder was thought to have been committed sometime that evening, and most likely by the gentleman Lady Winston was in the habit of entertaining in secret. She habitually sent her staff away for the night, so no one knows who said gentleman is.”
A pause ensued while James and Simon digested that. It was Simon who, frowning, said, “I don’t see how that involves you.” He sent a swift glance around, confirming no one else was near enough to overhear, before he met Henrietta’s eyes and said, “I’m assuming you think this has something to do with the recent attacks?”
So James had told Simon, which meant Charlie most likely knew, too. Tight-lipped, Henrietta nodded. “I’m coming to that.” She switched her gaze to James’s eyes. “It was cold and foggy, but my carriage was waiting just across the street. Melinda saw me out, and I told her to go in and shut the door—the groom and coachman were there and watching—then I went down the steps . . . and a gentleman ran into me. He would have knocked me over, but he caught me and steadied me. I think he did that instinctively. He had on a cloak, and the hood was up. He apologized—his voice, his diction, was exactly what I expected from his clothes. Then Gibbs—my groom—called out, and the gentleman released me, nodded, and walked quickly off. I thought nothing more of it . . . until Melinda told me about the murder.”
Neither James nor Simon was slow. Both shifted, but, glancing around, immediately reined their reactions in. James’s gaze refixed on her face. “You think he was the murderer?”