And Then She Fell(80)
They didn’t need further urging; one seized the mare’s reins, then they both raced off.
He didn’t dally to see where they went; managing his gray with his knees, he cantered as fast as he dared straight out of the park, then up Park Lane to Upper Brook Street.
“He picked his moment.” A glass of brandy in his hand, James stood before the fireplace in the drawing room, his gaze locked on Henrietta; in a fresh day gown with her wound bathed and bound, she was seated on the chaise flanked by a pale-faced Louise and a grim-faced Mary, each clutching one of her hands. Lord Arthur sat in the armchair facing the chaise, his pallor verging on ashen.
The rest of the room was full of Cynsters. Other members of the family, alerted, James assumed, by Lord Arthur and Lady Louise, had started arriving within half an hour of him carrying Henrietta, unconscious and still bleeding, into the front hall.
Pandemonium had, unsurprisingly, ensued.
Now, nearly two hours later, the room was awash in stylish day gowns and morning coats, their owners overflowing with concern or bristling with protectiveness, or, in some cases, both.
Henrietta had, to his intense relief, quickly recovered her wits and a degree of her composure, at least, but as was to be expected, she was shaken and shocked.
As was he. Taking another sip of brandy, he continued his report—for her benefit as much as that of the others in the room. “At the time of the shot, the other riders who’d been there had left. I could see them in the distance, but they didn’t even hear the shot. It was just plain luck that he had such a window of opportunity, but given where he’d hidden, he would have been able to take his shot regardless of whether anyone else was around.”
“Nevertheless,” Devil Cynster said, his deep voice just above a growl, “that point’s important. It was early—did anyone else notice you while you were riding back?”
James hesitated, then replied, “Not that I was aware of, but”—he met Devil’s gaze—“I wasn’t looking around to see who we shocked.”
“Just so.” Helena spoke crisply. “But what you are wanting to know, I think”—she caught her son’s eye—“is whether it is likely that the whole ton now knows of this incident, or if it is still only us”—with a regal wave, she indicated the family gathered around—“who know of this cowardly attack.”
Devil nodded. “Correct. We agreed to keep the attacks—that they were attacks and not accidents—to ourselves, but no one’s going to label being shot in Hyde Park an accident.”
“Indeed, but”—Helena glanced at the other ladies—“I believe we, the ladies, are best placed to learn what the rest of the ton knows, so . . . who has luncheons to attend?”
Several ladies admitted to having such engagements; in the end, fully half the skirts and several of the morning coats departed the room, their owners sallying forth on their fact-finding mission.
The door had barely closed behind them when it was flung open again and two ladies rushed in, making a beeline for the chaise.
“Good God, Henrietta! Are you all right?”
“Mama’s note just said you’d been shot!”
A pair of near identical eyes, having taken in Henrietta’s relative health, swiveled to fix almost accusingly on Louise.
She flung up her hands, then opened her arms to her elder daughters. “I’m sorry, my dears, but I knew you would want to know immediately you reached town, and I was a little distracted.”
The twins, Amanda and Amelia, hugged their mother, then moved on to greet all the other family members. James found himself being hugged, his cheek kissed, then introduced to the twins’ husbands, Martin Fulbright and Luc Ashford, with both of whom he was passingly acquainted.
“This sounds like a bad business,” Martin said as the ladies moved on.
“You’ll need to fill us in,” Luc said. “We thought we were coming down for your engagement ball, only to discover we’ve landed in the middle of attempted murder. Why on earth would anyone want to shoot Henrietta?”
By the time James and the other males had answered Martin’s and Luc’s understandable questions, it was time for luncheon; the entire gathering transferred to the dining room, where a cold collation lay waiting.
Everyone took seats around the table, filled their plates, and were just settling to eat when the front doorbell pealed. Urgently. Everyone looked at each other, wondering . . . then swift footsteps were heard and the door opened and Angelica, Countess of Glencrae, and her husband, Dominic, swept in.