And Then She Fell(88)

James, who had been scanning the room below them, focused on the poor man, then snorted. “I don’t envy him his job. Bad enough having to organize all this, but on top of that to have to deal with temperamental artistes . . . I can’t imagine there’s many lining up for that honor.” Gossip had painted the soprano who was to perform as having the voice of an angel and the temper of a demented devil.

“I gather he—the secretary—has been with Sir Thomas for years, so no doubt he’s grown accustomed to the drama.” Henrietta leaned further over the railing to peer down.

James had to quash a sudden impulse to seize her and drag her back; he was already so tense, so much on high alert, that his instincts were searching for any excuse to drag her into his arms.

To seize her and keep her safe, to remove her from any danger. Gritting his teeth, he reminded himself of his role and that, from his instincts’ point of view, the evening was going to get significantly worse before it got any better.

“Good!” Henrietta said. “Here’s the soprano now.”

James heard the barely restrained impatience in her voice, and also the underlying tension. There was nothing worse than waiting to act, holding off putting their plan into motion, but now the moment was nearly upon them. . . .

In the crowd below, he saw many of their company—those pretending to obliviousness as well as the others who were hanging back and very much more surreptitiously keeping their eyes glued on Henrietta.

The accompanist took his place at the piano, and with word quickly spreading, the crowd shifted and re-formed the better to hear and appreciate the performance. The pianist ran his fingers over the keys, then paused, and the soprano swept dramatically forward as if she were on a stage. Taking up position before the piano, she nodded to the pianist, then visibly drew in a breath, opened her mouth, and sang.

Her voice was so powerful that it filled the room, reaching to the furthest corners. The rise and fall of the music, the song, was captivating, and effortlessly held the audience spellbound. James toyed with the notion of staging his and Henrietta’s charade right then—while all those below were distracted—but even as the thought formed, he discarded it; the singer was so very good there was a definite chance the murderer might be distracted, too, and might miss their performance.

So he waited. Even though the singer was so engaging, he couldn’t appreciate her talent; he was too on edge, too focused on what he and Henrietta had to do next. On the image they had to successfully project.

When the soprano concluded her performance, the applause was thunderous. As it faded, Sir Thomas stepped forward to announce that a celebrated tenor would perform for the gathering in half an hour, and then later in the evening, the diva and the tenor would return to send the attendees home with a duet.

After further accolades and applause, the soprano retreated, along with the pianist and the secretary, and the guests returned to their previous occupation. Noise rose in a wave and crashed over the scene.

Her expression reflecting something akin to rapture—a common enough expression on many ladies’ faces at that precise moment—Henrietta turned to James, met his gaze. “We do it now.” Her expression altered, sobering—as if he’d said something to bring her jarringly back to earth.

He nodded curtly, lips already a thin line. “So we’re having an argument.”

She tipped up her head. Chin firming, lips tightening, she flatly stated, “Yes. You’ve said something horrible—God only knows what.”

They’d rehearsed through the afternoon, but that hadn’t been in their script. He narrowed his eyes, tipping his face downward to meet her militant gaze, an aggressive frown hovering over his face. “Don’t you dare make me laugh.”

In response, she tipped her nose higher and all but tossed her head. “Nonsense. A laugh will do you good.”

He scowled blackly; it was easy to make light of what they were doing—their “disagreement” charade. This was the simple part of the plan; what came next was the bit neither of them felt the least inclined to do.

“So I’m going,” she pronounced, turning away, but pausing, as if to allow him one last chance to apologize, or to otherwise say the right thing.

“Take care.” He had to grip the balustrade to stop himself from reaching out to her.

She swung fully away with an almost violent flounce and, her back to him, head high, took the two steps to the spiral stair and, nose still elevated, went very deliberately down.