And Then She Fell(92)

With a swift, hard hug and a kiss on Henrietta’s cheek, Amanda allowed her husband, Martin, to escort her down the steps to their waiting carriage.

They were among the last to leave. Minutes later, Arthur waved Hudson to close the door, then turned to his wife and daughter. He smiled a trifle wearily, but before he could speak, Louise did, squeezing Henrietta’s hand as she said, “Amanda put what we all feel into words. Don’t lose heart, my dear. We’ll find this blackguard, and catch him, too.”

Releasing Henrietta’s hand, Louise patted her cheek, then smiled at James and patted his shoulder as she passed on her way to the stairs. “Come along, Arthur. Leave the two of them to their good-byes.”

Arthur snorted, leaned down, and bussed Henrietta on the cheek, clapped James rather more vigorously on the shoulder, then followed his wife up the stairs.

Leaving Henrietta facing James, looking into his lovely brown eyes; he looked as tired as she felt.

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, then his lips lightly lifted. “We’re both wrung out—it was all that tension. I’ll head home. I want to let everything settle in my mind overnight.” Raising his hands, he gently framed her face and kissed her.

A gentle, inexpressibly sweet kiss.

Lifting his head, he smiled into her eyes, then released her and stepped back. “Get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll come by in the morning. A turn about the park might do us both good.”

She managed a smile. “That would be refreshing—I’ll look forward to it.”

Rather than summon Hudson, who had discreetly withdrawn to give them privacy, she opened the front door herself. With a last, lingering brush of his fingers over hers, James stepped out, went quickly down the steps, then strode away into the night.

Henrietta watched him go, then sighed, stepped back, and shut the door. She would have preferred him to stay, but he was right. Tonight, they would be no good company, not even for each other; better they rest and regroup. Stifling another sigh, she turned and headed for the stairs, and her cold and lonely bed.

Head down, his hands in his pockets, James walked along Upper Brook Street, then turned left into North Audley Street.

He couldn’t stop mentally juggling facts, turning over every detail of the four attempts on Henrietta’s life, searching for some clue they’d missed, anything that might give them some inkling or any type of hint as to who the murderous villain was.

Hostage to his thoughts, he crossed North Audley Street and several paces later turned right down Brown’s Lane, a habitual shortcut to his house in George Street. As usual, the narrow laneway was lit only by reflected light shining down from the high sides of the buildings to either side, and shafting in from the streets at either end. The relative darkness barely registered; he’d walked this way countless times before, very often late at night. He paced along, the echo of his footsteps a reassuringly familiar beat.

Was there anyone he could remember as definitely being at the Marchmain event, anyone who had paid particular attention to Henrietta? Wrack his brains though he did, no one stood out clearly in his memories.

There were two small courts along Brown’s Lane. Frowning to himself, James walked through the first, the cobbles illuminated by two small lamps above narrow doors, then plunged back into the, in contrast, deeper darkness of the section of the lane between the courts.

Simon had received the Marchmains’ guest list. Hopefully, tomorrow, Horatia would secure Sir Thomas’s list, and they’d be able to compare the two, and perhaps make a shorter list of possible suspects.

A faint sound registered, the scrape of a shoe on the flags.

There was someone behind him. James started to turn—

Pain exploded through his skull.

Blackness engulfed him.

He fell and knew no more.

The first thing he realized when the blackness thinned, then receded, was that he was sitting awkwardly slumped in a chair, his head—throbbing mightily—hanging forward, his arms pulled back.

He tried to frown, but even that hurt. He tried to shift in the chair and realized his arms were lashed; his body was, too. Then his senses cleared and he felt the rope chafing his wrists. He was sitting in a straight-backed chair, with ropes around his torso, and with his hands tightly bound behind the chair’s back.

He blinked, forced his eyes open, then squinted against the glare cast by a nearby lamp. Glancing aside, he waited; when his vision cleared and focus returned, he found himself staring at a rough stone floor.