And Then She Fell(95)

The missive was unsigned, of course.

Henrietta read it through a second time, then, moving very slowly, shaking inside, she refolded the parchment and tucked it into her skirt pocket. She looked down at James’s cravat pin, turned it in her palm, then, lips tightening, carefully pinned it to the inside of her bodice, above her heart.

Straightening her spine, she drew in a deep, deep breath, held it for a second, then she forced her lips to ease, found and plastered on an unconcerned expression, and walked down the corridor to the breakfast parlor as normally as she could.

From the cheery, comfortable sounds emanating from within, the rest of her family was already present.

She was, of course, going to rescue James, but . . . she would play the role the murderer had scripted for her until she’d worked out how.

Morning sunshine eventually slanted through the grimy windows set high in the wall of the basement in which James was imprisoned. He woke, blinking in the faint light. Gradually his senses refocused, informing him that his head was still pounding, albeit not as painfully as it had been, but to add to his woes he was stiff in every joint.

His shoulders ached; his neck felt tortured. But he could stretch his legs. He concentrated on flexing and lifting them, working the muscles until they felt reasonably normal.

By then he’d realized what he would have to do. He’d arranged with Henrietta to meet that morning and go for a drive in the park. When he didn’t arrive, she would, eventually, send to his house, and then . . . but the murderer had proved beyond question that he was intelligent enough to have anticipated that.

Easing his shoulders, trying to loosen the bonds, James muttered, “He’ll have already sent her word that he’s captured me, because otherwise she would raise a hue and cry, and that’s the last thing he wants. He wants her, so he’ll offer to spare my life for hers, and get her to go to him somewhere.” Settling back on the chair, he narrowed his eyes and tried to think like their villain. “He’ll get her to meet him somewhere, but he’s already decided he’s going to stage this double murder, which he needs to do to throw everyone off his scent, so he’ll bring her here.”

He glanced around. He couldn’t afford to sit and wait in the chair. “When he brings Henrietta in here, I have to be free and able to save her.”

She would come to save him, that he didn’t doubt, so he would have to be in a position to return the favor.

“So . . .” He looked around again, this time with greater concentration, searching for anything that might help his cause. He didn’t see it at first, but a glimmer of light, of sunlight slanting off glass, drew his gaze to the area beneath the second window, the one further from his present position.

He squinted and, eventually, made out the shards of a broken bottle. “Perfect. Now . . .” He assessed his strength, debated, but he needed to get free as soon as possible; he had no idea when the murderer would bring Henrietta to the house, to the basement.

Summoning his will and his still-wavering strength, he planted his feet and slowly tipped forward, until he was standing, still lashed to the chair and bent over at a peculiar and rather painful angle. But, glory be, he had just enough freedom to shift his legs and feet and shuffle, foot by foot, across the floor.

Once he was standing over the shattered remains of the bottle, he had to work out how to get his hands on a suitable piece of glass—there were at least three he thought would suffice—without risking slashing himself in the process.

Eventually, he used the tip of one shoe to nudge one shard along the floor until it lay well clear of the rest. Then he went down, first on one knee, then on the other—a complicated maneuver that had him swearing—then, kneeling with his knees pressed together, he gauged the distance to the single shard, wriggled into position, and then tipped onto his shoulder.

The move jarred his head so badly he saw stars. He lay on the floor, panting, until the spinning stopped, then, carefully, he stretched his fingers, feeling, searching.

He had to shift a trifle further, but finally his fingers brushed the shard. He teased it nearer, into his hand, careful not to cut himself. Blood would only make the glass harder to hold, harder to work with.

Exhaling, he filled his lungs and waited until his heart slowed and his mind sharpened again, then he turned the shard and set what felt to be the sharpest edge to the rope—

Wait, wait, wait!

What if the murderer didn’t bring Henrietta down to the basement?

James lay awkwardly twisted on the floor and tried to think. Forced himself to put himself in the murderer’s shoes, at least as far as he was able.