And Then She Fell (Cynster 19 Cynster Sisters Duo #1) (37 page)

Stokes walked into the room in time to hear those words. “Actually, impossible though it might seem, it appears his case is even worse than that.”

Various people made disbelieving sounds. Accepting a cup of coffee, Stokes sat beside his wife, Griselda, sipped, gave Griselda a small smile, then looked around at the inquiring faces. “I could barely believe it myself, but it’s true. When I got back to the Yard, it was to find one of the other senior inspectors, Mullins, waiting to collar me. He’d been about to leave when he’d seen Sir Peter brought in. Mullins is in charge of any investigations involving elected officials, and in that capacity he asked me what the charges were to be. I told him about Lady Winston’s murder, her dresser’s murder, and what I’d gathered Affry had planned for Miss Cynster and Glossup here.”

A sardonic smile flirted about Stokes’s lips. “Mullins went so pale, I thought he would faint, but then he asked me to wait and rushed away to his office, and returned with a file, which he handed to me. The file contained a report from the local constable of the town outside of which Sir Peter used to live with his aunt. Sir Peter’s current wealth, more or less all of it, was inherited from this aunt—he was her sole living relative and, unsurprisingly, her nominated heir. The aunt was, by all accounts, a hearty, healthy, country lady, but just after Sir Peter won his seat in Parliament and was wanting to move up to London, his aunt was murdered. Brutally beaten to death in very much the same fashion as Lady Winston and her dresser.”

“Good Lord,” Barnaby said. “He’s murdered before?”

“Looks like it.” Stokes paused to take another sip of coffee. “However,” he went on, “Sir Peter was close friends with the local magistrate, as anyone might suppose of an up-and-coming politician, and the aunt’s murder was blamed on some passing vagabond—a convenient itinerant no one saw. The constable was suspicious because the staff at the house, all loyal to the old lady, said Sir Peter was there, in the house, over the time his aunt was killed, but Sir Peter said he’d gone out riding. No one had seen him out riding, even though there are numerous farms nearby and people had been out in the fields, but, equally, none of the staff had actually seen him in the house over the relevant time, so . . . but the constable remained suspicious, and to give the man his due, knew he had reason to be. He, the constable, knew of another murder, just like the old lady’s, that had occurred nearly a year before in a neighboring parish. A farmer’s lass who, rumor had it, had been walking out with a gentleman, one she’d never named and who had never been seen by anyone else. There were no other suspects for the lass’s murder, not even a convenient vagabond, so the death was put down as murder by persons unknown, but everyone agreed the secretive gentleman was the one who had done the deed.”

“So,” Penelope said, “the constable in the country had two mysterious murders that looked identical, and in one Sir Peter was the prime suspect, and in the other, an unknown gentleman was the only real suspect?”

Stokes nodded. “So the constable did the right thing. He sent the file to the Yard, and as Sir Peter’s name was in it, it was handed to Mullins for careful consideration.”

“Meaning,” Luc said, “that nothing would be done?”

Stokes smiled one of his quick, sharklike smiles. “That’s not quite how it works. Mullins sits on the case—it remains active—until we see if Sir Peter makes any further mistakes. But, of course, the file’s contents aren’t bruited about, so I didn’t know about the similarities in the killings, and, as we’d kept Lady Winston’s murder and that of her dresser secret, too, Mullins hadn’t heard about them. We wouldn’t have connected the cases if Sir Peter hadn’t been caught.”

“Which he now has been,” Portia said. “So will he be tried for all the murders?”

Stokes nodded. “Without doubt. I took a quick look at the descriptions of the bodies—there can be no question that it was the same fiend who committed all the crimes.” He looked at his wife, reached out, and grasped her hand. After a moment, he glanced at the others. “I’ve sent my fair share of villains to the gallows, but this will be one I’ll be
glad
to see hang.”

Agreement was universal.

When he’d finished his coffee, Stokes got down to business. Assisted by Penelope, who acted as his secretary and wrote down all that was said, Stokes formally interviewed and took detailed statements from Henrietta, James, Barnaby, Martin, Simon, Charlie, and Luc.

Once the statements had been reviewed and signed, Stokes nodded. “That should do it.” Gathering the papers, he stood. “I haven’t yet interviewed Affry. I’ll do that tomorrow, now I have all the facts, but from what little he let fall, I gather he couldn’t believe that you”—Stokes nodded at Henrietta—“wouldn’t recognize him, all but instantly, if you ever got a clear view of his face.”

She frowned. “But I never
saw
his face—I only saw him as the murderer that once in Hill Street, and his face was almost all in shadow . . .” Eyes on Stokes, she tipped her head. “Perhaps that was it? He didn’t know—and couldn’t tell—where the shadow fell across his face. He thought I saw more than I did.”

Stokes nodded. “Most likely. He’s got a scar that runs between his upper lip and his nose. If you’d seen that, chances are you would have recognized him the next time you came face-to-face with him in some ballroom, or over a dinner table.”

“And from his point of view, that would have happened at some point, and he couldn’t have that.” Barnaby rose, along with all the others. “So it was misplaced ego, in a way, that brought Affry down. If he’d just waited patiently to see if Henrietta ever said anything, and did what he could to avoid her meanwhile, he would have got away cleanly.”

“Overweening ego,” Simon said, “seems to be a trait that brings down a lot of villains.”

“For which,” Stokes said, “I, for one, am perennially grateful. The ego of villains—long may it be their Achilles’ heel.”

On that rousing note, the company broke up. Buoyed by collective satisfaction and unalloyed triumph, they exchanged farewells and drifted off, in the hackneys or on foot, to find their respective beds.

H
enrietta asked Charlie to drive her and James to George Street. Very happy to oblige, Charlie left them on the steps of James’s house and, with a flourish of his whip, drove away.

“He’ll have to return the hackney to its stable, I suppose.” James hunted in his pocket for his latchkey.

“I’m sure it will all have been arranged.” Her arm still supportively twined with his, Henrietta waited patiently by his side. “Penelope’s organizing is always very thorough.”

James grunted. Fitting the key to the lock, he opened the door, then waved Henrietta in. Walking into the hall, she paused by the central table and set down her reticule.

James shut the door, waited until she glanced his way, then arched a brow.

She smiled. “Set the locks. I’m staying.”

“If you’re sure.” Which wasn’t really in question. Using his good arm, he slid the bolts home.

“Aside from anything else”—she studied the way he moved while she shrugged off her cloak—“your wound needs tending. I’m certainly not about to leave you alone with such an injury.”

James glanced at his bound arm. Grimaced. “I would say, if that’s the case, then I’m almost glad he shot me—but it hurts too much.”

Smiling in sympathy, she crossed to take his good arm and steer him toward the stairs. “Come along—I’m sure Mrs. Rollins will have left all the supplies we’ll need waiting.”

“Speaking of which.” Allowing Henrietta to guide him onto the stairs and up, James glanced frowningly down into the hall. “Where is everyone? Seeing I didn’t return home last night—”

“I sent around a note, of course.” Henrietta met his gaze. “It was one of the first things I did after I got Affry’s note this . . . no, yesterday morning. He threatened to kill you if I raised any alarm, any hue and cry, and, of course, the same applied to your household, except Affry didn’t know you didn’t just have lodgings. I realized I needed to reassure Fortescue and Mrs. Rollins, and make sure they didn’t make any fuss, either, so I did.” Facing forward, she went on, “Then when we reached Penelope’s this evening, I sent another note to tell them all was well, but that you had been shot in the arm, a flesh wound, and I would need cloths and hot water and bandages to tend it, but we wouldn’t be home until late and they shouldn’t wait up for us.”

Reaching the top of the stairs and stepping into the gallery, she halted and faced him. “I told them we’d see them tomorrow, meaning this morning.” She tipped her head. “I hope that’s all right?”

James smiled—found he couldn’t stop smiling. “It’s more than all right. Did you realize you just called this house ‘home’?”

She lightly shrugged but didn’t take her eyes from his. “I suppose that’s because I already think of this house as my home.”

He felt—literally felt—every last iota of tension, of uncertainty for their future—fall from him. Holding her gaze, he raised her hand to his lips, kissed. “That makes me beyond happy.”

She smiled at that, one of her radiant, glorious smiles. “Good.” Linking her arm with his again, she turned them toward the master suite.

They went in, and sure enough, Mrs. Rollins had left all the required supplies laid out on the chest of drawers, along with a samovar of hot water. Henrietta helped him remove their rough bandage and ease out of his coat, then cut him out of his shirt and dampened the fine material that had stuck to the wound in order to peel it away.

The gash looked ugly, red and raw; she bathed it, then applied the salve Mrs. Rollins had left, and between them they bound the wound tightly.

“With luck,” he said, testing his arm, “there won’t be too much of a scar.”

Standing by the chest of drawers and drying her hands, Henrietta drank in the sight of him, seated on the low table, naked to the waist, his magnificent chest bared to her gaze, and smiled, then she considered the bandage and softly said, “I don’t mind if there is a scar. Every time I see it, I’ll think of how you got it.” She met his eyes. “How you worked to keep Affry’s gaze, his attention, fixed on you—his pistol trained on you—away from me, so that I could shoot him. Even though that put you in danger of being shot, even knowing you very likely would be.” She held his gaze steadily. “Don’t think I didn’t see that. Don’t think I didn’t appreciate that for what it was.”

Transparently uncomfortable, he shrugged the words away, then rose and came toward her. Prowled toward her, intent edging his features, his approach designed to distract, but she kept her gaze on his face, drank in the now familiar, well-beloved features, and thought,
I know you now
.

Outwardly, he remained a wolf of the ton—an ex-wolf, perhaps, yet the pelt was still there—but beneath the glamour he was a man who moved quietly through life, who did what needed to be done, what should be done, what was right. He didn’t see that as any distinguishing feature, as anything special, but . . . that made him the right man for her.

So she smiled and opened her arms, opened her heart and embraced him.

He studied her eyes, then he closed his arms about her, bent his head, and set his lips to hers, and together, step by step, whirling stride by stride, they stepped out together, reached for and found the ineluctable rhythm, and gave themselves up to the unutterable pleasure of their own, private celebration.

It started as that, as a compulsively necessary worshipping of life, of living, in the aftermath of escaping death’s shadow.

A simple matter of acknowledging they still lived, that they still breathed, still desired, still needed.

But as they shed their clothes, as their skins met and the flames flared, then raced over and through, claiming them, and they fell, limbs tangling, on the big bed, the engagement transformed into something more. Something broader, grander, more wild and joyous and passionately enthralling—a true celebration of their wider triumph.

Built on the joy of having found each other, of having discovered, uncovered, and learned. Of having grasped the challenges that fate had sent them, of having met those challenges and succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

Of having forged a relationship, sound and true, a partnership that had seen them through the last fraught hours and brought them safely home.

To
home
.

To having won through to that blessed place.

They came together with open hearts, with passion driving them, and desire filling them, but, above all, with love fusing their souls. Recognized, acknowledged, and freely given, it bound them, held them, and made them more, forged in its fire into the very best they could be.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words fell from their lips again and again, in soft murmurs and gasps, in passion and in frenzy.

Then the cataclysm caught them, wracked them, and they flew, then they knew no more, were blind and senseless to all but the ecstasy.

To the glorious, scintillating, coruscating delight.

Gradually, the sensual nova faded, and the golden pleasure that was love made all but tangible wrapped them in its succoring folds, and held them safe, protected and cared for, shielded from the world in each other’s arms.

Epilogue

T
he engagement of the Honorable James Glossup and Miss Henrietta Cynster had titillated the perennially jaded interest of the ton. No one had seen it coming; not one of the grandes dames could claim to have predicted it, nor anything like it, for either participant.

Consequently, despite the short notice, their engagement ball, held in the magnificence of St. Ives House, was viewed as an event of signal significance, one everyone honored with an invitation braved hell and high water to attend. But prior to the ball itself, a formal family dinner was held to toast the engaged couple; every Cynster—even Catriona, Richard, Lucilla, and Marcus—gathered in the long formal dining room to feast, drink, and delightedly commend the pair. And, of course, to hear the tale of their brush with a madman, and their role in bringing one of the more heinous villains of recent years to justice.