It was early afternoon before, by dint of a whispered word at this at-home, at that morning tea, she managed to arrange a meeting restricted to those she felt sure she could trust—her three sisters and her sister-in-law. They, she knew, would understand her predicament; at the very least she could rely on their advice.
After reassuring her mother that she would remain safely indoors and would be sufficiently well entertained by the other four, all of whom, having answered her summons, seconded that assurance, Henrietta watched Louise leave on her usual afternoon social rounds, then she shooed the others, all curious as to why she was suddenly so intent, into the back parlor and firmly shut the door.
Turning, she watched as Amelia and Amanda sank onto the old chaise, and Portia sat in one armchair, while Mary curled up in her usual position on the love seat. Walking to the armchair facing the chaise, as the others settled and focused their attention on her, Henrietta surveyed their expressions, intrigued, expectant, and eager to hear what she had to tell them.
Looking up at her, Amanda blinked her eyes wide. “Well? You perceive us agog, as Lady Osbaldestone would say.”
Henrietta felt her composure falter. “I need your help.” She twitched the folded letter from her pocket and held it out to Amanda. “Read that, and tell me what you think.”
Taking the letter, Amanda smoothed it out, briefly scanned, then, her expression abruptly somber and serious, returned her gaze to the top of the letter and read the villain’s message aloud.
Hearing the words, flatly rendered in Amanda’s clear voice, underscored the dread Henrietta felt, crystalized the threat to her life, to her and James’s future. She abruptly sat, hands clasping tightly in her lap.
Amanda reached the end of the letter and its chilling closing sentence.
A brief moment of silence ensued, then Mary looked sharply at Henrietta. “You haven’t told anyone.” Statement, not a question.
Henrietta gestured at the letter. “How can I? If I tell Papa he’ll send word to Devil, and then . . . well, you all know what will happen.”
“Heaven help us, but we can’t have that,” Amelia said. “They’ll be roaring around rattling sabers in the streets.”
“Exactly.” Grim-faced, Amanda decisively stated, “They—Devil and the rest—cannot be allowed to know.”
Portia leaned forward and laid a hand over Henrietta’s tightly twined fingers. “You’ve done the right thing—come to the right people. We’ll help—of course we will.”
Henrietta managed a genuine, albeit weak, smile. Looking from Portia’s earnest expression to her elder sisters’ faces, she watched them grimly, determinedly nod, the same sisterly support lighting their eyes. She glanced at Mary.
Just as Mary stated, “The first thing we need to do is to work out a plan to defeat this villain, and then”—eyes narrowing, she went on—“decide what help we require to make our plan work, and then decide who we can trust to assist us. And then make it happen.”
They all studied Mary for a moment, then Amelia said, “That’s true enough, but I think we can agree from the outset that whatever our plan is, we cannot—simply cannot—let Devil and Vane and the rest of that lot know anything about this at all.”
“Indeed,” Portia said. “And if you think of who this villain must be—a gentleman of the ton, of the right age for Lady Winston to have had as a lover, and the right sort to have been present at the gala—then his way of monitoring whether you tell others and alert the family w
ill almost certainly be via watching them—Devil, Vane, and your older male cousins.”
“Indeed,” Amanda said. “They—our male cousins—are the ones he’ll be watching to see if you keep his secret. If they know of it, they’ll give it away instantly—he’ll only need to look at their faces, at the set of their jaws, the way they stalk about.”
“And most likely he belongs to the same clubs as they do,” Mary put in.
“That,” Henrietta said, “is why I haven’t told anyone else.” She glanced around at their faces. “Only you four. Mama or Papa would insist on telling Devil—to their minds, that’s the way difficulties are always dealt with.”
“Precisely.” Amanda nodded. “So let’s all agree that, while we appreciate that they’re going to be very unhappy about not being told of this, we cannot tell anyone who will involve Devil and the others, and that in meeting this challenge we can’t call on their aid. We have to go forward and deal with this ourselves. So”—she glanced at Mary—“as Mary said, let’s work out our plan.”
“Obviously,” Amelia said, resettling her shawl, “you’re going to wait for the villain’s next note, and then go and meet him wherever he stipulates. Until you learn where he’s keeping James, you’ll need to do exactly as the blackguard says.”
“Once we know where James is,” Mary said, “we can act against the villain, but not before.”
They fell silent, all thinking. Eventually Portia said, “That’s our first hurdle—working out how Henrietta can go and meet with this murderer in safety, without us doing anything that will alert him to others knowing. He has to believe that you”—she glanced at Henrietta—“are quite alone. Only then will he lead you to wherever he’s keeping James.”
No one argued, just vaguely nodded in agreement. Henrietta waited, glancing around the faces, all faintly frowning as they tried to see how . . .
Portia drew in a deeper breath and said, “I’d like to suggest that we seek advice from someone who knows more about dealing with villains than we do. Someone we can trust with this, who’ll understand our situation.”
Amanda opened her eyes wide. “Who?”
“Penelope,” Portia said. “If anyone can help us devise a workable plan to capture a murderer, it’ll be she.”
“Of course.” Amelia looked at Henrietta. “Penelope will know how to manage this.”