He led her to a row of houses that were clearly all abandoned and empty, most likely due for demolition.
Despite her resolve, her earlier belligerence, her heart was thudding heavily, too rapidly, as she followed him, her would-be murderer, through an ancient wrought-iron gate and up an uneven path to a set of worn, cracked stone steps leading up to a narrow front door.
Would this dark, abandoned house be where her life ended?
The unexpected thought shook her; suddenly flustered, she bundled it from her mind.
Yet there was no denying her instinctive aversion to meekly following him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Pausing on the wide last step, the murderer drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He pushed it wide, then he turned and looked at her, still standing on the path a yard behind him.
The streetlamp in the court was too distant to cast any light on his features, those visible between the low brim of his hat and the black silk scarf swathing his jaw. As in Hill Street, she simply couldn’t see enough of his face to form any real picture.
“Who are you?” The words fell from her lips without conscious thought as she stared, frowning, up at him.
She sensed his smile, heard the satisfaction in his voice as, with one last glance over the empty pavements, the deserted court, he said, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Stepping back, he waved her in, a mocking courtesy. “If you will, Miss Cynster, walk into the hall and halt at the foot of the stairs.”
About to start forward, she halted. Eyeing the narrow, heavily shadowed hall, she asked, “Is James here?”
That and only that would get her over the threshold; only for James would she enter a murderer’s lair.
Again she sensed a certain gloating amusement as the murderer replied, “He is. He’s tied up, but he’s hale and whole. I intend taking you to him directly.”
There was something behind those last words that made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to nod and, raising her skirts, walked calmly up the steps, past him, and on into the darkness of the narrow front hall.
The house smelled dusty, faintly musty. As she halted at the foot of the stairs, unlit and unwelcoming, and looked upward, primal panic gripped her, a clawed hand closing about her throat, sharp nailed and choking.
She whirled. Looking back along the hall she saw her captor bending over a narrow hall table and lighting a small lantern. The familiar clop and rattle of a hackney reached her. The lantern lit, the murderer straightened, playing the lantern’s light over her so she couldn’t easily make him out.
Reaching back, he caught the doorknob and slowly closed the door.
Before he did, a hairsbreadth—a heartbeat—from breaking and running, Henrietta looked out of the door as the hackney she’d heard rolled slowly past.
Simon, on the box, looked directly at her.
She stood at the foot of the stairs, bathed in the lantern’s light, as the door shut.
The instant it did, she drew in a huge, shuddering breath, then she blinked, squinted, held up a hand to shield her eyes and turned her head aside as the murderer walked slowly closer. He’d been focused on her, but it appeared she hadn’t given their game away.
The sight of Simon had acted like a shot of the purest courage tipped directly into her veins. As the effect burned through her, she had to remind herself she couldn’t sneer at the coward before her—not yet.
He halted a good yard from her, then, with the lantern, gestured to the stairs. “Go up.”
Turning, she raised her skirts and started climbing; she couldn’t wait to find James and get this over with. The sooner she could see this man in Stokes’s hands and safely away from her and hers, the better.
As she neared the top of the stairs, the murderer, following a few steps behind her, said, “Turn left and walk along the gallery. Stop at the second door.”
She turned as directed, but once he was walking directly behind her, she raised her reticule and slipped the catch free, opened the neck wide, and, reaching inside, closed her hand firmly about the grip of the small pistol. She didn’t yet pull it free but used her cloak to conceal what she’d done.
Halting as instructed, facing the second door, she drew in a deep breath and steeled herself for what she might find beyond it. Lady Winston’s murderer had a reputation for brutality. He’d said James was alive, hale and whole, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t beaten James badly.
Regardless, James would be tied securely and unable to help her. She would have to rely on herself, on her own resources, until the others burst into the house—which, she was praying, they would do any minute now. . . .
Her senses revolted again, skin crawling, nerves skittering, as the murderer drew close enough to reach around her and open the door.
He set it swinging. “Go in. Your fiancé is waiting to see you . . . one last time.”