The Silver Coin (9 page)

This time it was Damen who reacted, tensing as if he’d been struck. “Go about her business?”

Royce’s nod was definitive. “In a manner of speaking. Of course, it’s expected that Lady Breanna will be distressed by the guard’s death. No one will be surprised if, until the highwayman who’s allegedly responsible is caught, she chooses not to leave the grounds. Also, it’s assumed she’ll want to spend time with her cousin, who’s only just arrived home. The two women should stroll out to the construction site each day—with you at their sides, of course. After all, it is your house, too, that’s being built. You’d obviously want to see it take shape.”

“You don’t think we should call a halt to the construction?”

“No. At least not yet. We don’t want to take away every opportunity this assassin has to creep onto the grounds, and to blend in, undetected. The more rope we give him, the more likely he is to hang himself.”

Damen started, swearing under his breath. “That’s insane. Now you’re tempting fate to an absurd degree, Royce. I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t expect you would,” Royce replied calmly. “But that’s how I’d handle things— ifI end up handling things.” He offered no further explanation. But it was clear that, unspoken or not, he’d demand absolute control if he were running this investigation, and that he wouldn’t diverge from his rash tactics, despite Damen’s objections. “In the meantime,” he continued, “what my role would be over the next few days would be to check out as many local shops as possible, see if I can determine where those dolls were bought.Andwho bought them.” A frown. “Although I don’t hold out much hope. At least not initially. The assassin probably bought them far enough away so they couldn’t be easily traced.”

“What about extending your search?” Anastasia demanded.

“I will. After the holidays. Christmas is next week. It makes no sense to travel to shops that will be closed. And speaking of Christmas,” Royce added, “the three of you should share a private family celebration.” He paused, turned to meet Breanna’s gaze. “And after your private celebration, you must hold your party, as planned.”

Breanna’s eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath. “You want “the party to take place, in spite of the killer? Or maybe J should saybecauseof him. You really do believe in taking risks, don’t you, my lord?”

“I believe in outwitting my enemies. That involves taking risks.”

“Risks?” Damen bit out. “You’re not only inviting the bastard onto Breanna’s grounds, now you’re inviting him into her house.”

“Maybe.” Royce weighed that possibility carefully. “I suppose he could use the opportunity to slip by the guards and into the manor. But it’s a hazardous step for him to take. He might sneak in to leave another of his gifts. But he wouldn’t use the occasion to hurt Lady Breanna or your wife. Not with so many potential witnesses around. Such extreme carelessness would, in his mind, be unacceptable, beneath his level of genius.” A defiant glint lit Royce’s eyes. “Still, if he does slink into the ballroom or gaming rooms, I’ll be ready for him.”

“Youwill?” Breanna exclaimed, her delicate brows arching.

“Um-hum.” Royce was as surprised as Breanna by the offer he’d just extended. He hated large house parties. They bored him. He hadn’t attended one in years. An occasional ball or two during the Season, gambling at White’s and at the more lucrative horse races—those were the extent of his social appearances. Yet, suddenly, he knew he’d made the right decision by opting to attend Breanna’s party. It was the only way to keep things looking normal, while at the same time shielding Breanna and Anastasia from unwarranted danger.

“You’ve got to hold that party,” he stated flatly. “Otherwise, the entiretonwill be abuzz and the assassin will catch wind of the fact that he’s unnerved you. Still, I’m not completely reckless. I realize you’ll need protection. So consider that protection granted. I’ll delay checking out the more remote shops about those dolls until after all your guests have left. Instead, I’ll ride to Medford Manor in time for the festivities. If the assassinshouldshow up—he’ll be properly greeted.”

“By you?”

A corner of Royce’s mouth lifted. “Iknowit’s boorish to arrive at a holiday gatheri ng withoutan invitation. But, should you decide to retain my services that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“I see.” Lady Breanna acknowledgedhisstatement and for the first time Royce saw a traceofhumor light her far-too-serious eyes, warming them to arichshimmering jade. “Well, thank youforwarningme”’

He nodded slowly, feeling a keensurge ofanticipation at the prospect of bringingdown this ki llerandputting that luminous glow backinL adyBreanna ‘seyes.”Y ou’re welcome.”

Christmasmorning—the perfect time to arrange ashipment.

A nuncommon quiet settled over theL ondon docks,thenormal rush of activity suspended as workersjoi ned their families to attend mass. Hoists andw inches were silent, ships swayed lazily in the chilly waters with few crewmen aboard to attend them. Tiny snowflakes sprinkled about, covering the docksina d i aphanous veil of white and adding to the unnatural sense of stillness hovering over the Thames.

Theassass in’s footsteps echoed as he crossed the alley d i vid ingthe cluster of warehouses. He glanced about, smiling as he took in the deserted buildings and path, contemplated all the sailors and workmen now gatheredinChurch.

What a pity that they were ignorant of the brilliant strategy taking place just beyond.

He ‘d done a thorough job. Organized just the rightcrewtoconvey his cargo. Selected excellent merchandise. Readied the choice assortment without leavinga mark— anymark that might detract from their worth.

And made all the arrangements right out in the open, while the residents ofL ondon were deep in prayer.

The instructions to his men hadn’t taken long This was his regular crew—a crew that had worked for him in the past, and were far more afraid of him than they were of the authorities. Fear was a splendid motivator. It ensured loyalty in a way that even moneycouldnot. Because if there was one thing stronger than greed, it was the drive for self-preservation.

Everything was in place—at least for this cropof merchandise.

What a lovely New Year’s gift his cargo would make for three fortunate gentlemen.

There would be another delivery sent on its heels. Plans were already in motion.

Yes, the week ahead looked promising indeed. Another target to hit, another shipment to begin arrangements for, and—most exhilarating of all—in four days a trip to Medford Manor.

A trip he’d counted on making with the utmost discretion. After all, there wasn’t a prayer Lady Breanna would throw open her gates to hundreds of guests. Not now. Not after the dolls, the note, the guard. The party would, of course, be canceled.

But it hadn’t been.

His anticipation faded, transformed to the anger that had been boiling inside him all week long, intensifying more with each passing day. He gritted his teeth, pondering the unexpected response—or rather,lackof response— L ady Breanna had displayed to last week’s events. That maddening little bitch. Rather than quaking with fear, she’d spent her days strolling the grounds with her cousin and Sheldrake, toughing and chatting as if all was right with the world. Despite the fact that that guard was killed at the portals of her home, shestill hadn’t panicked, hadn’t canceled her holiday gathering and looked herself in her house.

There was only one explanation that made sense, he reminded himself, resorting to the same logic he’d used all week to bring himself under control.

She hadn’t made the connection.

It was more than plausible. After all, hehaddone an exceptional job of making the murder look like the work of a highwayman. She’d obviously believed his ruse, dismissed the incident as being unrelated to the package she’d received. Yes. That’s what had happened. It made sense, not only in comprehending Lady Breanna’s behavior, but Sheldrake’s, as well. The marquess’s mind was far too sharp not to have considered the possibility that the two incidents were related. And, given his romantic attachment to his wife, it was unthinkable he’d subject her to danger. Therefore, he must have examined the evidence and determined that whoever sent those dolls to Lady Breanna had not been the same person who killed the guard outside her estate.

The assassin’s lips curved, his good humor restored

How delightful. He’d outwitted the entire family. More fools they.

Actually, he was wasting his time feeling angry. Because, disappointed though he was that Lady Breanna wasn’t yet shivering with terror, he was equally pleased at what that meant for him. Now he could accomplish this next part of his plan with great ease. He wouldn’t have to sneak into Medford Manor, or resort to forcible entry. He’d simply stroll through the front door, right along with the other guests, choose the appropriate moment to leave the gift he’d brought for her ladyship.

After discovering this memento, she wouldn’t be laughing.

No, on the contrary, she’d be overcome with honor, gripped with fear. Any hopes she’d entertained that the dolls were an isolated incident, that the guard’s death was a coincidence, that she was safe in her own home, would be dashed.

He could hardly wait to see the terror in her eyes.

A gust of wind struck him and he winced, fitting his gloves more snugly into place, then shoving his hands in his pockets. Damn, how he loathed the cold.

Almost as much as he loathedher.

It was fitting the two would come together; that she’d die during winter.

A twig snapped and, reflexively, he turned up his collar, pulled the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face from view.

An instant later, two people—a young man and an even younger woman—darted by, sparing him not even a second glance. Giggling, they darted into one of the warehouses, the heated look in the young man’s eye revealing precisely what was going to occur inside that wooden shed. The lad paused, assessed the area—deserted but for the assassin’s retreating figure—and, having ensured their privacy, shut the warehouse door.

The assassin kept walking, head lowered, feeling a pang of envy. Ah, the pleasures that young couple were about to enjoy.

It was times like these he missed Maurelle. Just thinking of her made his pulse quicken in a way no other woman could begin to equal. Even after all these years.

He could still remember the first time he saw her. It was a sultry summer evening more than fifteen years ago, and she’d been coming down the stairs of that dilapidated brothel right outside Paris. He’d been pacing back and forth just across the street— whether by chance or by fate—driven there by the internal demons that pumped through his blood. Restless, consumed by a lethal hunger only he understood, he’d been eyeing the brothel, trying to decide if sex would ease the yearnings pounding inside him.

That’s when she’d emerged.

She was easily the most striking woman he’d ever seen—thick black hair, huge dark eyes, offset by the palest of skin, all crowning the most lush, desirable body any woman could boast. The instant he glimpsed her, all his inner turmoil had converged, slamming forcibly from his brain to his loins.

He’d paid for a full night. He’d used every minute of it. But when morning came, he was no more ready to say good-bye than he’d been twelve hours earlier. He wanted her again—and not only for a night. There was something insa t iably exciting about Maurelle, something rich and dark and exhilarating that aroused him beyond bearing. Something that clawed inside him and drew him back to her side, night after night, week after week.

Perhaps it was because, even then, he recognized her as his equal.

She was his equal still.

A slow smile curved the assassin’s lips. Life had an ironic way of working out.

Royce couldn’t hide his relief when the time finally came to leave his brother’s estate. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy spending Christmas with Edmund and Jane. They were good, decent people—if somewhat dull—who tried their best to make him feel welcome. The highlight of the visit was romping about with their three sons: Thomas, William, and little Christopher. Thomas—actually Edmund Thomas, heir apparent to his father’s title—was five years old, and far more interested in climbing trees than he was in acquiring the skills necessary toward being the Earl of Searby. William, four years old and no less energetic than his brother, kept dragging Royce off to play in the snow, pelting his uncle with snowballs. And Christopher, at just shy of two, was a virtual whirlwind of activity, toddling from room to room on his stubby little legs, sending vases and crystal crashing to the floor in his wake.

The hours spent with his nephews were a welcome reprieve for Royce. Frolicking about kept his mind off the two cases he was now working on—the one involving Viscount Ryder’s missing illegitimate daughter, and the more recent one involving Lady Breanna Colby.

Both cases centered around women, and both were frustrating as hell.

Ryder was old, in broken spirits, and searching for an unacknowledged bastard daughter who had unexpectedly become his sole living heir. One short month ago, Ryder’s son Nathaniel had succumbed to a severe bout of influenza, dying suddenly, unmarried and childless, leaving Ryder with no one to inherit the family name and tide. The problem was that the aged viscount knew less than nothing about his legitimate daughter, other than the fact that she’d been conceived in his home—the product of a torrid liaison with a fetching chamber maid who’d been discharged the moment she became with child—and born in the back room of a London workhouse. Glynnis Martin, the chamber maid in question, had sent word to him of the babe’s arrival, adding that she’d named their daughter Emma, after her grandmother. Ryder had destroyed the note and never responded. As of now, he could remember no additional details surrounding me child’s birth.

A pathetic lack of information, indeed.

As a result, Royce had nothing to go on—not a description or an address where he might find either mother or daughter. He’d gone straight to the workhouse where Emma had been born, knowing even as he did that it was an exercise in futility. Sure enough, the institution provided as few clues as he’d anticipated. The attendants there had seen dozens of bastard children brought into the world in just such a fashion and, as a result, kept no records of their whereabouts. One of the established matrons who’d been at the workhouse for more than two decades thought she remembered someone matching Glynnis Martin’s description. If her memory served her correctly, the young woman in question had arrived at their doors some eighteen years ago, hugely pregnant, and given birth to an infant daughter. She’d sent a note off to the child’s father and waited to hear from him. When she didn’t hear, she became despondent. One night about a week later, she took the infant and disappeared.