The Silver Coin Read online

Maybe, the assassin acknowledged silently from his hiding place. But she won't be smiling for long.

  12

  Breanna climbed the stairs, feeling equal measures of exhaustion and exhilaration

  The remaining hours of the ball had passed by in a haze. Through most of that time, she'd longed for noth­ing but the solace of her room. She needed to ponder exactly what had happened between her and Royce tonight and, more importantly, exactly what it meant

  She might be inexperienced, but she wasn't naive. Nor was she stupid. What she and Royce had shared had, by absolute standards, amounted to no more than a very heated kiss, something Royce might in­dulge in with countless women. But she didn't indulge in it with countless men. She'd never even yearned for that intimate a contact, never imagined herself capable of it.

  Not until tonight.

  So while Royce might have already dismissed the encounter, summed it up as the result of one slightly tipsy woman falling prey to his charms, she couldn't be so blase.

  She'd realized from the start that she was drawn to him, that he affected her in a way no man ever had. That in itself had been an intriguing discovery. But out there tonight, clasped in his arms, she hadn't even known herself. She'd been alive, uninhibited, hungry for more. What's more, now that reason had resumed, she still couldn't seem to summon one iota of remorse or shame.

  Confusion, on the other hand— that she was feeling in abundance.

  Understanding Royce's feelings, his motives, was imperative.

  But more imperative was understanding her own.

  She gazed longingly down the hall at Damen and Stacie's room, wishing Stacie was still awake to talk, that her curiosity had won out over her fatigue. Nor­mally, it would have. But pregnancy was taking its toll and, after a long night of merrymaking, she'd been exhausted. Despite her protests, Damen had taken her up to bed several hours ago.

  Even through drooping eyelids, she'd cast one questioning look after another at Breanna, obviously dying to interrogate her about what had happened.

  That Stacie knew something had happened wasn't an issue. Awareness had been written all over her face—at least enough so that Breanna could see it.

  What was Stacie thinking? How would she inter­pret Royce's behavior, and his reaction to Breanna's? How would she explain Breanna's uncharacteristic ac­tions? What advice would she offer?

  Breanna would have to wait to find out.

  Glancing at the clock on the mantel in the hall, she sighed. It was almost 4 a.m . The last of the guests had retired over an hour ago, followed shortly thereafter by Wells. She'd feigned going to bed just so he would do the same. The poor man was spent and, knowing him, he intended to be at his post by eight o'clock in the morning—just in case he was needed. Royce and Hibbert had gone up at about the same time, deep in discussion over the letter they'd received earlier.

  It was just as well. Breanna wasn't sure how to act around Royce after that ardent embrace they'd shared, and she was almost relieved when his atten­tion was diverted by news of Lord Ryder's daughter.

  She had to smile, recalling the ton's reaction when Royce had strolled into the ballroom, Hibbert at his side. Dozens of flies could have found homes in the gaping mouths throughout the room. Even Lady Dut­ton had stopped gossiping for a full minute, a rarity indeed. Breanna had caught Stacie's eye, seen the twinkle there. A nd, beside her, Damen, his lips quirk­ing as if to say: that's Royce for you.

  As for Royce, he was clearly aware of the stir he was causing. It was obvious from the arrogance of his stance. Equally clear from that stance was the fact that he didn't give a damn who his actions offended.

  Good for you, Breanna had found herself thinking. She could only hope that Hibbert's boldness would rub off on Wells. If anyone deserved to be treated like an equal, to demand such equality, it was Wells, who was more a father figure than a butler.

  In any case, Royce had paused only to find her with his gaze, ensure she was all right. Then, he and Hib­bert had launched into a discussion of Lord Ryder and locating his daughter. Between that conversation and the various colleagues who waylaid Royce for other reasons—having not seen him since his return from India— and the five or six women who inserted themselves in his path, insisting on saying hello, Royce was monopolized for the rest of the ball.

  On the other hand, there were at least a half-dozen times when Breanna had felt his compelling stare find her, penetrate her with its intensity...

  By three o'clock the house had fallen quiet, hushed but for the remaining footmen who were scurrying about, cleaning up and readying the manor for the new day.

  Left alone, Breanna had wandered down the hall to the sitting room, curling up on the settee and savoring the darkness, just thinking over the turbulent events of the past fortnight All that had happened, all that was still happening—the threatening package, Stacie's pregnancy, the murders plaguing Bow Street and paralyzing the ton, and now Royce Chadwick in all his complexity—was enough to make her head spin.

  Having resolved nothing, she'd gone up to bed.

  She reached the door to her room just as the clock chimed four. Everyone was asleep. Even her lady's maid, who had been instructed to retire early, given how late the ball was expected to run.

  The manor was silent.

  All the guests would sleep until noon, she reflected, turning the door handle. All but Stacie. Thankfully, Stacie would be up and about by ten. Sooner, if her lurching stomach demanded the chamber pot. Then they could talk.

  Contenting herself with that fact, Breanna eased open the door, and shut it softly behind her. As always, she'd left the lamp on her nightstand turned down low, offering her more than enough light to guide her way. She moved directly toward it, intend­ing to turn it up higher while she undressed.

  She took one step and froze.

  A white chemise lay draped across the nightstand, its lacy edge just touching the bed. A dark splotch of color stained its center, and an unfamiliar object sat alongside it.

  Dread curling inside her like dark tendrils of smoke, Breanna walked over, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other as she approached the night-stand.

  Her hand was shaking as she turned up the lamp.

  Light flooded the nightstand, and Breanna let out a low cry, her hands flying reflexively to her mouth as if to stifle the sound.

  The chemise was hers. The dark splotch marring the garment was red. Bright, vivid red.

  Blood red.

  Her horrified gaze shifted, took in the other object atop the nightstand.

  It was a figure, a porcelain figure. At least it had been, before it was defaced. She bent over to examine it more closely, unable to bring herself to touch it. The figure wasn't one of hers. She'd never seen it before. It depicted two women standing on an elaborate pedestal base.

  Red smears had been painted on both women's bodices near their hearts, and expressions of torment had been etched onto their faces.

  Violently etched.

  She sank onto the bed, her knees shaking too badly to support her. He'd been here. Here. In her room, going through her dresser. He'd taken her undergar­ment, tampered with it in a vile, sick manner. And the statue. Obviously meant to symbolize her and Stacie. Shot, bleeding.

  Dying. Oh God.

  Breanna fought the urge to scream, to race down the hall and awaken Stacie and Damen. There was nothing they could do. Not tonight. Whoever this madman was, he was long gone. He'd taken advan­tage of the chaos generated by the party and found a way to slip into the manor.

  How had he known which room was hers?

  She knew the answer to that even as she asked her­self the question

  He'd been watching the house. For weeks, proba­bly. And now he'd gotten inside. Inside and upstairs. To her room.

  She couldn't stay here another minute.

  Jumping to her feet, Breanna nearly ripped the door off its hinges, then bolted out. Wild-eyed, she sur­veyed the empty hallway, reminding herself again and agai
n that there was no one here. Not now.

  Another quick glance toward Stacie's room.

  And another dismissal of the notion to awaken her.

  Tomorrow morning was more than enough time for Stacie to hear about this. Nothing could be gained by alerting her now—nothing except a selfishly attained peace of mind for Breanna. And that she wouldn't allow. Her peace of mind wouldn't begin to offset Stacie's distress. She'd have to face this soon enough anyway. She needed her sleep. So did the babe. It wasn't as if she was in any immediate danger. For tonight, she was safe. Damen was with her, their door was bolted, and no one could get in. Even if someone was still lurking in the house. Which, given the intelli­gence of the assassin, who knew the number of guards lying in wait for him, was doubtful.

  No, awakening Stacie was out of the question.

  So until morning, this problem belonged to Breanna.

  She'd never felt more alone in her life.

  Wells. Maybe she'd awaken Wells.

  Who would do—what? Comfort her, just as Stacie would. But nothing more. He'd have no better idea than she how to handle this intrusion. And he was nearly as exhausted as Stacie.

  Which left no one to turn to.

  No one except Royce.

  His name sprang to mind, eliciting a surge of relief so acute, Breanna sagged against the wall. Royce. He was here. He'd predicted this very thing might occur. He'd know what to do.

  With that thought, she gathered up her skirts, nearly running down the hall, veering around the corner to the wing that housed his chambers. Unlike the other guests, Royce hadn't been assigned to the guest wing. He'd suggested Wells put him and Hibbert in the main section of the house, just in case events hap­pened that warranted their attention—attention he'd want to provide without alerting the other guests.

  Thank heavens he'd thought of that.

  Reaching the door of his room, Breanna knocked. Please, she prayed. Let him be in there. Let him be awake, or at least hear my knock and wake up. Please.

  As if in answer to her prayers, a muffled voice called out, “Yes?”

  “Royce ... it's Breanna.” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, fighting for some measure of com­posure. “I need to see you. Now. It's urgent.”

  “I'll be right there.” There was nothing muffled about his tone now. He sounded awake and complete­ly alert.

  Breanna heard rustling sounds, an indication that Royce was donning his clothes. Although, at the mo­ment, she wouldn't care if he walked out in his night­shirt. As long as he walked out.

  As if on cue, the bolt turned, and the door swung open.

  Royce stared at her intensely, his dark hair tousled his shirt half-buttoned, tucked haphazardly into his breeches. “What's wrong?” he demanded, his gaze tightening with concern as he took in her ashen ex­pression and trembling hands.

  “My room,” she said, amazed that her voice could sound so calm when her insides were twisting. “He was there. Sometime tonight. While I was at the ball. He left me some... things. I couldn't bear touching them. I couldn't even bear staying in the room, know­ing he'd been there. I didn't know what to do, who to tell. So I came here.”

  “You did the right thing.” Royce retreated into his chamber, opened his nightstand, and yanked out a pistol. “Then Anastasia doesn't know?”

  Mutely, Breanna shook her head. “I didn't want to frighten her. I came straight to you.”

  “Good.” Royce returned to her side, silently assess­ing her emotional state. “Breanna, are you all right?”

  “Yes. I'm fine.”

  Without thinking, he caught her shoulders, tugged her against him. “You don't have to be so bloody strong,” he muttered, brushing his lips through her hair. “You're afraid. You have reason to be.”

  She swallowed, fighting the urge to sink into his strength, fighting the more unnerving urge to cry.

  She'd been taught since childhood never to fall apart in front of others. And she never did.

  Why then, did she long to now?

  “He won't hurt you,” Royce said in a low, hard tone. “I won't let him.”

  Those simple words meant more to her than she could possibly explain. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Royce drew back, tilted up her chin so he could see her face. “Would you be able to go back to your room if I went with you? I need to see what he left. I also need to look over the room, just in case he left any clues. A nd you're the only one who can tell me if something looks different in any way—added, moved, or touched.”

  Slowly, Breanna sucked in her breath, then nodded. “Yes. If that's what I need to do, I can do it.”

  A n odd emotion glinted in Royce's eyes—some­thing akin to admiration and a touch of amazement. “Good. Let's go.” He paused, his knuckles drifting lightly over her cheek. “I'll be right beside you. You won't be alone.”

  A nother nod, this one shaky. “I'll remember that.”

  He led the way, his pistol clutched by his side, Bre­anna right behind him. She could feel her insides clench tighter and tighter as they neared her bedchamber. She slowed, longed to stop. But she refused to give in to the impulse. Royce was right. This inspection was essential.

  A s if reading her mind, Royce glanced behind him. Studying her face, he reached out to capture her hand, gently leading her the remaining steps to her room.

  They stopped in the open doorway.

  Breanna crossed the threshold, and prickles of fear shot up her spine. The room she'd always regarded as a sanctuary was now a place to fear. Numbly, she wondered if she'd ever feel safe within it again.

  “They're on the nightstand,” she told Royce, halting just inside. “Both of them.”

  He gripped her elbow, drew her into the room. “I'm here,” he said softly.

  “I know,” she replied, understanding just what Royce's assurances were meant to convey, and why he was offering them. “And you need me to be here, too. I have to come in— all the way in—or I can't help you, and you can't do your job.” She forced herself to move deeper into her chambers, walking toward her bed as if in a dream. “There.” She pointed at the nightstand, her head swimming with reaction. “Those are the things he left me.”

  Royce went ahead, examining the chemise and porcelain figure in the glow of lamplight. His expres­sion was intense, never changing as he inspected the tainted objects more closely. 'This chemise—is it yours?”

  “Yes. I recognize the buttons. It's mine.”

  A nod. “The color is only paint. Not blood.”

  “I realize that. And the women are only porcelain, not human. But the message is clear nonetheless.”

  Royce's mouth thinned into a grim line. “It certain­ly is.” He straightened, scanning the rest of the quar­ters. “Was anything else disturbed?”

  Breanna studied the room as closely as her dazed mind would allow. She slid open each bureau drawer, cheeked inside her wardrobe and nightstand, even scrutinized each and every one of her porcelain fig­ures. “Nothing else was touched—nothing I can de­tect.”

  “And nothing's missing?”

  “No.” Breanna crossed over to her desk, picked up the sketch pad and flipped through it. None of the drawings of Stacie's house had been tainted, no pages torn away. Beside the pad, her pile of unrelated sketches was stacked neatly, just as it had been earlier.

  She eased open the desk drawers. Each one was precisely as she'd left it, all her quills and pencils in­tact. “It looks as if he only took the chemise.”

  “What about the statue? Was it originally on your nightstand? Or did he remove it from the bureau or fireplace mantel in order to place it beside the chemise?”

  “Neither. It isn't mine. I've never seen it before in my life.”

  That detail seemed to disturb Royce more than any­thing else. His dark brows drew together, and his eyes narrowed in troubled concentration.

  “What is it?” Breanna asked. “Why does that upset you so much?”

  Royce opened his mout
h to reply, then hesitated, re­luctance written all over his face.

  “Please, Royce,” she requested quietly. “Don't hide things from me. I don't want to be protected. I want to know. I need to know. Why are you bothered by the fact that that porcelain figure isn't mine?”

  His sober gaze met hers. “Because the fact that he chose to bring such a statue here, to use it to make his point, is too perfect to be a coincidence. He obviously knew you collect porcelain figures.”

  “How would he know ... ?” All the color drained from Breanna's face. “You think he was here before this? That he'd invaded my room before tonight?”

  An unwilling nod. “My guess is, yes. It would ex­plain the appearance of this statue. It would also ex­plain how he found the time to deface your chemise. He wouldn't want to carry paint with him, nor would he want to linger an instant longer than necessary. So he didn't. He probably slipped into your room at an earlier date—most likely before the additional guards were assigned—took the chemise, and left. He did his handiwork on it at home, bought and defiled the statue, then placed both things on your nightstand tonight. He wouldn't need more than five minutes to accomplish that.”

  Breanna could feel her insides lurch, and for one horrible moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. “He was here,” she whispered. Awareness dawned, crept through her like some odious insect. That feeling she'd had—that nagging perception that had plagued her all week—it hadn't been groundless.

  It had been accurate.

  “I sensed it.” Her panicked gaze darted about the room. “Ever since the day Mr. Knox was killed. I thought I was overreacting. But I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that came over me every time I was in my room. I tried to attribute it to nerves, but after what you just said...” She broke off, pressing her palms together as if the very action could hold her emotions in check. “I know he was here.”

  “The day Knox was killed?” Royce jumped on her words, contemplated them thoroughly before giving a hard nod. “That makes sense. A lot of sense. The killer could have slipped in here that afternoon, taken the chemise, and been in the process of leaving the grounds when Knox came upon him. It would explain why Knox got shot.”