The Silver Coin Page 2

  “No,” Breanna “interrupted. “I don't want Damen playing Cupid.”

  “But—”

  “Absolutely not.” She gave a vehement shake of her head. The gesture loosened one of her smoothly coiffed auburn tresses enough to send it toppling to her neck—a condition she promptly rectified by tuck­ing the tress back beneath its pin. “I'll leave my future to fate. And so will you,” she added meaningfully.

  Before Wells could further his argument, a knock sounded at the front door.

  Breanna pivoted about, eyeing the door quizzically. “Are we expecting anyone?”

  “Perhaps fate,” Wells suggested wryly.

  A grin. “Then by all means, let her in.”

  Wells complied, turning the handle and swinging the door wide.

  A uniformed messenger stood on the step, turning up his collar against the winter chill. “I have a pack­age for Lady Breanna Colby,” he announced to Wells, gripping a box in both hands.

  “I am she.” Breanna stepped forward, accepting the package and examining it curiously. “I wonder who it's from,” she murmured, waiting until the messen­ger had received his shillings and gone before investi­gating further.

  “One of your suitors, perhaps?”

  “I don't have any suitors, Wells,” she corrected, wriggling the top off the box. “I merely have...” Her voice trailed off as she peeled back the paper, looked inside. “What in the name of...” She placed the box on a low table in the hallway, and lifted out two small dolls, both with red hair and green eyes. The dolls wore identical pale-blue day dresses. Each frock was torn in the same spot—on the left side of the chest— and was marred by a bright spot of what appeared to be red paint.

  Red paint that looked for all the world like blood.

  “Who sent these?” Wells demanded, scowling at the dolls.

  A cold knot of dread was beginning to form in Bre­anna's stomach—a knot she couldn't explain but that tightened more with each passing second.

  Her heart thudding faster, she reached back into the box, snatching up the small square note that had been propped against the dolls' heads so as not to go unno­ticed.

  She unfolded it, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue as she steeled herself.

  The words leapt out at her, and she read them twice, icy fear slashing through her in ruthless talons. “Oh my God.” She dropped the note, all the color draining from her face as she backed away.

  “Miss Breanna?” Wells was visibly alarmed. “What is it?” He picked up the card. Adjusting his spectacles, he read aloud, “Did you think I'd forget you? Never. It's retribution time. I'm back to even the score. One bullet. That's all I need. One for each of you. First your cousin, then you. Soon. So tremble, Lady Brean­na. Tremble and wait.'“

  3

  “ Tell me the entire story again. As calmly as possible.”

  Cecil Marks leaned against the desk, tugging at his scarlet waistcoat and trying to ignore the din taking place behind him as a group of thieves were dragged into the Bow Street office, struggling and swearing. He'd been a Bow Street runner for three years now, and he still preferred combing the streets for criminals to actually bringing them in and having to contend with the chaos. But given the recent murders that had occurred here in London and the investigation that had ensued—well, he had no choice but to stick close to the home office.

  He glanced down at his writing tablet, then back at the white-faced young woman who stood before him, wringing her hands as her elderly butter tried to com­fort her. This was the last thing he needed after the kind of day he'd had. He'd questioned a half-dozen suspects, pored over pages of facts—and he wasn't in any mood to soothe the fears of an overwrought woman.

  Then again, Lady Breanna Colby wasn't just any woman.

  A lady in the true sense of the word, she was. Marks remembered that from last time. And a real beauty, to boot. Hair like burnished copper and eyes like chips of jade. Delicate and, at the same time, al­most regal. Marks recalled the way she'd watched him lead her father away, her head held high, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed, grief and shame she refused to display. It was rare to meet a woman who possessed that much restraint, much less one who was emotionally strong as well as beautiful.

  Yes, she was a survivor, all right. Except that right now Lady Breanna looked ready to come apart at the seams.

  Marks could well understand why. Hell, he'd be un­nerved, too, if he was in her place. The problem was, he had no time or resources to devote to her situation. Not when the whole matter boiled down to a mere threat.

  “My lady,” he replied, after listening to her second recounting of the story. “I know you're upset. But un­less someone's actually tried to hurt you, my hands are tied. Unless, of course, there's something you haven't mentioned? Something more substantial this man's done? If so, tell me and I'll get right on it.”

  Breanna drew an unsteady breath. “That's just it. He hasn't actually done anything—yet. But it's clear he intends to.”

  “You say he sent you this package.” Marks jerked his thumb toward his desk, where the opened box lay. “Those two dolls and a note.”

  “Not just two dolls,” Breanna corrected. “Two disfigured dolls. And it's not just a note, sir. It's a threat. Surely you can see that.”

  Marks twisted around, examined each doll for the third time, then scanned the note. “I admit, whoever sent this is warped, even unbalanced. But as for proof that he's going to kill you—”

  “Mr. Marks, please don't patronize me. You of all people remember what happened the night my father was arrested—or rather, after he was arrested.”

  Marks cleared his throat. “You're talking about that shooter.”

  “He wasn't just an arbitrary shooter. He was paid to kill Anastasia, hired by my father—through his infor­mant—to do so. When I shot him in the hand before he could shoot Stacie, he bolted. Obviously, he realized he might be exposed, so he killed Mr. Cunnings—the one person who could identify him—then vanished.”

  “We believe he killed Cunnings,” Marks amended, scratching his head. “The killer was never found, nor was any proof of his identity.” Seeing the anguish on Breanna's face, he felt a pang of guilt. “But, yes,” he conceded, “we're pretty sure Cunnings's murderer was the same man who took a shot at your cousin.”

  “And I maimed him.”

  Marks's lips thinned into a grim line. “I understand why you'd think this message was from him. Maybe it was. Fine, it probably was. The question is, what can we do about it? We couldn't find him three months ago. What makes you think it'll be any easier to find him now?”

  “The fact that he's surfaced.” Breanna gripped the folds of her gown between her fingers, an earnest pucker forming between her brows. “Sir, I don't work for Bow Street. I'm not presuming to tell you how to do your job. But isn't it possible this man dropped out of sight long enough, not only to wait for your inves­tigation to die down, but to give his wound time to heal? That he's only now able to resume his work? His note certainly makes it sound that way.”

  “I agree. It does sound as if he was waiting to be up to snuff before he contacted you. But that doesn't mean he'll be any easier to catch than he was before. Think about it, my lady. Paid killers don't operate out in the open. Nor do they advertise in newspapers to find clients.” Marks flipped his notepad shut. “What's more, they don't take jobs without monetary compen­sation— major monetary compensation. With your fa­ther in Newgate, no one's interested in paying this assassin to kill you or your cousin. So why would he take the risk? Why would he chance getting caught in exchange for nothing? He wouldn't.”

  “My instincts tell me otherwise.”

  “No rudeness intended, my lady, but I'm in the middle of some pretty ugly murder investigations. I can't abandon those cases in favor of your instincts.”

  Breanna made a frustrated sound. “I realize that. I'm not asking you to abandon anything. I read the newspapers. I'm aware of how busy you are
. All I'm asking is that you probe this matter a bit—perhaps after hours.” She pressed her lips together, squaring her shoulders in that regal way she had. “I'm sorry if that sounds presumptuous. But remember, mine isn't the only life that's at stake. My cousin's is, too. I'm sure her husband, Lord Sheldrake, would appreciate any assistance you could provide in eliminating a po­tential threat to his wife.”

  Lady Breanna's pointed comment wasn't lost on Marks. He knew damned well who the Marquess of Sheldrake was, how prominent he was in London busi­ness and society. He also knew he was the “Locke­wood” of the House of Lockewood—the most influen­tial merchant bankers in England, maybe even in the whole damned world. Not to mention that the House of Lockewood was the very place where Cunnings, Shel­drake's right-hand man, had been murdered. Murdered because he'd been instrumental in an ugly plot that sac­rificed lives and undermined the marquess himself.

  Yes, if the assassin truly had resurfaced, Sheldrake would definitely want him found, want all the loose ends of the nightmare tied up. Most especially be­cause the assassin's target had been Lady Anastasia Colby, now the Marchioness of Sheldrake. And every­one knew how much Damen Lockewood adored his new bride...

  Hell, Marks thought, eyeing Lady Breanna with a kind of grudging respect. This woman wasn't only re­silient and beautiful. She was smart, too.

  “All right.” He gave a terse nod. “I'll do some checking—as much as I can given what's going on here. I'll start with the messenger service that deliv­ered the package to your home. After that, I'll review the details of Cunnings's murder. Maybe I can turn something up.”

  His tone said otherwise.

  “Perhaps if you speak to Mr. Cunnings's colleagues,” Breanna suggested. “I know you did that right after he was killed. But that was three months ago. Maybe someone can provide you with new information Who knows? It's possible one of Mr. Cunnings's less rep­utable associates—male or female—saw him with this man but didn't think anything of it at the time. Until now, when you mention that the suspect you're search­ing for dropped out of sight for the past several months and has only now resurfaced.”

  Marks arched a brow. “That's a bit far-fetched, wouldn't you say?” He averted Breanna's protest by holding up his palm. “I said I'll try. And I will. But I'm not promising anything.” He shifted impatiently, eager to resume work on his current murder investi­gations. “Give me a few days, maybe a week. When I'm finished poking around, I'll ride to Kent, tell you what I've found out.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Breanna gestured toward the desk. “Shall I leave the note and package with you?”

  “Hmm? No. Take them with you. They'd probably get lost in the shuffle here. If I need to see them again, I'll let you know.” Marks gave Lady Breanna what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Go home now. And try not to worry. The chances are this madman got just what he wanted: he scared the wits out of you. And that will be that.”

  Across the street from Bow Street's office, the well-dressed man turned up his collar, moved casually away, and continued walking.

  Excellent, he thought, a smug smile curving his lips. She's gone to Bow Street. They can't help her, of course. They've got nothing. But she's frightened. Good. She has reason to be. And this is only the beginning.

  He rounded the corner and disappeared.

  “I doubt Mr. Marks will help us much,” Breanna commented a few minutes later, leaning her head wearily against the carriage seat. “I feel thoroughly patronized. Worse, I'm not even sure he believed me at all.”

  “Oh, he believed you,” Wells returned in a tight voice. “Your situation is just not, in his opinion, a mat­ter of urgency. He'll do what he can. If not for your sake, for Lord Sheldrake's.” Pursing his lips, Wells added, “Miss Breanna, I held my tongue in there be­cause my frustration would have done you more harm than good. But now that we're alone, I want you to know I don't intend to entrust your safety entirely to the Bow Street runners. Whether or not I'm overre­acting, I plan to hire additional guards.”

  Grimly, Breanna nodded. “I think that's wise, par­ticularly since there are so many comings and goings at Medford these days. With all the activity necessary to complete Stacie and Damen's new home...” A painful sigh. “For the first tune, I'm relieved she's away. That means she's out of danger. Hopefully, Mr. Marks is right and this will all turn out to be nothing more than a scare. If that's the case, Stacie won't even have to know about it. She's so audacious, I shudder to think how she'd decide to handle things. And if he's wrong...” Breanna swallowed. “Let's just say that if he's wrong, if the assassin means to carry out his threats, there will be plenty of time to fill Stacie in when she arrives home. In the meantime, she can remain blissfully unaware.”

  Far away, on a ship bound for England, Anastasia Lockewood awakened with a start Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up, perspiration breaking out on her brow.

  “Sweetheart?” Damen shot up like a bullet. “Are you going to be sick again?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the chamber pot as he spoke.

  “No.” Anastasia waved the receptacle away, shud­dering as she contemplated how many times she'd needed it on this trip home. “I'm fine. Really.” She wrapped the sheet around her, drawing up her knees, and resting her chin atop them. “At least physically.”

  Relieved, Damen resettled himself beside her, smoothing back her hair and pressing his lips to her bare shoulder. “Then what is it?”

  “I don't know.” Anastasia frowned, staring about their modest cabin and wondering how many days it would be before they docked in London. “But I have the most uneasy feeling. Something's not right at home.”

  Scowling, Damen murmured, “With Breanna, you mean.”

  “Yes. With Breanna.”

  Damen nodded. He knew better than to question his wife's connection with her cousin. He'd seen first­hand how attuned to each other they were. They were more like sisters, twins in fact, than they were like cousins—in far more ways than merely their striking physical resemblance.

  “We're almost home,” he soothed. “Breanna must realize that. Maybe she's feeling the same restlessness you are. Maybe that's what you're sensing. After all, we have been away for months.”

  “I suppose so.” Anastasia sounded distinctly un­convinced. “Breanna's probably anticipating our homecoming as much as I am.” A pause. “Her birth­day was last week,” she continued, as if trying to per­suade herself that Damen was right. “She's finally of age. I wonder if she's planning the party we talked about before I left.”

  “I'm sure she is. In fact, I'm sure she's exhausted. Be­tween planning a house party and handling the initial construction of our home by herself—I'm sure she's counting the days until we're there to lend a hand.”

  “That's true.” Anastasia relaxed a bit. “Even with the staff's support, she's doubtless buried in details, determined to oversee all the preparations herself.”

  “Um-hum.” Damen slipped his arms around Ana-stasia's waist, laid a possessive palm on her still-flat abdomen. “On the other hand, maybe she senses you have an announcement for her.”

  His wife shot him a wry grin over her shoulder. “If so, she's probably lining the grounds with chamber pots. I can't seem to take ten steps without needing one.”

  “That's only because of the motion of the sea. The ship's doctor assured me the sickness will ease once you're home, with both feet planted firmly on land.”

  Laughter danced in Anastasia's eyes. “He would have assured you of anything to calm you down. You've interrupted him six times a day for reassur­ance that everything I'm experiencing is normal. The poor man probably bolts his door at night, for fear that you'll burst into his cabin and accost him with yet more questions about your pregnant wife.”

  Not the least bit contrite, Damen chuckled, tugging his wife down to his chest. “I'm allowed to worry. I'm a new husband and an expectant father. I'm also in­sanely in love with my wife—a wife who, for the past three weeks, has either
swooned or been sick every time she's stepped out of bed.”

  “Then perhaps I should stay on it—or rather, in it.” Her attention diverted by more scintillating matters, Stacie feathered her lips across her husband's chest, nuzzling his nipples as her fingers trailed down the hard planes of his stomach. She smiled as she felt his heart rate quicken “After all, I'm fine when I'm re­clining. Better than fine, in fact.” Her hand slid lower, found its goal, and her fingers surrounded Damen's erection, caressed him in light, teasing strokes. “So if you want me to feel better—”

  “Say no more.” Features stark with desire, Damen rolled her to her back, covered her mouth—and her body—with his. “You couldn't feel any better,” he murmured huskily. “You already feel too damned good.”

  “Show me,” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck.

  Damen proceeded to do just that, breathing love words against her skin, into her lips, as he penetrated her slowly, exquisitely, melding their bodies into one.

  Their lovemaking was as shattering as ever, per­vading every pore of Anastasia's body, touching every inch of her soul, leaving her weak, bonelessly sated.

  But afterwards, wrapped securely in Damen's arms, sleep evaded her.

  Unbidden, the uneasiness crept back, latching its disturbing tentacles into her mind. And, like the re­lentless queasiness that plagued her, it refused to be shaken.

  Something was wrong, she concluded, stirring fit­fully on the bed.

  Her gaze shifted to the cabin's tiny porthole, and she willed the winds to propel them swiftly to En­gland.

  Breanna needed her.

  She had to get home.

  4

  The headline of The Times was quite disconcerting.

  It seemed that, try though they would, Bow Street could not definitively prove who had killed two prominent noblemen.