The Silver Coin Page 8

  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.

  Vanishing into anonymity.

  Just like the assassin threatening Lady Breanna.

  This new case bothered Royce even more than Ryder's did, no doubt because of the longstanding friendship and respect that existed between him and Damen. Royce felt doubly compelled to find a solu­tion, to protect Damen's wife.

  And to protect her cousin.

  Both investigations were plaguing him, beating relentlessly at his brain.

  Dashing about in the snow with three energetic nephews did wonders toward alleviating that.

  It didn't, however, make being at Searby any easier.

  Then again, that house held nothing but dark mem­ories for him—memories that no amount of revelry could erase.

  So, it was with a great deal of relief that, on the day after Christmas, he bid Edmund and his family good­bye and took his leave.

  He and Hibbert—who traveled with him to Sear­by—stopped in London overnight; long enough to gather up the Ryder file and cheek out the few re­maining shops in Town he had yet to investigate that stocked dolls as part of their merchandise and might or might not have sold two red-haired ones in the past fortnight.

  None of them had.

  The following morning found the two men packed, settled in Royce's carriage, and on their way to Kent—first to check out a half-dozen shops in that shire, then to proceed on to Medford Manor.

  The final lap of the journey was silent, as Royce contemplated his unsuccessful attempts to learn who'd sold the killer those dolls, much less the identity of the man who'd bought them. He'd gotten nowhere fast. And his initial time had run out, as the Colby party was scheduled to begin tomorrow.

  Unbidden, he found himself wondering how Lady Breanna had fared during his absence. Not bodily, for he felt confident she was safe—for the time being. In­stinct told rum her assailant had more emotional torment in store for her before he acted. But mental­ly—had her nerve held out? And physically—had her stamina held out?

  He had a staunch feeling the answer to both ques­tions was yes. Lady Breanna was a remarkably strong young woman.

  He'd seen that strength mirrored in those carefully guarded jade-green eyes when she'd stood beside Damen and Anastasia last week, on the morning he'd left her estate, and officially asked him to take on her case. Quietly, graciously, she'd voiced her under­standing that this meant she agreed to adhere to his tactics, that she'd follow the procedure he'd outlined for her between then and the day of the party. She'd concluded by expressing her appreciation for his time and effort, then wished him a joyous holiday and sent him on his way.

  Royce had listened to her formal speech, watched her self-contained expression as she spoke. Once again, he'd been struck by the sure knowledge that there was far more to Breanna Colby than met the eye, far more that hovered beneath that exquisite, genteel veneer.

  He was more determined than ever to help her. Yet, so far, he'd accomplished next to nothing. After first leaving Medford Manor for London— prior to his visit to Searby—he'd not only called on

  numerous local shops in Town to ask about the dolls, but he'd dropped in at Bow Street, spoken to Marks about whatever information had been amassed on Cunnings's murderer, his potential link to the Vis­count Medford, and now his link to the threats being sent to Lady Breanna.

  As Royce suspected, Marks was more than willing to turn over his file, which contained details on the conversations he'd had with all those he'd questioned about Cunnings—both then and now. The Bow Street runner looked conscience-stricken and at the same time relieved to learn that Lady Breanna had hired Royce to follow up on the matter.

  Royce understood both reactions.

  Marks's relief was because he was being pressured to devote all his energies toward solving the murders of the local noblemen. And his attack of conscience was because he'd been unable to help Lady Breanna , unable to find out the name of the predator who was stalking her.

  How could Royce fault him, either for his priorities or his regrets? He well understood that rueful expres­sion on Marks's face. He had the uncomfortable feel­ing he'd be wearing a similar one himself when he told Lady Breanna he'd uncovered nothing of impor­tance as of yet. She seemed to have the same effect on everyone, inspiring a surge of respect and a rush of protectiveness that made people want to slay dragons for her. And if that reaction was unusual for Marks, it was unprecedented for Royce.

 
That fact notwithstanding, Royce had left Bow Street armed with Marks's reports—reports that were nothing more than routine chats with all Cunnings's friends and colleagues. Fine. He'd pored over them during his evenings at Searby, then kept them close by for reference. And now, after having spoken with shopkeepers throughout London, he and Hibbert had covered six or seven shops in Kent. Those visits had, as he'd suspected, yielded no information on the pur­chase of the dolls. Wherever the killer had bought them, it hadn't been in Town or in Kent.

  The bastard was too clever for that.

  “We'll be arriving at Medford Manor in about ten minutes,” Hibbert announced, shooting Royce a side­ways glance. “Would you care to discuss your somber mood?”

  Royce shifted in his seat, crossed one long leg over the other. “The truth? I'm not looking forward to looking Damen in the eye and telling him I've got no news on who's trying to kill his wife.”

  “Did you think you would have news—after doing only a few days of preliminary digging?”

  A scowl. “No. I didn't.”

  Hibbert arched a brow. “Are you sure it's Lord Sheldrake you're uncomfortable facing? Or is it Lady Breanna?”

  Royce's scowl deepened. “I don't appreciate having my mind read, Hibbert. Not even by you. But if you must know, no, I don't like telling a twenty-one-year-old woman that a professional killer—one with a bril­liant mind and a burning desire to terrorize and kill her—is closing in and I've done nothing to outmaneuver him or find out who he is.” Staring broodingly at his portfolio, Royce added, “I've been unusually slow at turning up answers to young women's dilemmas these days.”

  Hibbert sniffed. “Ryder's daughter is like the proverbial needle in a haystack. We're not only searching for an eighteen-year-old girl who could be anywhere, we're searching for one whose father has never laid eyes on her. We have no description, no point at which to begin. The viscount hasn't so much as contacted Glynnis Martin since he impregnated her and discharged her nineteen years ago. He even de­stroyed the letter she sent him announcing their daughter's birth. Why, for all we know, Emma Martin doesn't even know her father's name, much less that he's alive and searching for her.”

  “That's irrelevant. It's we who are searching for her, not the other way around. We know her name and that her mother dropped out of sight immediately after having her.”

  “Glynnis Martin could have left England.”

  “With what money?”

  “Fine. Then, she could have moved to another shire, changed her name.”

  “That shouldn't stop us from finding her— or he; daughter.”

  “It won't stop us. But it might slow us down. Our men are exploring all the avenues you defined. We're waiting to hear back from them. We're also waiting for word on whatever death records they can get their hands on. Not that I hold out much hope. We have al­most two decades and an entire country to cover, with only a name and a description of Glynnis Martin to go on. She's had eighteen years in which to die. So, for that matter, has her daughter.”

  “Damn.” Royce pressed his fist into the seat cush­ion, leaving a deep imprint in the soft cloth. “I don't like being thwarted—not even for a few weeks. I don't intend to allow it. By New Year's Day we're going to have information leading us to Ryder's daughter.”

  “I see.” Hibbert leaned back in his seat, eyeing his employer speculatively “And Lady Breanna? Are your plans for our progress on her situation equally ambitious?”

  “Yes.” Royce's jaw set, his tone as unyielding as his claim “We're going to find that bastard who's after her, Hibbert. We're going to find him soon.”

  “For Lord Sheldrake's sake,” Hibbert supplied helpfully

  “Don't bait me. Yes, for Damen's sake. Also for his wife's sake, and Lady Breanna's sake. Hell, for my sake. I'm not going to lose. Not this time.”

  “This time?” A wry grin twisted Hibbert's lips. “As I recall, you haven't lost at any time.”

  “No,” Royce concurred, staring out the window as the iron gates of Medford Manor sprang into view. “I haven't.”

  9

  From the sitting-room window, Breanna watched Lord Royce's carriage round the drive, feeling a sur­prising sense of relief and an even more surprising sense of excitement at the realization that he was back.

  But then, why should she be surprised at the relief that seeing him evoked? Royce Chadwick represented her only hope of finding and eliminating the assassin who was hell-bent on inflicting his vengeance on her and Stacie.

  She'd been living a walking nightmare ever since that package had arrived, her entire body taut with fear every time she and Stacie left the house. Even with Damen perpetually by their sides, it was terri­fying to know that- somewhere—doubtless within scrutinizing distance—a brilliant marksman waited, gauging the right time to end their lives.

  Yet he didn't strike—just as Lord Royce had pre­dicted.

  Damen's friend certainly knew what he was talking about.

  True, his methods were risky, leaving both her and Stacie susceptible to attack. Still, the tactics he'd out­lined were unarguably logical—the result of an astute mind that understood its adversary.

  Perhaps that was the part she found exciting. Dan­gerous or not, Lord Royce's reasoning was fascinat­ing and listening to him detail his strategy had strengthened her conviction that he was the right per­son for the job. He possessed all the awareness and creativity Bow Street lacked—and the courage to see it all through-She was curious to hear what he'd found out dur­ing his absence.

  Letting the curtain fall back into place, she gathered up her skirts and made her way across the sitting room. She was halfway down the hall when Wells opened the front door, and Lord Royce and an elderly, silver-haired man walked in.

  Damen's footsteps echoed from the second floor landing, and he strode down the stairs, reached the main level, and cut across Breanna's path, never even noticing her as he headed toward the doorway.

  “Royce. Hibbert.” He greeted both men tersely. “What did you find out?”

  “We spoke to numerous shopkeepers,” Hibbert began. “And Lord Royce paid a visit to Bow Street. After our initial inquiries—”

  “Nothing,” Royce interrupted with an adamant sweep of his arm. “We found out nothing.” His chin came up and he met Damen's anguished gaze. “But we will.” He handed Wells his overcoat with a nod of thanks. “Have there been further incidents?”

  “No.” It was Breanna who answered, walking for­ward to join the men. “It was just as you said. The three of us went about our business, Wells checked the mail every day, and—other than the responses to our party invitations that continued to pour in—we received nothing from that... that... man.”

  Royce turned toward her, his midnight blue eyes sweeping her briefly from head to toe, as if to assess her true state of mind. “Good,” was all he said. With­out averting his gaze, he gestured toward the older gentleman beside him. “My lady, this is Hibbert, my most trusted associate.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hibbert,” Breanna replied with a curtsy. “And since no one can tell my cousin and I apart, I 'll spare Lord Royce the embarrassment by introducing myself. I 'm—”

  “Lady Breanna Colby,” Royce finished fo r her. “I beg to differ with you. I have no trouble telling you apart.''

  There was something about his tone that made hot color tinge Breanna's cheeks. “My apologies. It seems I've underestimated you.”

  “It would seem so.” A corner of Royce's mouth lift­ed. “However, it would also seem that I 've embar­rassed you. So I, too, must apologize. Your apology, by the way, is accepted.”

  Unexpected amusement danced in Breanna 's eyes. “Then I'd be a boor not to accept yours—which is just what I suspect you, were counting on me to say. You're quite a maneuverer, my lord. It's no wonder you're successful at getting what you want. Very well. Consider your apology accepted.”

  Royce continued to gaze steadily at her. “Thank you. You're very gracious.”
/>   Hibbert cleared his throat. “Lady Breanna,” he said with a bow, his pale stare assessing her in one swift motion. “It's a pleasure.”

  “Thank you. And welcome to Medford Manor.” Catching her up between her teeth, Breanna grew se­rious, mulling over Lord Royce's blunt announcement that they'd learned nothing new. “So the dolls weren't bought in London. I'm not surprised.”

  “Neither am I.” Royce glanced curiously about. “Where is the marchioness? I got the distinct impres­sion your cousin never missed out on anything.”

  Breanna's forehead creased in concern. “She doesn't Unfortunately, she hasn't been sleeping well. She's up­stairs, resting.''

  Royce frowned. “Is it anxiety that's keeping her awake?”

  “No, my lord.” Anastasia descended the stairs, shaking her head as she did. “It's not anxiety. It's pregnancy.” She smiled, an illuminating gesture that drew attention away from her pallor, the dark circles beneath her eyes. “In fact, I've thought of a new and practical way to barricade our door to unwanted guests. Line the entranceway with chamber pots. They'll seal off the house, and I promise they won't go to waste.”

  “A novel idea,” Royce chuckled. “I'll give it thought.” He repeated his introductions, this time presenting Anastasia to Hibbert.

  The older man looked intently from Anastasia to Breanna and back again. “Astonishing,” he mur­mured, having properly acknowledged Damen's wife. “And you're not twins?”

  “We're not even sisters—at least not by blood,” Anastasia explained. “Our fathers were twins. Our mothers were sisters, and they, too, looked a great deal alike. The resemblance between Breanna and me is unusual, but not impossible. And as far as being twins ...” She tossed Breanna an affectionate smile. “In our hearts, we are.” “I see.”

  “When will your guests start to arrive?” Royce asked.

  “Tomorrow morning.” Breanna glanced at Wells, who nodded his agreement. “Anything you want to know about the guest list, see Wells. He arranged the entire party without mentioning a word to me.”