The Silver Coin

  Or someone.

  Hibbert was subtle, nondescript. He, on the other hand, was more. He was brilliant. Nothing got by him. Certainly not the casual inspection of an elderly manservant.

  Then there was Lady Breanna.

  She hadn't slept a wink. The dark circles beneath her eyes told him that. Still, she was up and about, fresh and lovely in her yellow morning dress, her hair perfectly coiffed, as always, and her smile intact.

  Inside, she had to be quaking.

  But, dammit, he wanted to see her crack.

  What was keeping her in check? Certainly not her own reserves. It had to be Chadwick.

  Damn him to hell.

  The assassin shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling that familiar rage boil up inside him. He'd been airmailing it for days now. But it was intensify­ing refusing to be quieted. It spilled over, surged through his veins, pulsed through his blood. He gave in to it, savoring its fire, although outwardly he knew his veneer was intact. No one watching would know the fury lashing through him.

  He had to act. To vent his rage before it consumed him.

  It was a good idea anyway. He could use the physi­cal exertion. It would keep him razor-sharp for when he eliminated the Colby women. He'd view his next victim as target practice. He'd arrange things perfect­ly. Everyone would make the obvious, terrifying as­sumption that this latest murder was tied to the three unresolved crimes that had preceded it. Except for Lady Breanna, who'd be gripped by the horrifying prospect that this new killing was unrelated to the others, that it was a brutal warning just for her.

  No one would guess it was both.

  As for the killer's identity, that would feed right into the ton's natural inclination to believe there could never be a murderer among them. So deviant a mind must belong to a common criminal.

  The stupid fools. There was nothing common about him.

  A smile curved his lips as he visualized the pande­monium that would ensue. Both guests and hosts would be thrown into a panic. As a result, his remain­ing hours at Medford Manor would be thoroughly en­joyable.

  Enjoyable but hectic. Too hectic to act.

  He'd wait a day or two before absconding with the grieving young widow. Then, he'd ride to her home, grab her from there.

  And have a lovely piece of merchandise to ship to Calais.

  He glanced about, pleased to see that the gentlemen had split up, since riding conditions were not opti­mum. Some of them had remained outside to fish or shoot, some were heading inside to play whist. And some were going off by themselves, to enjoy a late breakfast or a strong brandy.

  No one would remember who was where, and who was missing.

  It was time to lure his target out to die.

  Lord Richard Hart found the message in the pocket of his coat.

  He had just left the manor, and was about to join a group of men who were fishing at the stream, when he discovered the folded slip of paper. Puz­zled, he pulled it out, smoothed open what looked to be a sheet of feminine stationery. An anticipatory glint lit his eyes as he read the words, and the signa­ture.

  Ten minutes later, he was on horseback, galloping off to his destination.

  He eased forward in his saddle, excitement rippling through him. He'd always been lucky with the ladies. Even now, at forty-five years of age, women were drawn to him. They were attracted to his still firm physique, his natural charm, and, of course, his stag­gering fortune. He'd been approached by many women, with every offer from a swift, one-time liai­son to a long-term mistress. He'd accepted more than his share. Rarely did the identities of those who ap­proached him come as a surprise. He had a sixth sense for knowing when someone wanted him. But never in his wildest dreams had he guessed that Lady Breanna Colby was among them.

  He smiled, urging his horse to pick up speed. Ac­cording to her note, she wanted to meet him on the far western side of the estate, away from the guests and the construction, where she knew they could be utterly alone.

  Her only stipulations were that he told no one he was corning and that he brought the note with him, so she could destroy it and eliminate any chance of dis­covery. Their tryst, she'd declared, had to remain a se­cret.

  That was fine with him. The less people who knew, the less chance there was of his new wife finding out

  The notion of Lady Breanna wanting him, yearning for him, made his pulse race. True, this was one time he hadn't guessed, hadn't had an inkling of her de­sires.

  But Breanna Colby was the ultimate lady, a woman who kept her feelings and her desires hidden

  The realization that he was to be the one to free them made his mouth water.

  He glanced back at the manor, secure in the knowl­edge that his young, inexperienced wife was sitting among a cluster of women, chatting on some inane subject. Her youth and virginity, which a few short months ago had seemed so incredibly appealing, had quickly lost their luster. She was malleable enough, but passive, passionless. As a result, he was fast grow­ing tired of having her in his bed.

  Lady Breanna “was different. Inexperienced, per­haps, but not passionless. After all, she was the mirror image of her cousin. And the heated expression on Sheldrake's face when he looked at his wife spoke volumes, proclaimed the exquisite Lady Anastasia to be all fire and initiative in bed.

  So it would be the same with her cousin.

  Lord Hart's smile broadened triumphantly as the rows of hedges Breanna had described loomed into view. This must be where she was waiting. It was at the very edge of the estate, a few dozen feet from the road. The hedges were sheltered, private. Ideal.

  He brought his mare to a halt, peering about in the hopes of spotting a glint of yellow. He well remem­bered the lemon-hued gown she'd been wearing at breakfast, and his loins tightened at the thought of re­moving it.

  “Lady Breanna?” he called out. “I'm here, as you re­quested.” No reply.

  Realizing she must be nervous, he yanked out the note she'd sent him, waved it in the air. “See? I've brought your message. No one knows my where­abouts. So there's no reason for self-restraint.”

  That yielded the desired results.

  A glint of color flashed from the hedges.

  But it wasn't yellow.

  It was silver.

  Hart scarcely had time to turn before the pistol fired. And he never realized he was going to die be­fore the bullet found its mark.

  Excellent, the assassin thought, watching Hart's body drop to the ground like a stone, the note flutter­ing to his side. A perfect shot. If any of the guards heard it, they would assume it was one of the gentle­men out gaming. Their job was to protect against in­truders, not scrutinize those already present at Lady Breanna's invitation.

  Still, he had to be prudent. He waited—just long enough to peer about and be sure no one was ap­proaching. Satisfied that he was alone, he crossed over, sparing the body not even a glance as he leaned past it to scoop up the note.

  Stuffing it into his pocket, he slipped into the hedges and made his way back to the manor.

  It wasn't until late afternoon that the victim was missed.

  His wife had assumed he was with the gentlemen, and each of the gentlemen had assumed he was with either one of their colleagues or one of their col­leagues' wives.

  But just after three o’clock, a group of men began looking for him. An afternoon thaw was allowing for a fox hunt and, fine sportsman that Hart was, they wanted him to join. Upon scanning the grounds, they noticed the mare wandering about. She was saddled, but minus a rider. The men were puzzled. As a result, Lord Percy Gilbert, who 'd spied the mare first, rode her back to the stables to make an inquiry. He talked to a young stable boy, who readily told him that L ord Hart had taken her out hours ago.

  A search got under way.

  Forty-five minutes later, Lord Crompton spotted the body.

  “Over there,” he called, pointed toward the hedges.

  The men hurried over, gathering around as the vis­count squatted down,
checked for a heartbeat, a whis­per of breath, anything that indicated Hart might still be among them. But his body was cold and still, the smear of blood across his shirt telling them this was no riding accident.

  “He's dead,” Crompton declared grimly, rising to a standing position. “He was shot in the chest.” Pale but composed, Crompton scanned the grounds, years in the military having accustomed him to staring death in the face. “The killer could have fired from there,” he suggested, indicating the rows of hedges that offered a fine place from which an assailant could strike without being seen.

  “Or he could have fired from the road.” The Duke of Maywood gestured in that direction. “It's no more than twenty-five feet away, just past those trees. That makes a lot more sense to me. He could have hunched down by the roadside and waited for a victim to show up, to get close enough to be within firing range. But to sneak onto the estate? The killer would never have gotten past all those guards—and not only once, but twice—before he committed the murder and after.”

  “I agree,” Lord Percy concurred, wiping sweat off his brow and glancing about apprehensively. “And if he did fire from the road, maybe he's not finished. He could be hiding nearby, waiting to shoot another one of us. Let's get back to the manor. We'll send the guards to collect Hart’s body and take a look around.”

  Pandemonium did indeed ensue—as soon as the news reached the manor.

  The men argued and muttered among themselves, the women wept and wrung their hands, and Lord Hart's young widow needed to be revived twice with smelling salts. It took the guards thirty minutes to get the full story from the men who'd discovered the body, and even longer to collect the body and search the area.

  No assailant was discovered—not in the hedges, and not by the road.

  The next hours passed in a frenzy, as the panicked noblemen battled each other to dispatch messages to

  Bow Street, demanding that action be taken and offer­ing huge sums of money for any runners willing to leave Bow Street and ride out to this shire or that in order to protect them and their families from harm.

  Wells was equally frantic, trying to calm down their guests and simultaneously summon enough footmen to accommodate all the outgoing messages. Hibbert stood off to one side, keeping a clear view of both the hallway and the sitting room, unobtrusively studying the guests' individual reactions while awaiting a sig­nal from Royce.

  Inside the sitting room, Royce was watching Brean­na from across the way, making sure Damen stood with her and Anastasia as they spoke to Mahoney, tried to learn all they could about what had happened.

  She was shaken. Badly shaken. Especially after last night's violation—which none of the guests knew about. Ironically, if they did, they'd be relieved. Fran­tic to get away from here, but relieved. If they drew the same conclusion Breanna had drawn.

  She believed that Hart's murderer was the assassin who was after her, not the criminal terrorizing Bow Street with his string of aristocratic killings. Royce be­lieved she was right. Clearly, it was another message from that bastard, one that foreshadowed what he in­tended to be her fate. She was terrified, and with good cause. Worse, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. .

  Nothing except find the killer.

  He stared over her head, gazing out the window and noting that the guards who'd been searching the grounds were returning to their posts. They'd done all they could. Their job was to keep other incidents from occurring.

  And his job was to pick up where they left off. He turned toward the hallway, signaled Hibbert with a look.

  A short while later, the two men were scrutinizing the area near the hedges where Hart’s body had been discovered

  “Are you concerned that the guests might see us, ask questions about our motives?” Hibbert asked.

  “No.” Royce shook his head. “At this point, anyone who knows me knows I'd be compelled to look around. That's my nature. It would be more out of character if I didn't do so.” He paused, glanced at the row of hedges, then angled his head to gaze off to­ward the road. “I'm not convinced the killer shot Hart from outside the estate. He might have. But there's no real evidence that he did. He could just as easily have shot from those hedges.”

  “Agreed” Hibbert turned up his collar, and fol­lowed Royce's line of vision. “You're still contemplat­ing the possibility that he's here. That he's one of Lady Breanna's guests.”

  “I can't eliminate it”

  “No, you can't. But you can't prove it either. There's just as good a chance he's out there,” Hibbert made a sweep with his arm, “watching Lady Breanna and lying in wait.”

  Royce scowled, unable to dispute Hibbert's reason­ing. “He's smart as hell. He intentionally chose this spot to shoot Hart, so we'd find ourselves in precisely this dilemma. He's trying to make it look as if he's the murderer of those noblemen, rather than the killer after Breanna. Dammit!” Royce clenched his fists at his sides. “How can I leave her alone after this?”

  “You don't have a choice. Every guest at the party

  is aware of your plans to ride straight from here to Berkshire, to try to reunite Ryder and his daugh­ter. If you alter those plans, there will be questions. Those questions could prove dangerous, especially if the killer is among the guests. Besides, from what you told me, Lady Breanna insisted you go. She wants you to bring Ryder and his daughter togeth­er.” Hibbert studied Royce's expression. “I could go to Berkshire for you. It would be risky, but we could try to come up with some plausible ex­cuse—”

  “No.” Royce shook his head. “You're right. I have to go. But Hibbert...” Royce fixed his friend with an unyielding look. “Don't leave Breanna's door tonight, not for an instant. Or tomorrow night, if I'm still not back. I don't think he'll guess she's changed bed­chambers—I've asked Damen to make the room look lived in, to turn up the lamp in the evening and douse it at night, just in case that animal is watching. But if none of that works, if he should figure out that she's sleeping elsewhere and come looking for her, I want him to have to go through you.”

  A grim nod. “And so he shall.”

  The party ended early, an aura of morbidity settling over the manor ^as, one by one, the vehicles were brought around and the visitors took their leave.

  Inside the sitting room, Royce hovered at the win­dow, watching the activity taking place outside in the drive. Hibbert stood behind him, listening to the sounds of muffled voices and slamming doors that in­dicated the guests' departures.

  Both men were waiting for Wells to come in and re­port that the party was officially at an end.

  At last, the butler walked in, wearily proclaiming that the final carriage had driven away.

  “Thank you, Wells.” Royce was already in motion, crossing over to leave the room. “Where's Lady Bre­anna?”

  “In the library, my lord,” the butler supplied. “Just as you asked. With Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake.”

  “Good.” Royce veered off down the hallway. “I want you and Hibbert in there, too.”

  Five minutes later, they were all assembled.

  Breanna shut the novel she'd been pretending to read, and met Royce's hard stare.

  “Everyone's gone,” he said, addressing all the room's occupants, but looking directly at Breanna. “From this moment until whenever we find the killer, there are to be no more callers. None. Not even on New Year's Day.”

  “Callers?” Damen interrupted, bolting to his feet. “I want to take my wife and Breanna and get as far away from here as possible. My God, Royce, this as­sassin not only invaded Breanna's room, he shot and killed another man right under our noses. I won't just sit here and wait for him to do the same to Stacie and our unborn child.”

  “Those are your emotions talking, not reason,” Royce observed quietly. “You know as well as I do that running would be a mistake. It would turn the women into moving targets. This man is a profession­al. He's hell-bent on killing Anastasia and Breanna. He'd follow them to the ends of the earth. The
y'd never be safe. They'd forever be looking over their shoulders. And one day—he'd be standing there. Is that what you want for your wife? For your child?”

  Slowly, Damen sank back down into his chair. “No.”

  “Then listen to me,” Royce urged. “Fleeing is not the answer. The answer is to eliminate this bastard permanently. Which I intend to do. The women must stay put. I know it's frustrating. But it's the safest way—the only way.”

  “I see your point,” Damen murmured reluctantly.

  “Good. As I said, from now on, no callers are to be admitted. To keep speculation from forming, keep tongues wagging. Make it public that Anastasia is still feeling ill, that's she's far too weak to entertain guests—and that her condition has worsened since Lord Hart was killed on her estate. Breanna, as expected, will be attending to her, as will you. Until Anastasia's health improves, no callers will be re­ceived.”

  Anastasia forced a smile, however strained. “This pregnancy of mine is becoming more than a blessing. It's becoming quite useful in manipulating people to suit our purposes.”

  Royce didn't smile back. “We'll use whatever we have, do whatever it takes. I want to rob the killer of every opportunity he might seize to get through those gates.” He rubbed his palms together. “Which re­minds me, the construction is set to resume after New Year's Day. That will have to be delayed. Blame the cold weather.”

  “Consider it done,” Damen agreed at once.

  “I'm leaving for Berkshire within the hour,” Royce continued. “The sooner I dispose of the Ryder matter, the sooner I'll be back. I'd rather stay. But if I do, and if the killer discovers my change of plans, he'll start drawing his own conclusions. If he should figure out I'm hunting him down, he might lash out.” A harsh edge laced Royce's tone. “That would be fine, if I were the one he was lashing out at. It would be more than fine. I'd welcome the chance to meet him head-on. But it's not me he'd vent his rage at.”