Page 17 of The Silver Coin

  “It's me,” Breanna said quietly.

  “Yes.” Royce's gaze held hers. “He'd find another way to terrorize you. Right now he's appeased. He thinks he's winning. I'd rather he keep thinking that, until I get back. Then, we'll show him otherwise. But not until then.”

  “The ton thinks Hart's shooter was the killer Bow Street is looking for,” Damen muttered.

  “Our assassin wanted them to think that. He's shrewd as hell. This way, he terrified Breanna with­out arousing a shred of suspicion. Hopefully, his vic­tory today will ensure us a short lull as he waits to assess Breanna's reaction. She's got to keep him won­dering.”

  “How do I do that?” Breanna asked.

  Royce's stare delved deep inside her. “Stay in the manor. Don't even let him see you, much less gauge how you're holding up. It will buy us time.” A pause. “May I see you alone before I leave?”

  “Of course.” Breanna rose, smoothing the folds of her gown as she did. “We can talk in the green salon.”

  “I don't think it would be proper to—” Wells began.

  “Oh, dear.” At that exact moment, Anastasia jerked upright, looking like a rabbit about to bolt. “My stom­ach is beginning to lurch. It's my own fault. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and when I'm empty, I...” She clamped her lips together, as if stifling a wave of nau­sea.

  Wells was already in motion. “I'll bring you some food. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He was gone in a heartbeat.

  “Well done,” Damen commended dryly. “You ac­complished just what you wanted to.”

  “I did, didn't I?” Stacie returned with a self-satisfied nod. She shot Royce a beatific smile. “You see? I told you my pregnancy was becoming useful. Now go. Be­fore Wells comes to his senses and figures out what I've done—and why. And he will figure it out. He al­ways does, as Breanna will attest.”

  A hint of amusement lurked in Royce's eyes. “I'm sure. Thank you for your warning, and your clever di­version.”

  He guided Breanna into the hallway, led her across to the green salon, and closed the door with a firm click.

  All humor vanished, leaving only the raw emotions of fear, gloom—and something quite the opposite of both.

  “Breanna,” Royce said quietly, leaning back against the door and studying her beautiful, composed fea­tures. “I know you're terrified. But I promise you, this won't last much longer. I'll find rum. You have my word.”

  Breanna drew a shaky breath. “I can cope with the terror. But this is the second man who's died because of me. That I can't endure.”

  “Sweetheart.” Unaware he'd even uttered the en­dearment, Royce walked over, framed her face be­tween his palms. “You didn't kill them. He did.”

  “I know. But his hatred for me prompted him to do so. That makes me responsible, even if indirectly.”

  Royce felt his insides tug—with compassion, with understanding, with something more.

  Gently, he drew her against him, pressed her cheek to his coat. There was something about this woman, a beauty that was unique by its very design, its very ex­tent, that made him wonder if perhaps he did have a heart after all.

  “Hibbert has instructions to watch you like a hawk. You'll never be alone. No one except he, Wells—and, of course, Damen, Anastasia, and I—know you've changed rooms. Oh, and your lady's maid. I told her your chambers were being redecorated. I showed her your temporary quarters, and instructed her to tell no one of their location.”

  That brought Breanna's head up. “What possible reason could you give her for making that request?”

  “Discretion.” A corner of Royce's mouth lifted. “I told her you'd chosen that particular room because you wanted to be near me.”

  Breanna stared at him for a moment, a pink tinge spreading up from her neck to her throat. Then, she began to laugh. “You're the most outrageous man I've ever met.”

  “I know.” His thumbs caressed her cheekbones. “And you're the most extraordinary woman I've ever met.” He lowered his head, brushed her lips with his—and broached a subject he'd vowed to himself to avoid. “I'm sorry if my actions last night hurt you. I didn't mean for that to happen.”

  “Which part are you sorry for?” Breanna mur­mured, making no attempt to pull away from his em­brace. “Are you sorry for what we did? Or for the way you behaved afterward?”

  “That depends on when you ask me.”

  Breanna lay her palm against his jaw. “I'm asking you now.”

  “Now?” Royce savored the pleasure of her touch, fought the urge to drag her against him. “Right now my conscience is warring with my instincts. My conscience is sorry I let things go so far. And my instinct are sorry I stopped when I did, that I didn't make you mine as I've wanted to do from the moment we met” A teasing smile. “I prefer your instincts to your con­science.”

  “So do I.” He kissed her again, a slow, dizzying ex­ploration of her mouth. “We'll talk about this when I return. In the meantime, be careful. Stay inside. I'll be back by the morning after next, at the latest.”

  Slowly, Breanna nodded, her fists clenching in the folds of his coat. “I will. But Royce?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Hurry.”

  15

  H e lu rked in the brush, wa i t i ng until Chadwick's carri age had pulled away.

  It was no surprise that H i bbert wasn't i n i t. As he'd suspected, Chadwick had left h i s fa i thful manservant behind, no doubt instructing him to safeguard Lady B reanna's life.

  How noble.

  The rage he'd hoped to assuage boiled up inside him once again, stronger, more relentless, than it had been before he pulled the trigger, ending Hart's life.

  And that rage was aggravated by Royce Chadwick.

  The man was an unwelcome complication. He was too inferior to be a threat, but not too inferior to be a nuisance. He was delaying the inevitable, helping to ease Lady Breanna's terror.

  He was involving himself in a war he'd never win.

  Clearly, he thought himself clever—leaving Medford Manor as scheduled, heading off to Berkshire to tr y finding Ryder's daughter. He believed it would convince his adversary that he wasn't acting as Lady

  Breanna's protector. But the fact that he'd left Hibbert behind said otherwise. It said that Chadwick was corning back.

  So the fool hoped to match wits with him.

  He was doomed to failure.

  It was time to demonstrate that fact.

  His mind racing, he massaged his hand, which throbbed beneath his glove after all the hours spent outdoors in the cold. The pain was worsening. He needed to warm it away, to soak his hand beneath some hot compresses in order to ease the knuckle that supported his wooden replica of a finger.

  Not yet. Not until he resolved this issue.

  But how?

  In a flash of insight, he had his answer. Not just any answer, but a brilliant one—one worthy of great ge­nius—its ramifications as exhilarating as its goal.

  What a splendid way of putting Chadwick in his place, and furthering his own ends in the process. It would send Chadwick a message and, at the same time, divert the fellow's energies elsewhere—probably straight to Bow Street. Of course, that would mean a greater risk of discovery. Then again, greater risk meant greater excitement. No battle was worth pursu­ing if the opponent was totally unworthy or the odds of losing nil By giving Chadwick this demonstration, leading him to a whole different set of answers, it would even the score-It would also enhance the next shipment by one. And why not deliver that shipment himself? Instantly, rage was transformed to anticipation, the thrill of battle mingling with another, equally enticing thrill.

  Maurelle. She could ease the demons raging inside him, make him forget the agonizing pain in his hand.

  And he could bring her the excitement she craved, satisfy her in ways no other man ever could.

  Why hadn't he thought of this before? It was just what they both needed—a profitable cargo and each other.

  Not
wasting a minute, he crept back to his phaeton, slapped the reins, and rode off.

  He was careful to keep a mile span between his car­riage and Chadwick's. He knew where he was head­ed—to Ascot, where, if his exceptional memory served him correctly, Pearson Manor was situated. He didn't recall the precise location, but he'd attended a ball or two there when the dowager's husband was still alive. If need be, he'd stop at some local pub where the ale was cheap, and the patrons poor enough, greedy enough, to sell him a bit of harmless information, such as directions—for the right price, of course—after which they'd forget his visit and him. Either way, he'd find the dowager's home.

  The easier method, of course, would be to keep Chadwick in sight, let him lead the way.

  But Chadwick's instincts were too good.

  And it wouldn't do for him to know he was being followed.

  An honk smile lifted his lips, interesting. The pur­suer being pursued. More than interesting. Ingenious.

  The elderly, white-haired Dowager Duchess of Pear­son listened attentively as Royce presented his facts. Her thin hands folded in her lap, her pale blue eyes unreadable, she set, straight-backed, in the library chair, waiting until the entire story had been told.

  Then, she sighed, her already-lined face creasing further with uncertainty.

  “I've protected Glynnis for eighteen years now,” she murmured, her tone weary with age and pain. “There's a part of me that would like to keep on doing so. I'd like to send you away, to tell you to advise Lord Ryder that he's lost any right to speak with the mother of his child, much less the child herself. But Glynnis is a grown woman, and a mother. In addition, my own circumstances have changed drastically in the last few months. So I'll let her decide for herself what she wants to do.”

  Tactfully, Royce refrained from prying, although he did wonder what circumstances the dowager was re­ferring to. “You'll let me speak with her?”

  “Yes. I will.” Her posture stiffened and her pale eyes narrowed on Royce’s face. “But let me warn you, Lord Chadwick. Glynnis's feelings for your client have long since changed from love to resentment, maybe even to hatred. I wouldn't expect a warm re­ception,”

  Royce had to admire the woman's loyalty. More­over, he had to agree with her assessment of Ryder's actions. He'd been a selfish, arrogant fool. The differ­ence was that now he knew it. Age had granted him its unique wisdom, opening corridors of his mind that had, at one time, been shut. And one thing that wis­dom had afforded him was the realization that blood ties did matter, and that human emotions transcended the bounds of class or monetary status.

  In short, he was sorry. Deeply sorry. And while it was much too late to make amends with Glynnis, per­haps it wasn't too late to form a bond, however tenu­ous, with his daughter.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Your Grace,” Royce said respectfully. “I have no illusions, nor false hope. I want only a chance to speak with Miss Martin, to ex­plain to her where things stand.”

  “So be it.” The dowager summoned her butler, who came directly to the library

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Please ask Glynnis to join me.”

  “Of course.” The butler withdrew, looking not the least bit surprised by the request.

  “Glynnis has been my companion since she came to live here,” Lady Pearson explained to Royce. “She reads to me, walks with me in the garden and, as of late, keeps me company when I'm confined to my quarters—which is more often than not. It's rare that she's not by my side.”

  Royce leaned forward on the settee, studied the emotion on the dowager's face. “You care a great deal for Miss Martin.”

  “She's like a daughter to me,” was the shaky reply. “If this were a year ago I would have refused to let you see her. But now ... I'm in failing health, Lord Royce. According to my physician, I haven't much time. I also have limited funds to bequeath to Glynnis. My poor late husband made some bad investments before he died and what little he left me went to run­ning the estate. So, if there's a future for Glynnis—a good future—somewhere else, I won't stand in the way of her pursuing it. If it's what she wants.”

  A knock interrupted them.

  “Come in.”

  “You sent for me, Your Grace?” Glynnis caught sight of Royce, and halted, looking hesitantly at her employ­er. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company.”

  “Come in, Glynnis.” The dowager beckoned to her. “I'd like you to meet Lord Royce Chadwick. The mat­ter that brings him to Pearson Manor concerns you.”

  A startled blink. “Very well.” Glynnis Martin en­tered the library, approaching the settee with a shy yet curious demeanor. “My lord.” She dropped a curtsy.

  Having risen to his feet, Royce bowed. “Miss Mar­tin. A pleasure.” He straightened, eyeing her closely and seeing a woman who had once undoubtedly been quite lovely, with thick pale hair and wide gray eyes. But time and experience had taken their toll, and she now looked worn, resigned, her luster faded, her beauty diminished into plainness.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” she inquired politely.

  For an instant, Royce considered asking to speak with Glynnis alone, then abandoned the notion. To begin with, the dowager would never agree. Further, he sensed the elderly matron might turn out to be an ally, rather than an obstacle.

  “Please, sit down,” he began, gesturing toward the chair beside the dowager's. “As it happens, I've been searching for you for weeks now. Actually, for you and your daughter.”

  In the process of settling herself, Glynnis went rigid. “Emma? Why would you be searching for her?”

  “On behalf of my client,” Royce said gently. “Emma's father.”

  Shutters descended over Glynnis's eyes. “What do you know of Emma's father?”

  Royce lowered himself back to the settee, speaking as frankly and objectively as he could. “I know who he is—the Viscount Ryder. I know you were em­ployed in his home when Emma was conceived. I know he treated you abysmally when you told him you were with child. I know he abandoned you, and ignored your message informing him of Emma's birth.'' A weighty pause. “And I know that he's aging now, and deeply remorseful for what he's done. He realizes he can never make up for his callousness and negligence. But he wants to try—if not with you, then with Emma.”

  “Just like that.” Glynnis Martin gave an incredulous shake of her head. “He seduced me, threw me out when I conceived his child, and denied that child's ex­istence for eighteen years. And now he's remorseful. Tell me, my lord, how am I supposed to react? With compassion?”

  “I'd be lying if I said yes to that,” Royce stated bluntly. “Were I in your shoos, I'd probably hate the man. But your scars aren't really the issue here.”

  She looked taken aback, both by Royce's unexpect­ed support of her plight and by his equally unexpect­ ed bluntness. “I see.” She cleared her throat, her defensiveness visibly abating. “If my sears aren't the issue, then what is?”

  “Emma is.” Royce didn't diverge from his straight­forward approach. “Look, Miss Martin. Despite all the insults we hurl at him, Lord Ryder is Emma's father. And—if it makes any difference at all—I can honestly say his regret at having rejected her, and you, is very real and very acute. He realizes he was a stupid, self­ish fool. He also realizes he can't undo what's been done. But he's old, he's alone, and he's aware that his life is drawing to an end. He'd like to meet his child, to try to afford her—and himself—the chance to form some kind of relationship, however tenuous, before he dies. He'd also like to leave her his title, his estate, and his fortune—which is considerable.”

  Glynnis emitted a soft gasp. “I—I'm stunned. I had no idea.” She pursed her lips, recovered herself. “But Emma is not for sale, my lord.”

  “I never assumed she was,” Royce responded, un­surprised by Glynnis's reaction. She was clearly a proud woman, and a protective, devoted mother. All of which he admired—and planned to use, not only to his client's advantage but, whether Glynnis Martin knew it or
not, to hers and her daughter's.

  “I assure you,” Royce continued, his tone and gaze unwavering, “that Lord Ryder has no desire to pur­chase your daughter. He's not luring her with the promise of money. He's simply offering her all that's his to give.” A profound pause. “I'm a very good judge of character, Miss Martin, especially when it comes to my clients. The viscount has no ulterior mo­tives, nor is he stupid enough to believe he can buy Emma 's loyalties. He just wants to give her, her birthright—-and perhaps afford himself a measure of peace, a sense of having left something behind that's real and lasting. Surely you can understand that?”

  Glynnis averted her gaze, indecision warring on her face.

  “I believe that if you give this some thought...” Royce pressed.

  “I'm not sure I want to.”

  “Why?” Royce inquired gently. “Because you might find yourself softening?”

  “Glynnis,” the dowager interrupted, reaching out to take the younger woman's hand in hers. “Listen to me. You're angry. You have reason to be. I share your anger and hurt, as I have from the day you told me what the viscount had done. But I'm a great deal older than you. And I have a perspective you have yet to acquire. Age changes people. They suddenly see things clearly that, in the past, they were blind to. I think that's what's happening here.”

  “You expect me to forgive him?” Glynnis asked her employer in amazement.

  “Of course not. I expect you to think of Emma. Don't let your bitterness, however justified, cheat her out of what’s rightfully hers. You'll regret it.”

  “What’s rightfully hers,” Glynnis repeated bleakly. “The viscount's money.”

  “There's a lot more involved here than money,” Royce put in.

  “Such as what? A tide? Status?”

  “You're missing my point. Greed is clearly not in your nature, so I'd be a fool to use it as an incentive to sway you into accepting Lord Ryder's request. I'm urging you to do so for a number of reasons: to give Emma a sense of heritage—something meeting her fa­ther would permit; to give her the formal acknowl­edgment she has been denied all these years; to ensure her future, so she's never out in the cold, alone and abandoned, the way you were.” Royce paused, glancing down at the carpet before lifting his gaze to meet Glynnis's. “And last—despite what you've claimed, despite what we've both claimed—to offer a shred of charity to a lonely old man. Pain and resent­ment aside, she is his daughter, Miss Martin.”