Page 18 of The Silver Coin

  Her expression softened, and Royce watched her innate decency prevail over her bitterness. “Yes, my lord. I know she is.”

  “Discuss it with Emma,” he suggested. “She's young, but she's hardly a child. I think she deserves the right to know her father has asked to see her, don't you?”

  Wearily, she nodded. “Considering how often she's asked me questions about him—yes. She does.”

  Satisfied with the results of this first meeting, Royce made to rise. “I'll go then, give you a chance to talk with her. I'm staying at a local inn, so I can re­turn—”

  “Wait.” Glynnis came to her feet in a flourish. “I appreciate how considerate you're being. But I know my daughter. The instant I tell her about this, she'll want to talk with you. So, if you don't mind waiting, I'll get Emma now. Just give me a few min­utes alone with her. Then, I'll bring her to you. I'd be grateful if you'd explain the situation to her exactly as you did to me. Would that be too inconvenient, my lord?”

  “No, of course not.”

  In truth, Royce couldn't be more pleased. If he could eliminate a night of waiting, that might enab l e him to cut his trip by a full day.

  And get him back to Medford Manor by tomorrow night.

  “Thank you,” Glynnis was saying. “I’ll get Emma.” She turned to the dowager, frowned as she noticed the trembling of her hands. “Your Grace? Perhaps you should retire now. You're exhausted.”

  The elderly woman nodded, even that gesture ap­pearing to tire her. “If Lord Royce doesn't mind wait­ing alone, I think I will.”

  “Please, go up with Miss Martin,” Royce said, as­sessing the situation quickly, and stepping forward to kiss the dowager's quivering hand. “I apologize for tiring you.”

  “Don't apologize,” she said, her fingers tightening briefly in Royce's. She raised her eyes to his, and he saw the shimmer of tears glistening there. “You've brought me just what I needed. Now I can leave this world in peace. Thank you, sir.” With that, she accept­ed Glynnis's arm, leaning heavily against her as she came slowly to her feet. Pausing, she gestured weakly toward the sideboard. “Help yourself to a brandy. It will warm away the winter chill.''

  “I will. Thank you.” Royce watched the two women walk away—Glynnis supporting the dowager's frail, aged frame—and he felt strangely moved by what had just taken place.

  He blinked, stunned by his own reaction.

  When had he started succumbing to sentiment?

  He didn't need to explore that question to know its answer.

  Breanna.

  The thought of her brought his mind back to re­turning to Medford Manor by tomorrow night.

  Swiftly, his mind raced, laying out plans. He'd rea­son with Emma now. Hopefully, if she was as curi­ous about her father as Glynnis had implied, she'd agree to ride to Sussex and meet with him late to­morrow morning. That would give Royce the early morning hours to cheek out the Berkshire shops, and the remainder of the afternoon—after leaving Ryder's home—to cover the shops in Sussex. From there, he'd tide on to Surrey, chat with the shopkeep­ers before closing, then ride directly to Kent before nightfall.

  To Kent—and to Breanna.

  Royce gritted his teeth, acknowledging to himself that he had a lot to ponder with regard to Breanna Colby. Tonight, he promised himself. When he was alone in his room at the inn. There, he'd devote seri­ous thought to what in the hell was happening be­tween them, where this fixation was leading. And what in God's name he was feeling.

  It was half past ten o'clock that night when Stacie shut the door to Breanna's temporary quarters, leaned back against it as if to bar her cousin from leaving, and announced, “All right, Breanna. That does it. I'm not waiting another instant. We've made up the room. We've brought in your sketches, your needlepoint, and all your favorite porcelain figures. It's as much home as it's going to be. Now talk to me.”

  Breanna turned, placing her final statue—the horse she'd had since childhood—on the fireplace mantel. She raised her brows quizzically. “You know as much as I do. Damen is turning up the lamp in my cham­bers, then coming here to escort you to bed. Hibbert is sitting right outside this door, planning to guard it for the night. Wells is standing at his post like a stubborn sentry who refuses to rest. You and I are both expect­ed to get some sleep, after which—”

  “That's not what I'm talking about and you know it.” Stacie folded her arms across her breasts, giving her cousin a pointed look. “I've waited since the ball. And I'm not budging until you tell me what's going on between you and Royce Chadwick.”

  A flush stained Breanna's cheeks. “Oh ... that.”

  “Yes. That.” Stacie inclined her head. “It's even more serious than I thought. I can tell just by looking at you.”

  Sighing, Breanna perched at the edge of her bed. “ I don't know how serious it is. I only know that I feel as if I'm being tossed about in a windstorm and I can't seem to break free or catch my breath. What's more, I'm not sure that I even want to.”

  “That sounds suspiciously like love.”

  Silence.

  Stacie came to sit beside Breanna, taking her hand in hers. “Are you in love with Royce?”

  Breanna gave a helpless shrug. “I've known him less than a fortnight.”

  “That doesn't answer my question”

  “I know.” Breanna stared down at their joined hands. “I think about him constantly. When he's in the room, I can scarcely look away. When we talk, if s as if we understand each other completely, despite the fact that we're so very different in so many ways. And when we touch...” A pause, as Breanna struggled to give voice to such intimate feelings. “When we touch, I lose myself entirely. I ache. I burn. I want things I never even imagined wanting. No, not wanting— needing. It's as if there's a whole different me inside, a person I don't even recognize but one Royce seems to know. Does that make any sense?”

  “Oh, yes.” Stacie exhaled sharply. “A lot of sense.” She tucked an unruly strand of hair off her face. “You're in love with him, Breanna. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  A thoughtful pause. “I have no answer for you. Be­cause I'm not sure how Royce feels about me.”

  “Find out,” Stacie advised. “Better still, help him find out. I think you'll both be pleased with the re­sults.”

  “We're in the midst of hunting down a killer. Surely I should wait—”

  “No, you shouldn't” Stacie gave an adamant shake of her head. “Love doesn't wait. Not even for danger to subside. Aren't you the one who taught me that not too many months ago?”

  A flicker of memory danced in Breanna's eyes. “It appears my own advice is coming back to haunt me.”

  Stacie's grin was smug. “Yes. Pity, isn't it?”

  At that same moment, Royce was hovering just in­side the entranceway at Pearson Manor, patiently an­swering the last of the two dozen questions Emma had fired at him since agreeing to meet her father the next day.

  She was a delightful young woman. Much, Royce suspected, as her mother had been in her youth. She was charming, inquisitive, and lacking in artifice—her golden hair unbound, her gray eyes keen and intelli­gent. She'd been without a father her whole life. At last she was being offered an alternative. And she was eager to explore it, if somewhat cautiously, for all the right reasons.

  “Will he expect me to move in right away?” she asked Royce, concern lining her face. “Because I can't make that commitment. It depends upon my moth­er's plans, the dowager's health and, truthfully, how well the viscount... my father,” she corrected herself, “and I get on together.”

  “Lord Ryder has no expectations, Emma,” Royce replied in total candor. “He'll be elated that I found you, and that you agreed to see him. After that... I'm sure he has his hopes, but they're not demands.”

  “He has no right to demand anything,” Glynnis put in quietly.

  “You're right.” Royce met her gaze, seeing the kind of bleakness that resulted from having her youth stripped aw
ay, along with whatever hopes and dreams she'd possessed. Now those dreams belonged to her daughter, and it was clear that, while the dowa­ger might think of Ryder's offer as a future for Glyn­nis, Glynnis regarded it only as a future for her daughter.

  For her, there was only the present—or whatever was left of it when the dowager passed away.

  “Mother, will you ride to Sussex with Lord Royce and me?” Emma was inquiring, trying to include her mother in this all-important step.

  Royce knew the answer to that before Glynnis spoke it.

  “No, Emma. I won't. I can't. Her Grace needs me.”

  Emma studied her mother speculatively. “That's not the only reason, is it?”

  Glynnis drew a slow breath. “It's a very important reason, but, no, it's not the only one. This is one jour­ney I can't take with you. It's one you must take in order to move ahead with your life. But, in my case, it would be like slipping backwards, into a past I've fi­nally managed to put behind me. As I said, you have to go. But I can't.”

  Understanding flitted across Emma's face, and she hesitated, torn between loyalty to her mother and de­sire to complete a circle that, for her, had never been closed.

  “Don't even consider changing your mind.” Glyn­nis obliterated her daughter's dilemma in one fell swoop. She went to Emma, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You must meet him, form your own opinion. He's your father. He's looked high and low for you. You'd never forgive yourself if you refused.” Glynnis paused, weighing her next words carefully. “I'll never stop being your mother, Emma, no matter where either of us goes. But I've made my choices. It’s now time for you to make yours. Do you understand what I'm saying?” A solemn nod.

  “Good. Then go upstairs and pack. It will be day before you know it”

  Emma squeezed her mother's hand. “Thank you.” She turned to Royce. “And thank you, my lord.”

  “You're welcome, Emma.” Royce opened the front door, having tactfully retreated to it during the pri­vate moment between mother and daughter. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.” His gaze flickered to Glynnis. “Good night, Miss Martin.''

  She managed a small, if weary, smile. “Good night, my lord. I appreciate your searching so hard for Emma, and for offering her a chance to meet her father.”

  Royce should have felt satisfied as he descended the front steps of Pearson Manor. But he didn't Instead, he felt uneasy.

  He paused at the foot of the drive, glancing behind him and watching the lights go out, one by one, as the footmen readied the house for slumber.

  Emma was excited about her upcoming adventure Glynnis was resigned, if not thrilled, by the unexpected opportunity that had presented itself to her daughter.

  The situation was as positive as it could be, given Ryder's deplorable conduct eighteen years ago. As a result, Royce's assignment with the viscount was nearing an end—a successful end. Which was just what he'd hoped for.

  So what the hell was bothering him?

  Puzzled, he walked toward his phaeton, trying to analyze the unsettled feeling he had deep in his gut. On the verge of climbing into the driver's seat, he paused, turning once again to study the manor, intent on determining the reason for his restlessness.

  Everything looked calm, the household settled in for the night.

  He pivoted slowly, peering across the grounds, scrutinizing the shadows of trees, the thin layer of fog that was unfolding to hide the moon from view.

  AH was still.

  Still frowning, Royce swung into his seat, unable to explain or shake free of his uneasiness.

  Maybe it wasn't Ryder's case at all. Maybe it was worry over Breanna that was plaguing him.

  Accepting that as a very real prospect, Royce slapped the reins, guided his carriage onto the road. Anything was possible, he mused, especially when it came to Breanna. It went without question that he wouldn't feel totally at ease until he was back at Med­ford Manor, overseeing her safety himself.

  And catching the bastard who was after her.

  He had a feeling sleep wouldn't be forthcoming— not for hours, if at all.

  He steered his phaeton toward the village inn.

  He waited until the last distant echo of hoofbeats had faded, and the road leading to Pearson Manor was silent.

  Chadwick was gone.

  The fool should have listened to his instincts, checked out the grounds to see who was lurking about. Not that it would have mattered. He wouldn't have found him.

  Well, it was a moot point now. Chadwick had left. Only until morning, judging from the snippets of con­versation he'd overheard when the front door opened. Tomorrow morning, he'd be back to take the girl to her father.

  Or so he thought.

  Slipping his gloved hand into his pocket, the assas­sin closed his four good fingers around the pistol. His other arm tightened around the horse blanket he car­ried—one that would serve two purposes tonight

  He'd have to strike swiftly abandon some of his fi­nesse in lieu of speed and skill. Ah, well. One had to be adaptable, especially when one's attack was spon­taneous, one's tactical planning limited to a few brief minutes.

  His timetable was excitingly tight—and not only in terms of his invasion of Pearson Manor.

  After leaving here, he had to ride to London, make last-minute arrangements with his crew, then rush off to collect the final piece of his cargo.

  He also had a package to send off to Medford Manor, the contents of which would ensure Lady Bre­anna's terror remained at a peak during his two-day absence.

  All of this had to be done by daybreak, when his ship would be sailing for Calais. An almost insurmountable challenge. One he'd relish—and master. Soundlessly, he moved toward the manor.

  Glynnis Martin stood by the window, listening to her daughter shove a few final items into her bag then snap it shut, having readied herself for the trip.

  Emma was going to her father.

  The thought felt more strange than it did upsetting. Perhaps that was because so many years had passed, taking much of the hurt and anger with it. Or perhaps it was because whatever fervent emotion she'd once possessed had long since drained away, given freely and lovingly to her daughter and the dowager.

  Eighteen years had passed. Emma had grown to be a secure and level-headed young woman. The dowa­ger had grown to be a trusted mentor and to depend upon Glynnis for friendship, for companionship, for strength.

  But now, Her Grace's life was ending. Emma's, on the other hand, was beginning. And she?

  Most of the time, the only thing she felt was tired. So many years had passed, taking with them her vi­tality and her hope, leaving behind only a sort of pas­sive acceptance and prayer that Emma's life would be better.

  Maybe that prayer was about to be answered.

  Emma was young. She could find the energy and the will to forgive—both of which Glynnis lacked. As for the viscount, he'd be captivated by his daughter. Now that he'd taken this important step, decided to acknowledge Emma as his own, Glynnis was certain of that. He wasn't an evil man, only a weak one. And once he met Emma, saw his own charm, sharp mind, and melting smile reflected in her—he couldn't help but love her.

  And he could offer her so much that Glynnis couldn't.

  Perhaps she'd grown too soft-hearted. Or perhaps she'd just grown weary of battling an emptiness that had lapsed into futility.

  “Mother?” Emma came up behind her. “Are you sure you're not upset that I'm going?”

  “No, Emma. I'm not upset. In fact, I'm glad—for many reasons.” She sighed, wondering how to ex­plain to her daughter that she lacked what was need­ed to propel Emma into adulthood, that she hadn't the enthusiasm, the means, or even the energy to do so. Tm tired, Emma,” she began, starting to turn. “Sometimes I find myself wishing I could just close my eyes and...” She broke off, her words dying on her lips as she spied the intruder.

  “And what—sleep?” the man in black inquired. He flourished his pistol, crammed the blanket against its m
uzzle. “I'm delighted to oblige.”

  The shot was muffled by the thick wool.

  But the result was no less effective.

  Glynnis Martin slumped to the floor.

  The assassin was beside Emma before she could scream.

  Dropping the blanket, he grasped the barrel of his pistol, brought the butt down against the side of her head. Dispassionately, he noted the shocked look in her eyes go dazed, then fade into nothingness.

  She sagged forward, unconscious.

  He glanced down at her, frowning a bit as he stud­ied the lump already forming on the side of her head He hated damaging the merchandise. Still, youth was an astounding thing. She'd heal by the time it mat­tered.

  Resuming his work, he leaned over, dragging the blanket over Emma's head and pulling it down around her until she was fully covered. He'd tie her up later, when he was a safe distance away—long be­fore she awakened.

  Sidestepping Glynnis's body, he swung Emma over his shoulder, making his way from the room and reversing the path he'd carefully taken to get to her— down the shortest corridor of the servants' quarters and out the rear door of the manor. Royce Chadwick would be so disappointed, he m used ten minutes later, tossing Emma's unconscious form into his carriage, and climbing in beside her.

  As for the Viscount Ryder, he'd be positively de­spondent.

  Unfortunately, there would be no one to carry on his title and his name. Both would simply have to die when he did.

  16

  Royce stalked across the small room at the local pouring himself a brandy and tossing it off in fort to relax.

  It wasn't like him to be so unnerved, he thought, unbuttoning his shirt and flexing his back muscles. But he felt unusually on edge, as if he were needed.

  Could Breanna be in trouble?