Page 19 of The Silver Coin

  No. He dismissed the notion, not out of fear, but out of pragmatism. Hibbert would never let anyone get to her. Besides, this assassin they were dealing with wasn't interested in storming Medford Manor, alerting the entire staff to his presence. He was inter­ested in isolating Breanna, making her beg for her life before ending it. And that was only after terrorizing her and murdering Anastasia.

  The prospect made his blood run cold.

  Worry. Fear. Protectiveness.

  He was even more personally involved in this caw than he'd allowed himself to fathom.

  And it wasn't because of his friendship with Damen-

  It was because of his feelings for Breanna.

  Feelings. That in itself was uncharted territory. The only feelings he'd known until now had been uncom­plicated ones—determination, anger, compassion, lust. Those he could deal with; those he understood. Anything more, he'd never received nor learned how to give.

  And this preoccupation, this desire to protect, this bloody sense of being off-balance—not only had he never experienced these sentiments, he'd never be­lieved himself capable of them.

  Obviously, he was wrong. Whatever emotional de­ficiencies he thought he suffered from as a result of his upbringing were not entirely irreparable.

  But, whatever sentiments he could cultivate, were they enough?

  Slowly, Royce sank down onto the edge of the bed, somehow aware that he'd gotten to the heart of his misgivings, his reticence to care for Breanna.

  She was all he'd told her she was—beautiful to the core. Yet all that beauty had gone un-nurtured for twenty-one years. She'd spent her entire life deprived of the very caring she so naturally offered others. True, she had Anastasia, and a houseful of servants who adored her. But she deserved more. She deserved a man who cherished her as Damen did Anastasia. She deserved a man who recognized her for the ex­quisite and rare flower that she was, and offered her all that was necessary to make her bloom.

  And he? Here he was, slamming into her world like a thunderstorm, taking advantage of her fear and vul­nerability, causing her—unconsciously or not—to de­pend on him. And then, disregarding her innocence, intentionally coaxing forth her natural sensuality, se­ducing her with words, acting as if he had the right to be that man.

  He'd known he wanted her, probably from the first instant he set eyes on her. But what had happened be ­ tween them last night—whether or not it was the re ­ sult of the raw emotions generated by the assassin's visit—had been dumbfounding. He'd never experi­enced anything like it. He was no stranger to passion or its nuances; he'd explored them with more than his share of women.

  But last night he'd been drowning. Holding Brean­na in his arms, feeling her skin against his, he'd damned near lost control, torn off the rest of their clothes and buried himself inside her. And judging from the look in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks-she would have let rum.

  God help him, what was he doing? What was he thinking? He had no right to toy with her this way, not unless he was willing, able, to give her everything she needed.

  They were so very unalike.

  Except for the ways in which they were the same.

  And even in their differences, she seemed to see in­side him, understand him with a clarity that was star­tling.

  He'd confided things to her he'd never spoken of before. His childhood was a distant memory, a painful precursor to the man he was today. His fathe r was dead. And whatever hold he'd had over Royce had died long before that.

  The hold, yes. But the residual pain?

  Scars, Breanna had said. Well, maybe she was right. Maybe he hadn't escaped without some of those, even if he was stronger for it, more sure of who he was.

  He was hard, detached. He'd told that to Breanna last night. And it was true. Too true, perhaps.

  The problem was, he wasn't detached when it came to her. With her, he was in over his head.

  Why and to what extent—those were the questions that needed answering.

  Was he in over his head because he'd never met a woman as incredibly beautiful, both inside and out, as Breanna—a woman who was so strong and at the same time so delicate; whose depth of passion even she had yet to fathom, much less explore? A woman he wanted almost beyond bearing, certainly beyond resisting? A woman he wanted to protect and devour all at once?

  Or, as he was beginning to suspect, was the reason he was in over his head something far deeper?

  He'd best find some resolution—soon. Because if he wasn't the right man for Breanna, if he wasn't capable of being all she needed, he had to get away from her—fast. If last night was any example of what hap­pened when they were together, he couldn't rely upon his self-restraint. Despite his best intentions, despite his supposed iron will, all she'd done was look at him, touch him, and every shred of reason had van­ished.

  He shouldn't go back to Medford Manor at all, certainly not to sleep in the bedchamber right next to Breanna's.

  But that insight wasn't going to stop him. He wasn't leaving until he found that son of a bitch who wanted her dead.

  Morning brought with it a blistering headache from too much brandy, and little in the way of resolution.

  Still, Royce was dressed and out early, riding to several local villages in the hopes of finding either the shopkeeper who'd sold the dolls or the one who'd sold the statue. Berkshire was a strong possibility-close enough to be accessible to Kent, near enough to London to be bustling, filled with enough shops for the assassin to find an unobtrusive one in which to make his purchases.

  The dolls continued to be a lost cause. They were too common, several similar ones having been sold in each of the five shops Royce visited.

  The porcelain figure yielded far better results.

  It happened in the third shop Royce strolled into. The store, which sold various novelties and trinkets for women and their dressing tables, was tucked away in a village halfway between Ascot and Read­ing. Sure enough, Royce spotted a row of small porce­lain figures near the back of the store.

  He summoned the shopkeeper, an amiable enough fellow named Barker, and questioned him about the specific statue he was hunting for.

  Halfway through the description, Barker's entire demeanor changed, and he became wary, slurring un­easily from one foot to the other. “I might have seen the statue you're talking about. Why are you asking?”

  “Why are you unnerved by my asking?” Royce challenged, realizing the man knew something and using the most aggressive tactics possible to scare the information out of him. “Is there some reason you don't want to discuss that particular statue—some reason that might get you into trouble?”

  “Yes. No. Not in the way you mean.” The man blanched, taking in Royce's powerful build and gaug­ing the distance between him and the door.

  “I wouldn't bolt. It's a bad idea.” Royce tapped his pocket, made it clear he was armed. “If you'd prefer we could continue this conversation at Bow Street.” It was a bluff, but he suspected it would yield the de­sired results— if B arker's fear was the honest kind.

  It was.

  “Are you a constable or something?” Barker asked hopefully, visibly heartened by the mention of Bow Street.

  “Or something.” Royce's stare bored through him. The man wasn't a criminal. But he was scared. The question was, why? Had he been threatened by whomever bought that statue?

  “You're not under suspicion,” he continued, offer­ing just enough information to assure Barker's coop­eration. “Quite the opposite. It's possible you could help me find someone who's, shall we say, shady. What can you tell me?”

  By now, Barker looked more than convinced. “I know the porcelain figure you mean. There's actually a whole group of them similar to the one you de­scribed. They're all of two women who look like sis­ters doing different things together—gardening, sewing, picking flowers. The entire set was on display and for sale. But not in my shop, in my cousin's. His store is in Canterbury.”

  “You said the figu
res were in your cousin's shop,” Royce repeated, furious with himself for missing the obvious. The arrogant son of a bitch bought the statue in Kent. Right out from under their noses. He'd as­sumed they'd never cheek the local shops, since they'd already cheeked there once, for the dolls.

  He'd been right. They hadn't.

  “So your cousin sold the statues,” Royce probed, determined to get some facts, however limited. “I'll need the name and address of his shop. How re­cent were the purchases made? How many of the porcelain figures sold? Will he have a record of the sales?”

  The shopkeeper waved away Royce's questions. “I can give you Henry's address. But it won't help. He doesn’t have any record of the sales. Normally, he would. He keeps fine records. But the statue you're asking about, along with the other half-dozen from that collection, was stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes. That's why I got nervous when you asked about the statue. I thought you might be a friend of the thief's.”

  “Hardly.” Royce's mind was racing. “When were the statues taken?”

  A thoughtful look. “About ten days ago, I'd say. Henry went home, locked up as usual first. When he opened up the next morning, the statues were gone. Whoever stole them went to a lot of trouble. Cut a pane of glass from the door and let himself in. Perfect­ly neat pane, too. You'd think he'd smash the glass, climb in and grab all he could, then run before he got caught. No. This thief, whoever he is, cut a square just small enough to fit his hand through. He took nothing but the statues—not even the money Henry keeps in the front drawer.” A-shrug. “Makes no sense to me. Not to the local constables either. They've been at Henry's shop already. They found nothing.”

  It makes perfect sense to me, Royce thought silently. This bastard needs to be superior at everything he does.

  Aloud all he said was, “Thank you for your help Mr. Barker. I'll still need your cousin's name and the address of his shop, just so I can talk to him and have a look around.”

  “Sure.” The shopkeeper scribbled down the infor­mation. “You never said who you were,” he com­mented, eyeing Royce curiously as he handed over the slip of paper.

  “An investigator,” Royce replied tersely. “And if I find out anything about your cousin's property, I'll let you know. I'll also let Bow Street know how coopera­tive you were.”

  The man stood up a little straighter. “Happy to oblige, sir. I hope you catch the man.”

  Royce's jaw clenched. “Don't worry. I intend to.”

  Royce's day went from bad to worse.

  He arrived at Pearson Manor on schedule, only to see the scarlet coats of two Bow Street runners in the entranceway. The men's backs were to him as they spoke with the dowager's butter. They were nodding, scribbling notes in a pad as the butler mopped at his brow with a handkerchief.

  An ominous knot coiled in Royce's gut.

  “What's wrong?” he demanded, taking the front steps two at a time.

  The men turned. Royce recognized Marks right away, as well as Carson, a younger lad who'd been with Bow Street a little more than a year.

  “Chadwick. I'm glad you're here,” Marks greeted him tersely. “We sent a messenger to the inn to find you, but you'd already left. I understand you were scheduled to take Emma Martin to the Viscount Ryder's home today.”

  “That’s right”

  Marks glanced swiftly at the butler, who looked as if he were about to swoon. “You can go now. I'll send for you if I need you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man practically bolted.

  “Marks, what the hell is going on here?” Royce re­peated.

  “Emma Martin is gone.”

  “Gone? Are you saying she's run off?”

  “I'm saying she's gone. I don't know under what circumstances. She's gone, and her mother is dead. Shot to death in her daughter's room. Sometime last night, it looks like. No one here saw or heard any­thing. Except, I suspect, the girl. And she's missing.”

  Royce tasted bile. “What about the dowager?”

  “She wasn't hurt—at least not by the shooter. But the news of Glynnis Martin's death was too much for her. Her Grace died a half hour ago.”

  “Dammit,” Royce muttered, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Goddammit.”

  Marks scratched his head, studying Royce's reac­tion. “As you know, Berkshire's not exactly our terri­tory. But when we heard who Emma Martin really was, where you were taking her today—”

  “It occurred to you that this murder might be tied to the others you're investigating. The ones involving the London noblemen.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Except why would the killer shoot Ryder's mis­tress?” Carson interjected to ask. “That doesn't fit into his pattern. Why kill the woman?”

  “Damned if I know.” Marks's answer was candid, his shrug as uncertain as his words. “None of us has any idea what's inciting this lunatic. He's killed four men and kidnapped their wives. Maybe Ryder's next on his list and he came here looking for him. News is all over Town about Chadwick figuring out who the viscount's daughter is. Maybe the killer thought Ryder would come here to claim her, rather than the other way around.”

  “You're thinking that when the killer broke in, he went straight to Emma's room to find Ryder. And that Glynnis Martin was there and saw him, so he shot her.” Carson nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “It doesn't explain Emma's diseppearance,” Royce pointed out, although he was already forming his own theory—and it bore no similarity to anything Marks was going to come up with.

  “She is Ryder's blood relation,” Marks tried. “A mistress isn't bound by blood or marriage. A daugh­ter is. Maybe he grabbed her for ransom.”

  “But who'd pay that ransom if Ryder was dead?” Royce countered. “For that matter, who's paying the ransom for the other women who were kidnapped? Their husbands' beneficiaries?”

  Marks shrugged again. “I don't know any more than you do, my lord. We haven't seen a single ran­som note yet—not in any of the four cases.”

  “Four?” The number finally sank in, and Royce's head came up. “Why are you including Hart in your coant? He was killed at Medford Manor, which is in Kent, not London. And his wife wasn't touched.”

  “Lord Hart was shot in Kent, but his home's in Lon­don,” Marks corrected. “Everything else about the crime fit the pattern exactly. The target was a noble­man; the method, a gunshot to the chest. As for Lady Hart...” A slight hesitation, and Marks exchanged glances with Carson. “This isn't public knowledge yet, Chadwick. We're trying to keep it quiet as long as possible, to avoid mass hysteria. But under the cir­cumstances, you should know. At the same time we got word about what happened here, we got word that Harfs widow disappeared from her London Town house last night. Both crimes happened some­time between eleven p.m . and dawn.”

  Royce sucked in his breath. “The kidnapper got past Harfs guards?”

  “Yes. Just as he did here. Just as he always does. If s like he's a mind-reader or a genius of some kind. He times it perfectly, so he gets by the guards and goes unseen by the staff.”

  A genius of some kind. Gets by the guards. Goes unseen by the staff. The same method—a gunshot to the chest.

  Realization exploded inside Royce's skull.

  Of course. It all tied together. It didn't explain the kidnappings, but it sure as hell explained the mur­ders, and the precision with which all the crimes were committed.

  He'd assumed Marks and Carson were exploring the wrong path. They weren't. What they were doing was exploring only one of the right paths.

  He knew the omen

  Royce's brain began pounding with details, one after the other, as pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The murders—whin they'd begun ltappening, the de­liberation with which they were committed—it all fit All but the missing women. That motive was yet to be revealed. But the rest?

  The rest spoke volumes.

  All the killings, with the exeeption of Glynnis Mar­tin, were target pract
ice for the killer.

  Because mat killer and the assassin tormenting Bre­anna were one and the same man

  The bastard was toying with the authorities while he honed his skill for the ultimate prize. And that prize was Breanna.

  As for Glynnis Martin's death, that had been retali­ation, a taanting reminder of who was the master.

  That reminder was aimed, not at Breanna, but at him.

  Obviously, the assassin had guessed what he was about. Having overheard what Royce intended him to overhear—that he was riding to Pearson Manor to bring Emma Martin to her father—the killer had somehow deduced the rest: that Royce would be re­turning to Medford Manor, that he'd taken on the role of Breanna's protector.

  He knew. The son of a bitch knew everything.

  And he was warning Royce to stay the hell out of this—or else.

  “Chadwick?” Marks pressed, his eyes narrowed on Royce's face. “Have you come up with something we missed?”

  Royce schooled his features, resisted the urge to blurt out his suspicions. To do so would be a mistake. Bow Street couldn't help Breanna any more now than they could before. They needed proof. He had none to offer. All he had was gut instinct. And, however cer­tain that instinct was, it still wasn't proof.

  Plus, there was another reason for his silence.

  He wanted to get that son of a bitch himself.

  “Chadwick, what's on your mind?” Marks de­manded.

  “I was thinking of Ryder,” Royce replied, turning their attentions toward a different concern. “If he is this killer's next intended victim, he'd better be warned.”

  Marks nodded. “We'll ride straight to Sussex from here.”

  “Ryder's expecting Emma, not you,” Royce said grimly. “I sent him a missive late last night, explain­ing that I'd found her and that I'd be bringing her to his estate this afternoon. Now, instead of meeting his daughter, he'll be confronted with news of her kid­napping. Not to mention the remorse he'll feel over Glynnis's murder.”

  “We'll handle Ryder.” Marks shot Royce a pointed look. “Leave him and his safety to us. That's our job. Yours was finding the girl—which you did.”