The Silver Coin

  “Of course. Stacks of files detailing our bank's clients—including their personal histories. That came as no surprise. He was looking for a substitute to send Rouge in place of my wife.”

  “Now let's talk about what Bow Street didn't find. Isn't it likely that Cunnings was making notes on what he read in those files? That he was jotting down enough pertinent details to allow him to make the proper selection?”

  Damen exhaled sharply. “You think the assassin took those notes when he killed him?”

  “If Cunnings had boasted about how difficult his challenge was, how certain he was that he could mas­ter it by finding the ideal candidate for Rouge? Ab­solutely.”

  “Let's assume you're right. In that case, the assassin either has a different buyer or he and Rouge are con­tacting each other directly. Because John Cunnings is dead, and no one else in my bank is a criminal.”

  “I agree.” Royce turned to Hibbert. “Get the right men out there to dig up what we need. I want details on anyone even remotely suspected of buying or sell­ing women.”

  Hibbert nodded. “Should they focus primarily on England and France?”

  “My instincts say yes. In any case, no farther than the Continent. The assassin would want immediate re­sults. His nature wouldn't permit him to wait months while his cargo sailed to the Far East or to India. But give me until morning. Once I visit the docks, I'll know exactly where we should focus our efforts. Someone's going to tell me what ships sailed and where they went these past two days. Then, I'm going to pore over those manifests. And with any luck, I'll find something that will help narrow down our search.”

  * * *

  Royce left at daybreak.

  Breanna heard him go, and she wanted more than anything to rush into the hall and see him off. But Wells was at his post outside her door, and he wouldn't think too kindly of a public display. Especially since he didn't even know of her wedding plans.

  So she settled for listening to Royce's deep baritone, quietly conferring with Wells, thanking him for watching over Breanna and assuring him he'd return as soon as he could.

  The morning hours were intolerable.

  Not only was the knot of tension in her stomach coiling tighter with each passing moment—almost as if she sensed the assassin was closing in—but Breanna felt as if she would burst if she didn't share her secret with Stacie.

  She was pacing in the hallway when her cousin wandered downstairs for breakfast, and Breanna pounced on her, dragged her into the sitting room.

  “Breanna, what is it?” Stacie demanded, blinking at her cousin's uncharacteristic impatience. “Has some­thing happened? Damen told me what Royce figured out last night. He also said Royce was riding to the docks first thing today. Have you heard from him?”

  “Not yet. He's still in London.” Breanna shut the door, leaned back against it. “Stacie—”

  “I can't believe I” slept through all the excitement. I suppose I just—”

  “Stacie!” Breanna broke in, unable to wait another instant. “There's something I want to tell you. Some­thing that has nothing to do with the assassin. But I'm going to explode if I wait any longer.”

  Stacie's entire demeanor changed, and a spark of anticipation lit her eyes. 'This is about Royce.”

  “Yes.” Breanna watched her cousin's expression. “I told him I love him.” A pause. “Are you shocked? Be­cause, if so, here's something even more shocking. He loves me, too.”

  Joy erupted on Stacie's face, and she rushed over, hugged her cousin fiercely. “Shocked? Why would I be shocked? I knew it! I knew it the first time I saw you two together.”

  “I appreciate your faith,” Breanna laughed. “Did you happen to hear what I said about who initiated these declarations? I did. I called Royce into my bed­chamber and announced that I love him.”

  Stacie drew back, approval shining in her eyes. “Good for you. If you're waiting for me to be as­tounded, don't. I know all about that inner resolve of yours. You're as strong and determined as I am. It was only a matter of finding the right man to bring out those qualities.”

  Breanna smiled. “I've found him. And, Stacie, he's asked me to marry rum.”

  “You said yes, of course.”

  “I did.” Breanna lowered her voice to a conspirator­ial whisper. “And then I seduced him.”

  This time Stacie's jaw dropped. Recovering herself, she began to laugh. “Now I am impressed. Although having seen the way Royce looks at you, I doubt you had to work very hard.”

  “True enough.” A becoming flush stained Breanna's cheeks. “Stacie, I know how frightening everything in our lives seems right now, how terrified we are for the future of your babe. I have no right to feel these bouts of joy—but I do. In fact, I cling to them. It's as if they're all I have to keep from going mad.”

  “Listen to me.” Stacie gripped her cousin's hands tightly. “Don't you dare apologize for the joy you feel. Being in love with Damen was the only thing that kept me sane when your father was hunting me down. Happiness is something to seize, to revel in. And that's precisely what we're going to do. You and I are going to use these endless hours of confinement to plan your wedding. Just think how elated Grandfa­ther would be.”

  “You're right. He would.” Breanna swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You'll be my bridal attendant, of course.”

  “Naturally.” Stacie grinned. “And I promise not to carry a chamber pot down the aisle with me.”

  They'd just started making plans when the sitting-room door nearly burst from its hinges, and Damen and Wells exploded into the room.

  “Hibbert was right. They're in here,” Wells said, sagging with relief.

  “Why did you leave the room without me?” Damen demanded, glaring at his wife. “I thought you were still abed.”

  Stacie sighed. “Damen, you finally fell asleep. It was half after nine. I couldn't bear to awaken you. So I came downstairs for some breakfast.” She ex­changed glances with Breanna, and grinned. “Which I still haven't eaten, by the way.”

  Now Wells looked totally stricken. “You haven't? I'll bring you something at once.”

  “Wells, wait.” Breanna rose, going over to him and laying her hand gently on his forearm. “Forgive me for detaining Stacie. But I had a very good reason.” She paused, searching for the right words. “You and I have a very special bond, my dear friend. You've pro­tected me from my father my whole life, even those years when Stacie was in America. You've been my friend, my rescuer and, in all ways that matter, my family. So I have a request to make. Actually two re­quests. Royce has asked me to marry him. It would mean a great deal to me if you'd give us your bless­ing. Also, I'd be honored if you'd walk me down the aisle, give me away to the man I love.”

  Moisture actually glinted in Wells's eyes, and he swallowed twice before replying. “I'm not surprised by the announcement. But I am overwhelmed by the requests.” He covered her hand with his. “Lord Royce is a fine man. He loves you deeply. Your grandfather would be overjoyed. And so am I. So, yes you have my blessing. And just as I stood in for your grandfa­ther once, gave Miss Stacie to Lord Sheldrake, I'd be elated to do the same for you and Lord Royce.”

  “Thank you.” Breanna rose up on tiptoe, kissed Wells's cheek, then turned to accept Damen's congrat­ulatory hug. “Now,” she informed the two men, “you may feed my poor starving cousin.”

  They all laughed, and the very sound of it felt won­derful after the strain of the past few weeks.

  It also made them crave normalcy even more.

  Normalcy was not yet to be.

  They were all enjoying their late breakfast when Hibbert walked into the dining room, a sober expres­sion on his face.

  “Hibbert, what is it?” Breanna was on her feet. “Is it Royce?”

  “No, my lady. He has yet to return from London.” Hibbert flourished a small box. “This was just deliv­ered to the front gates. Mahoney brought it up.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Actually,
I'm not surprised to see it. I'm more sur­prised it's taken so long to arrive. Considering the killer's desire to intensify your terror, I would have thought he'd be increasing the frequency of his re­minders by now.” Hibbert paused, giving Breanna a measured look. “Do you want to open it, or shall I?”

  “I'll do it.” Breanna walked over, saw the familiar penning of her name on the box. This parcel was smaller than the last, about the size of one of her porcelain figures.

  Taking a few deep, calming breaths, she tore it open.

  Inside was a bottle of perfume—a pear-shaped bot­tle, its glass facets carved atop a gilded mount, its de­sign intricate.

  Its color blood red.

  The note lay beneath it.

  Death's sweet scent is upon you, Lady Breanna. Retreat is impossible. So is rescue. Tell your warrior his efforts are in vain. Urge him to give up the battle or his blood will spill, too. Either way, you and Lady Anastasia are doomed. Your walls cannot protect you any longer. I've toyed with you, let you believe you were safe. That's over. Precious hours remain until I strike. Your blood is my vengeance.

  20

  Breanna pressed her lips together to still their trem­bling. “This note not only threatens me and Stacie, it threatens Royce, as well .”

  “Good,” Hibbert stated with some satisfaction. “That means Lord Royce has unnerved him.”

  She started. “Is that what it means?”

  “Of course.” Despite his show of nonchalance, Hib­bert was rereading the note, clearly bothered by its contents.

  Before Breanna could question him further, he'd turned his attention to the bottle. Pensively, he stud­ied it, then opened its elegant gilded stopper to weft the fragrance under his nose. “An interesting scent. Jasmine and rose, I should say. Which probably means it was produced in Grasse. And the glass bot­tle—Louis XV -style—definitely French.”

  Breanna stared. “How do you know so much about perfume?”

  Hibbert gave her one of his hints of a smile. “About five years ago, Lord Royce had a client who was an apothecary. The gentleman had invented a promising recipe for a new fragrance. Before he could produce and sell it, a competitor of his stole it and ran off. The thief changed his name and was halfway through Italy before we caught up with him. In the interim, we had no way of knowing whether or not he'd already repro­duced the fragrance and was selling it. As it turned out, he wasn't. He was looking for an isolated spot where he'd never be found before starting his business.

  “To get to the point, our client gave Lord Royce and me quite an education before he sent us off. We learned what type of bottles were manufactured where, what ingredients originated in individual provinces, even the names of specific jewelers in France, Germany, and Austria who were famous for setting precious stones on the more ornate bottles.” Hibbert ended his explanation, glancing back at the bottle in his hands. “The gilding here is sophisticated, as is the design of the base. I'll wait for Lord Royce to confirm it, but I'm fairly certain this bottle was crafted by one of three jewelers in Paris.”

  “So we know the killer favors French perfume,” Damen stated flatly.

  “The question is, does he also favor working with French business associates?”

  “Are you implying the perfume was some kind of payment from his contact?” Breanna demanded.

  “More like some kind of purchase.” Hibbert re­turned the bottle to its box. “I doubt whoever bought those women would take the time to forward a bottle of perfume as a token of thanks. And if he did, he'd send gentleman's cologne, not women's perfume.” A thoughtful pause. “After Lord Royce returns, I think I'll take a quick jaunt down to Dover. I want to see if I can find out anything about the passengers who ar­rived from Calais this morning. Dover is a quieter port than London—far too risky to use when one is shipping questionable cargo but ideal if one is cross­ing the Channel, on a return trip to England alone.”

  Breanna drew a slow breath. “You think the killer actually went to Paris and bought the perfume rum-self?”

  “It would certainly explain why we haven't heard from him these past few days. Perhaps he arranged a business meeting with his associate. He could have traveled from London with his cargo, delivered it in person, met with his contact, bought the perfume, then left Calais and sailed for Dover.”

  “And now he's back. Ready to carry out the final stages of his plan.”

  “In his mind, yes.”

  “He's implying he can get to Stacie and Breanna whether they're inside the manor or not,” Damen said quietly, skimming the note. “Is that true?”

  Hibbert met his gaze head-on. “I don't know, Lord Sheldrake.” '

  “But you think it might be.” Damen got his answer in the silence that ensued. “Dammit, Hibbert. You and Royce said they'd be safe if they didn't venture out.”

  “And they were. Then. He wasn't ready to kill yet. He wanted only to taunt Lady Breanna, to draw out her torture. Which he's obviously still doing. But the tone of this note is more ominous than the others. He went out of his way to address exactly what you just mentioned—the safety of your wife and Lady Brean­na if they stay indoors. He's announcing that he's stripping away that safety. Also, he's now specifying a matter of hours before he acts, rather than alluding to some imminent but vaguely in the future time frame. He's running out of patience. And eventually ...” Hib­bert drew a slow breath. “The problem is, I don't know when eventually will be.”

  Royce was on edge when he returned to Kent.

  He'd interrogated enough people to find out that no one had seen any suspicious cargo being loaded at London's docks over the past several days. He'd also seen enough manifests to know that ten ships had left port that were large enough to hide the kind of cargo he was looking for—namely, at least two unconscious women. Maybe more. He had no way of knowing whether the killer had shipped the five women en masse or separately.

  All the merchant ships that fit the bill were headed for distant ports, with brief stops on the Continent. Every one of them had captains of impeccable stand­ing who always verified the contents of their cargo, and whose honor and decency would never permit them to carry women in their holds.

  Which left the smaller packet ships.

  The manifests here were sketchier, so it was quite possible that someone using a phony name had arranged to ship illegal cargo by listing that freight as sacks of wheat, coal, or something equally innocu­ous. Or, perhaps the killer worked with a crew of his own choosing—a crew he paid to do his bidding. In which case, the entire manifest could have been falsi­fied.

  There was no way of telling.

  Not unless Royce awaited those ships' return. And some of them were not scheduled to sail back into London for months.

  Breanna didn't have months.

  Besides, every instinct in Royce's body was scream­ing that the cargo he was searching for had been shipped to Calais. It made absolute sense. Calais was nearby. It promised immediate results for the assassin. Most of all, it gave him the ultimate satisfaction—an­other demonstration of his superiority. In short, John Cunnings had failed. George Colby had failed. He, on the other hand, would not.

  Fine. So Calais was the likely destination. But to whom was the cargo being delivered? To Rouge? Or had Rouge been replaced by someone else? And how did Royce get to that someone?

  Before leaving the docks, he interviewed a line of crane operators and porters. Some knew the crewmen who worked on those smaller ships. A few knew the captains.

  But it was one wiry old fisherman who supplied Royce with the morning's most significant tidbit of in­formation.

  The old fellow recalled a packet ship that had sailed two days ago, just after sunrise. The reason he re­membered it was that none of his longshoremen friends—the ones who usually worked the early shift—were there to attend it. Which was odd, almost like none of them knew it was scheduled to sail. Curi­ous, he'd watched the crew hoist a few bags on board, then untie and cast off, as if they were in a grea
t hurry to get going.

  Unfortunately, he didn't know any of the crew members personally, other than by face, so he couldn't tell Royce much about them. And he knew nothing about the ship's destination or when it was scheduled to return.

  However, he did recall one thing, and that was the ship's name. It was called the Triumph.

  Royce acted on that immediately. He issued strict instructions—along with a twenty-pound note—to one of the wharf rats he gave occasional work to, or­dering him to advise Royce the instant the Triumph sailed back into port.

  It might be nothing more than a coincidence. On the other hand, it might lead to the kidnapped women.

  The problem was, it wouldn't lead to the assassin— not fast enough to stop him.

  Time was running out.

  By the time Royce reached Medford Manor, he'd made a decision. Someone had to go to Calais. Armed with a description of the missing women, this some­one had to be subtle enough and shrewd enough to ask the right questions, investigate this matter from the receiving end in the hopes of finding the buyer, which, in turn, could lead to the assassin.

  Unfortunately, that someone couldn't be him.

  Because the hunt would take several days at least, especially since it meant following leads from the port of Calais to wherever those women had been taken. And he wouldn't, couldn't, leave Breanna for that amount of time.

  Hibbert, however could.

  Royce drew his carriage up to Medford's iron gates.

  Rather than just waving him on, Mahoney ap­proached the carriage, simultaneously gesturing for his men to begin opening the gates.

  “There was another delivery late this morning,” he told Royce. “I left it with Hibbert. I thought you should know.”

  Nodding tersely, Royce waited only until Mahoney had backed away. Then, he slapped the reins and sent his carriage racing down the drive.

  He mounted the front steps two at a time.

  “I'm glad you're back,” Wells greeted Royce, fling­ing open the door at once.

  “Mahoney told me about the package,” Royce replied, his gaze darting about, searching for Breanna. “Is everyone all right?”