Page 27 of The Silver Coin

  “I see. She must have thoroughly impressed you, to still be in your thoughts six months later. Yet you didn't get her name.”

  “Unfortunately not.” Hibbert gave a discreet cough

  “I'm not sure how to say this delicately, but it was an arranged evening. I'd had a fair amount to drink when the liaison began. I can describe her to you, if that would help.”

  Maurelle lowered her lashes. “You're very frank.”

  “Have I offended you?”

  Her lashes lifted. “No. I prefer candor to evasive­ness.” Another pause. “I'd like to hear more about you, and about this woman you're seeking.”

  “Indeed. I'll tell you anything about myself you wish to know.” Hibbert shivered a bit, turned up the collar of his coat, and glanced about. “It's cold. Can I take you somewhere warm where we can talk?”

  She rubbed her gloved palms together, still inspecting him closely—his expensive clothing, his cultured demeanor. “Oui, my lord,” she said at length. “I be­lieve you can. You can take me to my establishment. There, we'll continue our chat.”

  Le Joyau looked more like an opulent manor than a brothel.

  The entire dwelling was furnished in rich blue vel­vet and carved mahogany, its drawing rooms warm and cozy, each with a cheery fire burning and adorned with plush sofas and drapes of gold brocade.

  Maurelle escorted Hibbert into one of the rooms, after giving their coats to a sophisticated young woman at the door, who greeted mademoiselle and her guest politely, then went off to get them some re­freshment.

  Hibbert warmed his hands by the fire, thinking it was no wonder affluent men came here. With very little ef­fort, they could pretend they were calling on a virtuous lady, rather than buying a prostitute for the night.

  “I don't understand,” Maurelle returned with a genuinely perplexed look. “I thought you want­ed... ?”

  “What I want, and what's available to me are two different things.” Hibbert tossed off his brandy, glad he'd had the presence of mind to fill his stomach with a large meal before leaving his inn—just in case he needed to lessen the effects of any liquor he'd con­sume.

  Heavily, he set down his glass, taking in her uncer­tain expression, and attempting to explain. “I'm a re­alistic man, Miss Le Joyau. Candid, as you yourself said. I know my attributes ... and my limitations. I'm well past fifty. I'm not displeasing to the eye. But I'm hardly able to capture the fancy of a beautiful, well-bred young lady. I can pay for a roomful of women. But the one I truly want can't be found at a brothel, no matter how elegant.”

  The tiniest flicker in Maurelle's eyes was his only indication that what he'd said had struck a chord.

  Calmly, she reached for a piece of cake, nibbling at it as she asked, “And what type of woman is that?”

  He waved away her question. “Please, my dear. You're not required to listen to my fantasies.” He peeled off several hundred-pound notes, pressed them into Maurelle's hand. “Where shall I await my liaison?”

  “S'il vous plait —in a minute.” Maurelle set the bills aside, her fingers closing around his. “My job is to see that you're happy. If there's something more you need, just ask for it.”

  He quirked a brow. “Forgive me, but what I need is not something you can provide.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Very well.” Hibbert averted his gaze, staring off toward the fire. “It's quite simple. I'd like a compan­ion. Not just for a day, or a week. For an extended pe­riod of time, maybe even for the rest of my life.”

  “But you object to paying for her,” Maurelle guessed softly. “You want her to fall in love with you.”

  A dubious laugh. “That's a delightful notion. But I'm not impractical enough to expect it. No, I don't object to paying. Love isn't the issue.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Breeding. Breeding and chastity.” Silence.

  “I see our discussion has reached an end,” Hibbert said, glancing over to give Maurelle a rueful smile. “I didn't mean to offend you. But you did ask. Now per­haps you'll understand why I didn't want to pursue the subject.”

  “I'm not offended.” Maurelle caressed his fingers. “Just so I understand, monsieur, you're saying you'd prefer to buy one of my ladies for an indefinite period of time—if she's well-bred and untouched?”

  “Nobly bred and untouched,” Hibbert corrected. “Any companion I acquired would have to be of the same class as I am. And, at the same time, young and beautiful.” The warmth left his face. “I hope you're not toying with me, Miss Le Joyau. I might be lonely, but I'm not stupid.”

  “I'm not toying with you, my lord.”

  “Then why are we pursuing this discussion?”

  “Because I might be able to supply you with pre­cisely the companion you want.” Maurelle withdrew her hand, suddenly all business. “For the right price, that is.”

  “Do we understand each other?” Hibbert asked bluntly. “I'm referring to a noblewoman. A young lady born of the peerage. And a virgin. Someone who's never lain with a man before.”

  “I know what a noblewoman is, my lord. Just as I know the definition of a virgin.”

  “And why would I find either, much less both, in a brothel?”

  “Because the young woman I'm thinking of just ar­rived, this week in fact. She has yet to entertain her first client.” Maurelle leaned forward, obviously sens­ing a windfall. “I would give you a guarantee, of course. I have my reputation to consider.”

  Hibbert remained dubious. “Suppose I accept your guarantee. You've assured me of her innocence. What about her roots?”

  The barest of pauses, as Maurelle adjusted her story ever so slightly. “She's English, like yourself. Her late father was a viscount. He died, leaving his family des­titute. Until recently, she lived with her mother. Un­fortunately, her mother died, too. The girl came to Paris, penniless and alone. I took her in.”

  He permitted himself to appear hopeful—Wary, but hopeful. “What does she look like?”

  “As luck would have it, she's just what you're seek­ing. She's lovely. Like the woman you came in search of, she, too, has pale hair and eyes. She's just eighteen. I was going to put her to work tonight, but...” Mau­relle bit her lip thoughtfully. “I could change my mind— if I were properly persuaded.”

  “You said she was alone.” Eagerness laced Hibbert's tone. “That means she has no ties. Could this arrangement be permanent?”

  “As permanent as you wish.”

  “Let me meet her.”

  Maurelle hesitated, well aware she now had the upper hand. “We haven't agreed upon a price.”

  “If she's all you say, you may name your price. I'll give you every pound in my pocket, and a signed note for the rest. I'll have my banker authorize the re­maining funds the instant I return home. But first—I must meet hen”

  Maurelle squeezed his hand, her own eyes glowing with the triumph of victory. “Naturellement. I'll bring her to you. You won't be disappointed.”

  “I'm sure I won't be.”

  Hibbert remained in his seat, glad for his own abili­ty to remain unreadable. He felt a surge of relief, sup­planted only by his deep-seated anger and disgust. He knew only too well who Maurelle would be bringing out to meet him. He also had an excellent idea of the state she'd be in. It was up to him to disregard that state, to keep her in the dark long enough to get her out that door with him—for her own sake.

  After which, he'd tell her the truth, reassure her fears, and elicit her help.

  And somehow convince her to be strong for a little while longer.

  “Here we are, my lord.” Maurelle guided a lovely young woman into the room—a woman whose de­scription perfectly matched the one Lord Royce had provided of Emma Martin. Her ashen complexion and terrified expression told Hibbert she'd been warned not to do anything to discourage her potential buyer—probably at the risk of physical harm, or worse.

  “This is Emma,” Maurelle supplied. “Emma, please greet
Lord Hobson.”

  "Hello, Emma," Hibbert said gently, coming to his feet.

  "Sir." Emma gave a brief curtsy, her eyes downcast.

  "She's a little shy," Maurelle explained. "Under the circumstances, I'm sure you can understand why."

  "Indeed I can." Hibbert forced himself to go through the motions. He clasped his hands behind his back, walking around Emma and inspecting her as one would a prize thoroughbred. His smile widened with each passing minute, although it sickened him to see the way she was trembling.

  "You're a very charming young lady," he compli­mented. He raised her chin with his forefinger. "I hear you're English."

  Her lips quivered.

  "I won't hurt you," he said quietly. "You've nothing to fear."

  A lone tear slid down her cheek. Enough was enough. Hibbert could take no more. His gaze lifted to Maurelle, and he gave an emphat­ic nod. "Pack her things."

  22

  Why didn't he do something?

  Breanna's insides clenched, an overwhelming sense of desperation claiming her.

  She hovered near her bedchamber window, peeked out from behind the drape, and scanned the darken­ing skies.

  He was lurking out there somewhere. But where?

  It had been two days since he'd sent that perfume. His note had said precious hours remained until he struck.

  So where was he?

  Had he guessed what Hibbert was about, where he was going and why?

  No. If that were the case, he'd have reacted.

  Was he watching them, peering through windows and gauging their fear, waiting for it to peak before he acted?

  Was that the cause of his utter silence? Was he doing it intentionally to heighten her agony? Or was he plott ing something horrifying, anticipating the exact moment in which to strike?

  And if he did strike, what form would it take? Was he going to send them another of his threatening gifts, or had the time come when he meant to step out of he shadows, make an attempt on Stacie's life?

  Dear God, she was losing her mind.

  Dragging in a breath, Breanna pressed her palms to­gether, determined to bring herself under control before she went down to dinner. She couldn't let Stacie see her like this. Her poor cousin was frightened enough as it was, more so since that last note had arrived. For the past two days, she hadn't had a minute's reprieve, not an instant to lose herself in something other than the danger to her life. Now Damen never left her side, not even allowing her to make solitary trips from their bedchamber to the sitting room or to walk down and visit Breanna in her chambers. He guarded her round the clock and, during the scant hours when tie slept, he arranged for Wells to take over. The butler was as steadfast as Damen, appending himself to Stacie like a shadow and escorting her about.

  Breanna didn't blame them. She was as worried as (hey.

  And still the nagging thought persisted: What if the killer found another way? What if he got to Stacie de­spite all their precautions? What if... ?

  No. Breanna gave an adamant shake of her head. She wouldn't let her thoughts wander in that direc­tion. If she did, she'd break down entirely.

  She moved about the room, watching the early evening moonlight wash the furniture, and wonder­ing how a winter night could look so lovely and, at the same time, feel so terrifying.

  As if in search of something to combat the fear, to reinforce all the joy and hope in her life, she paused by the bed. Lovingly, she ran her fingers down the post and over the bedcovers, eliciting the familiar surge of warmth that accompanied her memories of the hours she spent in Royce's arms.

  Their lovemaking had gotten more frantic each passing hour over the last two nights, as they both wordlessly sought the wonder and peace that only their joining could bring. Afterwards, they'd he in each other's arms, talk until dawn—about anything and everything but what they feared most. Instead, they shared pieces of their pasts, learning more about each other and planning a future Breanna only prayed would happen.

  Unfortunately, morning always came.

  With the daylight hours, everything altered drastical­ly. Even though Royce guarded her closely, he stayed at arm's length, appearing more like her sentry than her future husband. The two of them never touched, never even sat close together. Not because of protocol. Be­cause of the assassin. If he could see into the manor, he could see them. And Royce was adamant that he not know what they meant to each other.

  Breanna complied without question, although her reasons for doing so were different than Royce's. He was protecting her. She was protecting him.

  The tension at Medford was becoming unbearable.

  Royce spent long, concentrated hours reviewing the guest list, then comparing his updated facts to the re­ports that arrived daily from his contacts, after which he'd amend the list accordingly. Some of the guests' names were struck, others were labeled with a ques­tion mark as Royce went through the laborious process of verifying and eliminating in order to deter-rune the assassin's identity.

  The rest of the household was beginning to crumble.

  Stacie had dark circles beneath her eyes, and Damen looked like death. Wells was haggard from lack of rest. Even Mahoney and his guards were testy, beginning to wonder if the intruder they were being said to stop would ever come out of hiding so he could be captured.

  The overall effect was maddening.

  Each day the assassin didn't strike heightened everyone ' s sense of terror. Each of them silently won­dered where he was, what he was thinking, what he was planning.

  At the same time, they dreaded their answers.

  Breanna prayed Hibbert would return soon, bear­ing something that would lead them in the right (direc­tion.

  Most of all, she prayed Royce would get the killer before the killer got to him.

  Sighing, she crossed the bedchamber, seeking her greatest tangible source of comfort.

  Her porcelain figure.

  Not just any figure, but her most prized one—the statue of the two girls picking flowers.

  The one that held her silver coin.

  Breanna lifted the statue and touched the coin, r e-living the moments when her grandfather had gifted it to her, and its mate, the gold coin, to Stacie.

  He'd wanted so much for them. He'd wanted their future.

  Dear God, how she wanted to give that to him. “Breanna?” Royce hovered in the doorway, his tone gentle. “It's almost time for dinner. I'll walk you downstairs.” A pause. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.” She forced a smile to her lips before turning to face him. “I was just thinking.”

  He didn't look one bit fooled by her pretense. He walked deeper into the room, then spied what she was holding. “We have a few minutes. Would you like to tell me whatever it is you're conveying to your statues?”

  “Not all my statues,” she corrected softly. “Just one in particular.”

  “Ah.” He walked over, studied the porcelain girls amid the flower bed. “Does that figure have special meaning?”

  “Yes. Very special.” This time her smile was gen­uine. “Do you remember the coins I told you about? The ones Grandfather gave Stacie and me when we were six?”

  He nodded. “Silver for you, gold for Anastasia.”

  “With Medford Manor engraved on both, so we'd someday find our way back home forever—obstacles or not. It was Grandfather's way of reminding us what was important. And that something is family.” She worked the coin free. “I keep it here, in this stat­ue. The girls remind me of Stacie and me.” She held out her hand. “Would you like to see it?”

  “I'd be honored.” Royce took the coin, turned it over in his palm. “It's the perfect symbol for you and Anastasia. Your grandfather was a very wise man.”

  “Wise and loving. I always wished he'd been my fa­ther instead of my grandfather.” She swallowed, stared down at the floor. “I never want to disappoint him. In a way, I feel that by endangering Stacie and me—and most especially his future great-grand­child—I ha
ve.”

  “That's ridiculous.” Royce glanced about the shad­owy room, then over at the window. Convinced it was dark enough so they couldn't be seen, he reached for her, took her in his arms. “Your grandfather could be nothing but proud. You're a remarkable woman.”

  “Extraordinarily special,” Breanna murmured, rib­bons of memory drifting through her mind. “That’s how Grandfather always referred to Stacie and me.”

  “I couldn't agree more.”

  Breanna gazed up at Royce, her smile returning as she recalled the other pivotal event that had recurred on the day her grandfather gifted them with their coins.

  “I can't attest to how special we were, but we were certainly resourceful,” she confided. “Do you know what we'd done just minutes before Grandfather gave us the coins? We'd made a pact. We vowed that when­ever one of us got into trouble—the kind of trouble that would go away by our switching places—we'd do so.”

  Royce chuckled. “And did you ever carry out that pact?”

  “Oh, several times.” Breanna's eyes twinkled. “Be­ginning that very night. It was Grandfather's birth­day We'd sneaked outside to play. My dress was covered with mud. My father would have beaten me senseless. Stacie was wearing the identical frock. She played me to perfection.”

  “And you? Did you pretend to be her?”

  “Yes. I loved every minute of it. It was the first time I ever spoke my mind without fear of punishment” Bre­anna laughed softly. “And that wasn't the only time we switched places. We did it again this past summer— every day for weeks. It was during the time when

  Damen and Stacie were falling in love. My father want­ed it to be me Damen was courting. And so it was.”

  Now Royce was grinning. “It was really Anastasia?”

  “Absolutely.” An exaggerated sigh. “Keeping my cousin's hair intact was the hardest part. Stacie can't go five minutes without sending, first strands, then tresses, toppling down. She's hopeless. Still, to be with Damen, she managed.”

  “I'm sure she did. I wish I'd been here to see it.” Abruptly, Royce's amusement vanished. “I wish I'd been here to see everything. I'd have broken your fa­ther's jaw for ever laying a hand on you. And I'd have put a bullet through that son of a bitch he hired to kill Anastasia.” Royce's gaze hardened. “I'll get my chance yet.”