Page 28 of The Silver Coin

  Fear knotted Breanna's stomach—the same fear that paralyzed her every time he made that claim. Reflexively, her fingers gripped his coat. “I saw several reports arrive for you today,” she said, reverting back to the topic they tried so hard to avoid. “Did your contacts provide any answers?”

  Royce's arms dropped to his sides, and he raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “Yes and no. This process is so damned tedious. Remember there were two hundred fifty people at your party, two hundred forty-nine of whom are innocent. I've eliminated over half that number.”

  “All from the information your snitches provided?”

  “That and my own knowledge of the guests.” Royce rubbed his palms together, explaining the basis for his reasoning. “For example, one hundred four of the party goers were women. That leaves one hundred forty-six. Of those, over half have the wrong build— they're either short, brawny, or just plain fat. That brings us down to sixty-three. Here's where the re­ports come in. From what I'm reading, a good percent­age of the men have alibis, either for the times when one of the murders occurred or for the night last sum­mer when Anastasia was almost shot. Every few hours more information arrives, and I update my facts. Right now, I've narrowed the search down to thirty-four.''

  “You're amazing.” Breanna shook her head in won­der. “Is this the kind of work you did in the military?”

  “Yes. Whitehall relied upon what they called my de­ductive skills. During the war with Napoleon, I went back and forth from London to the Continent, depend­ing on where I was most needed. The War Department knew I was good at reasoning out the enemy's strate­gy. I'd compile all the facts, consider the personalities involved, and make a prediction as to their intentions. My projections were usually right.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You're brilliant.” Brean­na inclined her head quizzically. “What happened when the war ended? How did you decide to keep doing this?”

  “Fate decided for me. Near the end of my service, I was approached by a general I'd worked with during my months in France. As a commander, he was ad­mirable. I had great respect for him. As a man, he was inflexible and overbearing. When he sought my help, he was worried sick about his son, a junior officer who'd disappeared during battle and whose body was never recovered. I went about trying to find the boy. I analyzed the circumstances, talked to his associates, and figured out what I'd suspected from the start: that the general's son was a deserter. Not because he wasn't loyal to England, but because he didn't have the strength to stand up to his father.”

  “His father wanted him to follow in his footsteps, to pursue a career in the military,” Breanna guessed.

  “Right. And he had no stomach for it.”

  “I don't need to ask why you felt committed to the situation.”

  “No, you don't. The similarity to my own upbring­ing was definitely there— with some important differ­ences. The general wasn't cruel, whereas my father was. This man truly loved his son. By the time he came to me, he would have willingly accepted his son's decision, just so he could have him home, alive and well. That worked in my favor. When I tracked down the boy, he was frequenting a seedy brothel on the outskirts of Paris. He refused to go home, said it would kill his father to hear he'd deserted his country. So, we reached an agreement. We never revealed what had really happened. Instead, our story was that he'd been captured by the French, but had escaped and was trying to make his way back to England when I found him. This spared his father embarrass­ment and him imprisonment. In return, I insisted he announce to his father that he didn't want to stay in the army, and then resign his commission.”

  “Did your plan work?”

  “Beautifully. Everyone was happy.”

  “Including you.” Breanna caressed his jaw. “You're a fraud, my love. You claim to be hard and removed, but I know it made you feel wonderful to give that boy something you never had.” Her gaze was rife with compassion. “I'd have felt the same way.”

  “Yes, you would have.” Royce kissed her fingertips. “In any case, word of mouth took over after that.”

  A smile. “In other words, the general raved to everyone about your brilliant rescue of his son, and suddenly scores of influential people had someone they needed you to find.”

  “Scores?” Royce chuckled. “That's a bit of an exag­geration. But, yes, it happened something like that.”

  A sudden thought struck Breanna. “You've never failed, have you?”

  “Never.”

  “No wonder you were so determined to fight your feelings for me. Love is a daunting challenge, espe­cially for a man who believes he has no depth of emo­tion—a man who never fails. Success would be far from guaranteed. That's unnerving, and risky.”

  Royce's knuckles caressed her cheek. “It was worth the risk.”

  “The risk is over,” she murmured. “You've tri­umphed yet again.”

  “This time it was pure luck.” His jaw tightened. “With my next challenge, it won't be.”

  Breanna knew just what path his thoughts had taken.

  “Royce—”

  “I'm not going to do anything stupid,” he assured her, his tone as rigid as his jaw. “But I'm also not going to lose. Not this time. The stakes are too high. I'm going to figure out who he is. And then I'm going to kill him.”

  An urgent knock at the door brought their conver­sation to an abrupt halt. “Lord Royce?”

  Breanna blanched. “It's Wells. He sounds upset.”

  She was across the room before Royce, yanking open the door. “Wells? It's not Stacie, is it?”

  The butler shook his head, far too preoccupied to worry about the impropriety of Breanna being alone in her room with Royce. “Miss Stacie is froe. Another box just arrived. It's downstairs.”

  Royce took Breanna's arm. “Let's go.”

  The box was small, the size of a book, and ad­dressed, as always, to Breanna.

  Stacie and Damen were waiting in the hallway, and the five of them crowded into the sitting room, where Royce pulled the drapes closed before nodding for Breanna to unwrap the package.

  She did so in a sort of numbed state, peeling back the paper to lift out a porcelain figure. It depicted the same two women as the previous statue, only this time they were sitting side-by-side on a sofa. Across their laps was a pale blue quilt, and their hands were poised, preparing to sew on some lacy trim.

  Crimson paint had been slashed across the quilt and the lace, staining both a sickly shade of red.

  More blood.

  This time the blood led to the women's hands. Instantly, Breanna sew why.

  Their right hands had been mutilated, the index finger of each broken off, saturated with red paint.

  A note lay beside the statue, penned in the same bold, defined hand as always.

  I can feel your terror. It makes my vengeance complete. I'm here, Lady Breanna. My pistol is aimed at your cousin's heart. Sheldrake can't save her. Nor can Chadwick save you. His reconnaissance is inferior. There's no time. A bullet takes only seconds.

  Succumb to your fate. The battle is lost.

  My finger... your life.

  23

  Hibbert waited until he'd ushered Emma into his room at the inn.

  Then, he told her everything.

  For a long moment afterward, she stared at him in disbelief. Then, she broke down, harsh sobs racking her body as she absorbed the realization that her night­mare was at an end. She wrapped her arms around herself, tears coursing down her cheeks as she wept.

  “Come. Sit down.” Hibbert led her to a chair, hand­ing her his handkerchief and laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

  She shook her head, battling for her sobs to sub­side. “Forgive me,” she choked out. “I just never thought... She said you were buying me. She warned me that if I breathed a word of the truth, she'd find me and—”

  “You don't need to explain, and certainly not to apologize. I'm just grateful I got here in time. Lord Royc
e was distraught when he went to fetch you at Pearson Manor and learned what had happened.

  She gulped. “That monster—he killed my mother.”

  “Who?” Hibbert couldn't help himself, not when it came to this. “Who killed your mother, Emma? Did you see him?”

  “Yes.” An unsteady nod. “I saw him. I'm the only one who did. The other women—the ones who were locked in that room with me, whose husbands were killed—they never saw his face. But I did.”

  “Those other women, they're all at Le Joyau?”

  Another nod. “We weren't all shipped at the same time, but, yes, we were all there. They still are.”

  “Locked in a room together?”

  “Yes. They're not with Maurelle's women. That’s because they're for sale. Not for a night—forever. Like I was. Maurelle said I'd bring the highest price be­cause I was so young and because I was untouched. But she was expecting a fortune for them, too. They're noblewomen and not much older than I am.” Emma buried her face in her hands. “She's selling them like chattel.”

  “We'll get them out.” Hibbert squatted down be­side the chair. “Emma, I know you're still in shock. But I need your help. That man who shot your mother has killed many times. He's threatening to kill again. We've got to stop him. So, please, tell me everything you remember about him, everything you can.”

  “I only saw him for a minute,” she said, raising her head, a haunted look on her face. “But I'll never forget his eyes. They were like chips of ice. Empty and un­feeling.”

  “What did he look like? Describe him.”

  A horrified shudder. “He was tall. And very fit. Not stout or pudgy like most men his age. More like you, only not thin—muscular. I could feel his strength when he dragged me around.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don't remember anything else. Except that his hair was dark, and graying at the temples. He was wearing all black.” She drew a quivering breath. “He shot Mama through a blanket. Then he hit me. The next thing I knew, I was in a canvas bag in the cargo hold of a ship. I was unloaded in Calais, then taken here by carriage. He let me out a few times, but I was blindfolded. So I never actually saw him again.”

  “What about his voice—can you describe it?”

  A nother tremor ran through her. “Cold. Clipped. I'd recognize it if I heard it again. I think we all would.”

  A ll. That brought Hibbert back to the matter at hand. He needed to get those other woman out of that brothel.

  A nd he needed to get Maurelle under lock and key. “Did he deliver you to Le Joyau personally?”

  “Yes. The women who work there said he and Mau­relle were friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “More than friends.”

  “I see. A nd did they refer to him by name?”

  “No. Even Maurelle never said his name. She just called him 'my noble assassin. She seemed to find that amusing.”

  “Did she?” Hibbert replied thoughtfully. That told him a great deal about Maurelle. It told him she was aware of how her lover was providing her with saleable noblewomen.

  Maurelle L e Joyau was a bitch, and even harder than he'd realized.

  It was time to consider his options. The sooner he acted, the better. Maurelle needed to be stopped be­fore she could sell any of the other women. She also needed to be escorted to England, where Royce could pry information out of her—information that would lead him right to the “noble assassin.”

  On the other hand, none of this could be done hasti­ly. Hibbert knew better. He couldn't risk alerting Maurelle before he'd freed those women. It was too dangerous. If she had any idea what he was planning, she'd either move the women, or silence them. The timing had to be right. He needed the element of sur­prise.

  And he needed help.

  He glanced at Emma, sew her teeth chattering, tears still flowing down her cheeks, and he knew she couldn't be left alone. Not only for compassionate rea­sons, but for practical ones. He couldn't be sure she was coherent enough to understand that she wasn't to leave this room under any circumstances.

  He'd summon Girard.

  Quickly, he went to the nightstand, picked up the paper and quill. He only prayed he was in.

  Girard arrived at Hibbert's room at the inn just be­fore midnight.

  His eyes widened when he sew Emma, curled up asleep on the bed, two blankets wrapped around her to calm the chills that had racked her body for nearly an hour.

  “Mon Dieu,” he muttered, rubbing a palm across his jaw. “No wonder your message was so urgent” His eyes narrowed as he studied Emma, noting her age, build, and features. “My guess is that this is the girl Royce was searching for—the daughter of Lord Ryder”

  “Yes.” Hibbert spoke quietly although Emma showed no signs of stoning. Having endured a week of hell, she'd fallen dead asleep, and was totally un­aware of Girard's arrival. “I found her in Maurelle Le Joyau's brothel,” Hibbert continued. “She's on the verge of emotional collapse. That's why I couldn't leave her here alone.”

  “Has she spoken to you?”

  A terse nod. “All the kidnapped women are at Le Joyau. I'll give you the details. After that, I'll need that help you offered.”

  “Consider it done.”

  It was nearly 4 a.m . when Emma stirred.

  She pushed herself up on one elbow, and for a brief instant, she looked like the innocent young woman she'd been a week ago, before the assassin destroyed her life.

  Then reality intruded, and she went rigid, her eyes snapping open to survey her surroundings.

  Relief flooded her face when she saw Hibbert sit­ting in the chair by the desk.

  “It wasn't a dream. You really did take me away from there. Thank God.” Her gaze flitted to Girard, who sat on another chair, this one blocking the door against intruders.

  She struggled to a sitting position, her brows draw­ing together in concern.

  “It's all right Emma,” Hibbert assured her. “This is Monsieur Girard. He's a friend of Lord Royce's. He lives here in Paris. He's come to help us.”

  Emma relaxed. “You're French?”

  “Mais oui.” His smile was gentle. “And you're a very strong young woman. You've endured a great deal. But it's over now. Hibbert and I will see to it.”

  She managed a small smile. “Thank you.”

  Hibbert stood, fetched a tray from the nightstand, and offered it to her. “I had some tea sent up. It's probably cooled off a bit, but I think you should drink it. There are rolls, too. I want you to eat. You've got to regain your strength.”

  Emma's lashes lowered as she contemplated the tray on her lap. When they lifted again, there were tears in her eyes. “I hope my father turns out to be as fine a gentleman as you are.”

  Hibbert felt an uncustomary surge of sentiment. “Your father is very fortunate to be getting you as a daughter. And, yes, he's a decent man. I think you'll like him. I know he'll be very relieved to learn you're all right.”

  A spark of curiosity lit her eyes. “You know the Vis­count Ryder?”

  “I assist Lord Royce with his work. So, yes, I'm acquainted with the viscount.”

  “Will you tell me about him? Later, when all this is over and the other women are also safe?”

  Hibbert and Girard exchanged glances. It was no surprise that Emma Martin needed something to cling to. Nor was it a surprise that her thoughts had turned to her sire. He might be a stranger to her, but he was all she had left. What was surprising was that, after all she'd been through, she was caring enough to postpone her own needs and think of oth­ers.

  Lord Ryder was luckier than he knew. “There's no need to wait until after the rescue,” Hibbert replied. “It's not even dawn. Once Girard and

  I have worked out a plan, I'd be pleased to tell you whatever I know about the viscount.”

  Some color was beginning to return to her cheeks. “I'm grateful.” She poured herself some tea, took a sip. “What can I tell you that would help?”

  ''Three things,” Girard responded, r
ising to his feet and pacing about. “First, when is the best time to break into Le Joyau? Should we wait until evening when the women are...” He broke off, gave an awk­ward cough.

  “If s all right, Mr. Girard,” Emma assured him with a quiet dignity that tugged at the heartstrings. ''Thanks to Mr. Hibbert, I was spared being defiled Nonetheless, I lost my innocence at that brothel. Be­forehand, actually—when that animal shot my moth-en Yes, the best time to break into Le Joyau is when Maurelle's women are working. Not before midnight, because most of them are still doing their more formal entertaining in one of the parlors. But afterwards, when they've retired to the bedchambers to earn their pay.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Sometime be­tween one and three a.m . That way, you'll avoid those patrons who choose to depart early,” contempt laced her tone, “to return home to their wives.”

  Girard nodded, averting his gaze out of some in­stinctive respect for this decent young woman “Can you think what the best way would be for us to get in?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “I don't need to think. I know the best way for you to get in. It's the same way I dreamed about escaping through every moment of the day I spent in that particular room.” She shud­dered, took another long sip of tea. “There's a win­dow in back, on the ground floor. It leads to an empty storage room. That's the room where the killer first brought me. Later, Maurelle dragged me down the hall and put me in with the other women she means to sell.”

  “How many rooms did you pass along the way?”

  Emma frowned, trying to recall. “Not many. It was very quiet in that area of the house. Maurelle wanted it that way. She had to be sure that, if any of the women cried not, nothing could be overheard by her patrons.”

  Girard's disgust was evident. “I understand. Tell me, Miss Martin, did you happen to notice if the win­dow in that storage room was looked?”

  “As I said, I planned my escape at least two dozen times. So, yes, I studied the window, and its lock. It's actually a latch. Not a very strong one. A man could definitely break it. Also, the window is hidden by some ivy. That makes it hard to find.” She set aside the tray. “When do you plan to break in?”