The Silver Coin

  Surprise darted across Girard's handsome features. “Why?”

  “Because I want to be there. I can show you where the window is, and where the women are being kept. I can also help keep your presence a secret. When you first burst in, those women are going to be terrified. Someone is bound to scream. But if I go in before you, explain what's about to happen, they'll be prepared.”

  Girard's jaw dropped. “You would do that? You'd go back there, after all you've been through?”

  “For this? Yes.” She gazed from Girard to Hibbert. “When shall we go?”

  'Tonight.” Hibbert's mind was already racing. “It must be tonight. The sooner we grab Maurelle, the sooner she'll lead us to the assassin. Time is running out.”

  “That leads me to the third question,” Girard con­tinued, nodding his agreement. “Miss Martin, where are Maurelle's chambers?”

  “They're in a separate section of the house. But you won't find her there. She doesn’t retire until daylight, after all the night's payments have been collected. She reads all night in the front parlor—the one I met Mr. Hibbert in. The only exceptions are when she's away, and when her noble assassin visits. But he's not at Le Joyau now. So she'll be in the salon, not her cham­bers.”

  “I'll get the women,” Girard told Hibbert quietly. “I'm sure you want the pleasure of seizing Mademoi­selle Le Joyau.”

  A terse nod. “She'll be accompanying me back to England,” Hibbert informed him. “You keep the women here in Paris. Find a safe place for them. Until the killer is caught, if s not safe for them to go home. We can't run the risk of him finding out they've es­caped. That includes you, Emma.”

  Her shrug was sad. “That's fine. I'm not sure I'm ready to go home and face a future without my mother.”

  “I'll make the arrangements,” Girard agreed. His gaze drifted to Emma, and there was an intensity in his eyes that was palpable. “You'll be cared for and safe.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Emma, one more question,” Hibbert concluded “You said the assassin is gone. Do you remember when he left, and how long he stayed at Le Joyau on his last visit?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. “One day spilled into the next. I didn't see him leave. It must have been sev­eral days ago. As for how long he stayed, I overheard Maurelle's women whispering about how she was closeted in her chambers for a whole day with him. Only—I also heard some gossip about him coming back next week, after he finalized some urgent business.”

  “Urgent business,” Hibbert repeated grimly. “I can guess what that is. And we must prevent it from hap­pening.”

  The next porcelain figure arrived at Medford the following night, just after sunset.

  It, too, was part of the set of statues that had been stolen from the Canterbury shop—the set depicting two identical women. This time, the women were posed arranging white flowers in a vase. A quiet, tranquil scene.

  Except that the flowers had been stained with red paint, as had the women's gowns over their hearts.

  The same monstrous touch as last time had been added.

  The women's right hands had been stained red, and their right forefingers had been hacked off.

  The accompanying note read: Flowers for Lady Ana­stasia's grave. Even flanked by Sheldrake and Wells, she'll die. Like an arrow to its target, my bullet will bypass their ranks and find her heart. One bullet. Then one for you. Severed finger, severed lives.

  The household was still reeling from that delivery, when the next one arrived the following afternoon. It was another statue, similar in design, identical in dis­figurement, and with a similarly ominous note.

  Royce was becoming more and more troubled by the pattern.

  His instincts told him that the assassin planned a steady stream of these deliveries until all the statues had reached their mark.

  After which, he planned to strike.

  If that shopkeeper Barker was correct, there were seven statues in all. Which meant only three were still remaining to be delivered.

  Time was running out.

  So was Royce's patience.

  He'd narrowed things down as best he could. There were twenty-five names remaining on his list. Caution decreed he weft until he'd cut that number in half be­fore confronting the suspects.

  But caution had never been his strength. He was a risk-taker by nature. He pushed the boundaries and then some. That was how he'd survived as a child, and that was how he achieved his success as an adult.

  In this case, however, the risk was acute. By aggres­sively pursuing the killer, he'd be making himself a walking target. And by doing so without having a damned good idea who the killer was, he'd be relin­quishing the upper hand, leaving his own back ex­posed to attack.

  Jeopardizing his life.

  Before now, he'd have met that challenge head-on. But now, there was Breanna—Breanna and their fu­ture together. How could he put that future on the line? He couldn't.

  Except that, fairly soon, he'd have to. There would be no other option. Because if it came down to a choice between Breanna's life and his, there was no choice to make. He'd die before letting that bastard hurt her.

  So, if the stream of statues finished arriving at Med­ford before he finished conducting his investigation, he'd be forced to take action.

  By stepping into the middle of things, he'd disrupt the assassin's plan, break his building momentum. Not only that, he'd also divert the assassin's atten­tion from the women to him, acting as a decoy of sorts. He'd venture out to the front gates, announce to Mahoney that he'd narrowed down the list of sus­pects to three, all of whom he was on his way to con­front. On that unnerving note, he'd ride off like the wind. And, like a vicious dog who'd been thrown a piece of meat, the killer would veer off after him, ready to attack his more immediate and dangerous enemy.

  The killer's identity would still be unknown.

  But he'd be called off Anastasia and Breanna, fo­cused on stopping the man who was threatening to best him.

  And when the moment of truth arrived, when the son of a bitch emerged to silence and out­wit him, Royce would have his chance to obliterate him.

  One chance.

  It was a risk. A big one.

  The question was, who could shoot first?

  Given equal odds, Royce's answer would have been different. But the odds weren't equal. Not when he had no idea who the enemy was. The full advan­tage lay with the killer.

  If there was just a little more time. If Royce could pare down the list to, say, five or six, strengthen his position.

  Then he could make his move.

  A confident move.

  With vehement determination, he returned to his analysis.

  Another tortuous day passed.

  The next afternoon arrived, menacing skies and icy temperatures matching the somber mood that perme­ated the house.

  Breanna moved about the sitting room, fluffing some cushions, brushing some invisible dust off the wood, and trying to calm her nerves.

  She couldn't bear the tension any longer.

  She glanced over at Royce, who sat on the settee, his head bent over his work, and watched him slash another three names off the guest list.

  She was going to go mad.

  Wandering over to the window, she perched at the corner of the ledge, peering around the curtain and surveying the frosty grounds.

  A moving object caught her eye, and she squinted, focusing on it and waiting until she could make out who it was.

  It was Mahoney, approaching the house at a brisk pace.

  Dear God, could it be another package? Breanna held her breath, waiting to see if he clutched a parcel in his hands. He didn't.

  Instead, he had a letter. That meant that another of Royce's contacts had come through, providing an ad­ditional bit of information.

  She stole another cautious peek at Royce. He looked haggard, his handsome face lined with strain. She couldn't remember the last full hour's sleep he'd had. He was obsessed w
ith his pursuit, relentless in his investigation.

  He was also only human.

  And Breanna wanted desperately to help him.

  She was the only one who could. Hibbert was away. Stacie was the assassin's immediate target. Damen and Wells had to stick to Stacie like glue—just in case—and the guards had to stay, armed and ready, at their posts.

  She had to do something.

  Scrutinizing Royce, Breanna knew this was her chance—maybe her only chance. He was engrossed in a report, not concentrating on her. Besides, it would never occur to hum that she'd do anything impulsive. As a rule, impulsiveness was not in her nature.

  He was about to learn that every rule had its excep­tions.

  Slowly, Breanna eased toward the sitting-room doorway. She and Royce were virtually alone in this part of the house; she knew that. The servants were scattered about, in the kitchen or upstairs, performing their duties. Stacie was napping. Wells had gone up an hour ago, to relieve Damen so he could shut his eyes for an hour. No guests were expected, nor would Mahoney allow them through the gates, so it didn't matter that the entranceway was temporarily unat­tended.

  It was now or never.

  She slipped into the hallway, hurrying to the front door and opening it before Mahoney could knock.

  The head guard looked startled. “Lady Breanna?” he guessed, taking in her neatly coiffed hair. “Why are you attending the door?”

  “Ifs all right, Mr. Mahoney,” she assured him.

  “Everyone is taking a much-needed nap. I don't want to disturb them.” She indicated the letter. “Is that for Lord Royce? I'll see that he gets it the minute he awakens.”

  “Yes, it is. But...” Mahoney frowned, as if uncer­tain what to do. He peered into the deserted hallway, then glanced swiftly back over his shoulder, scanning the grounds in uncomfortable scrutiny. Clearly, he was worried about leaving his post for so long.

  In the end, he decided it was best to get back to the gates and do what he'd been hired to do, rather than to stand here and argue with her ladyship.

  He placed the note in her hand. “Here. Now please—go inside.”

  “I will.” With a grateful smile, Breanna complied, shutting the door and leaning back against it.

  She tore open the envelope.

  The information was terse, but pivotal.

  Apparently, Royce had contacted some of his more technically knowledgeable men, instructing them to uncover any gunsmith who had the ability to con­struct a sophisticated and unusual weapon—one de­signed for a four-fingered man. This reply, from someone named Rogers who was clearly an intelligent, reliable source, stated that he'd found such a gunsmith, although he no longer worked as such—at least not formally. His name was Wilkens, and his shop had been in London. But he'd shut the shop down hastily after finding out that Bow Street was on their way to ascertain whether or not he was supply­ing weapons to criminals. Now officially retired, he'd just spent several months abroad, and had returned to settle down at his home in Maidstone. An address was provided.

  Maidstone? That was only an hour's ride from here.

  Breanna put down the letter on an end table and scooted across to collect her mantle. Finally, she could do something to help Royce. She'd go and speak with this Wilkens, find out if he was the one who'd crafted the assassin’s pistol. She'd do it subtly, of course, ask him questions without alerting him to her intentions. Now that she considered it, she'd probably get farther than Royce would, anyway. The gunsmith, unlawful or not, would be more apt to let down his guard with a wide-eyed young woman than a formidable looking man.

  She reached for the door handle, and hesitated.

  The assassin was out there. What if he sew her?

  Of course he'd see her—if he hadn't done so al­ready. Her job was to use that fact to her advantage. She knew he wasn't ready to kill her yet. Not with Stacie still alive. So she'd have to do something to sat­isfy him that she was going somewhere imperative, and for some plausible reason.

  She'd better make this convincing—for all their sakes.

  On that thought, she left the house, shut the door quietly behind her.

  She held her breath the entire time she waited for the phaeton to be brought around. It was eerie stand­ing outside in the open, knowing she was being watched, praying she'd accurately assessed the kill­er's intentions.

  Her heartbeat accelerated, and she tensed, half-expecting a shot to zing out, to cut her down where she stood. At the same time, she listened for noises sounding behind her—noises that would indicate

  Royce had discovered her absence and come storming from the house to drag her back inside.

  She prayed that wouldn't happen. Because if the as­sassin saw Royce rush to her rescue, exhibiting the emotion she knew he would, Lord knew how he'd react. He might just decide to further torture her by lolling the man she loved—the very thing she'd been trying to prevent.

  Never had a phaeton taken so long to arrive.

  Finally, it did—without incident.

  She thanked the footman, climbed into the seat, then took up the reins and led the horses toward the front gates.

  Whatever she said had to be believable—not only to Mr. Mahoney, but to the killer.

  One thing she'd learned from surviving two decades with her father, dodging his anger and avoid­ing being beaten, was that the most convincing lies, the ones you desperately needed to work, were the ones that stuck closest to the truth. The further from the truth you strayed, the more nervous you became and the more likely you were to slip up.

  So be it.

  She braced herself as she neared the gates, slowing down as Mahoney stepped in her path, holding up his palm and barring her exit.

  He approached the phaeton, a stunned expression on his face. “My lady, what in heaven's name ...” He broke off, inclining his head and staring at her, obvi­ously trying to ascertain if she'd lost her mind—the only logical explanation he could come up with for her to attempt this insane antic.

  “I'm not mad, Mr. Mahoney,” she supplied, making no attempt to hide her apprehension. Not only was it genuine, it was necessary that she convey it to the as­sassin. Her gaze darted about, in a very real attempt to ensure her safety and, at the same time, to let the assassin see her sense of urgency. “I must ride out,” she announced to Mahoney. “That last correspon­dence you delivered said there was a second letter— an important one—that should have been delivered along with it. I've got to go after that messenger, catch him right away.”

  Mahoney's stunned expression didn't change. “With all due respect, my lady, you're hardly the one who should be going after—”

  “Mr. Mahoney—please!” Breanna interrupted, her voice and hands shaking. “I realize I should be in the house. But I don't want to take the time to awaken the men. By then, the messenger will be gone. And I certainly can't send Stacie—the initial threats are on her life. It's got to be me.” She tightened her grip on the reins. “We're wasting time arguing. If you let me go now, I'll be back in minutes. The longer we wait, the longer it will take to return.”

  “My men will go.” Mahoney turned, raising his arm to issue the order.

  “No!” Breanna reached forward, grabbed his sleeve. “That would mean fewer guards to protect Stacie. And if anything happened to her...” She sucked in her breath, assuming a tone she rarely used. “Mr. Mahoney, I don't want to put it this way, but I am mistress of this house. If I have to, I'll order you to let me pass. Now, open those gates, be­fore the messenger rides all the way back to Lon­don.”

  Mahoney hesitated another moment. Then, he com­plied, waving his arm and ordering the guards to open the gates. “I'll give you a half hour,” he informed her. “Then, I'm alerting Lord Royce.”

  She didn't pause to argue. She simply nodded, then slapped her reins and led the horses on.

  She sped down the road, then veered west toward Maidstone.

  The assassin watched her go with some interest and an unforeseen ti
nge of respect.

  He hadn't expected her to be so brazen. Nor so clever. She'd correctly assessed his determination to adhere to the order in which he meant to carry out his plan. In an odd way, she was baiting him. Well, he wouldn't let her win by giving in to the temptation to shoot her down now, when she was alone and un­guarded. Her cousin had to die first—first, and right in front of Lady Breanna's horrified eyes.

  He'd made that clean. Nonetheless, she was taking a risk, lest he change his mind.

  And all to go after a messenger, to get her hands on that second letter.

  Then again, if the information in the letter was that important, it would warrant such prompt attention, risk or not. Her reason was sound.

  It was also a lie.

  From the thick branches of the tree he'd just scaled, he could see her phaeton, heading southwest. London was northwest.

  And, based upon the fact that she'd just intercepted one of Chadwick's messages—a message that proba­bly provided answers to a piece of the puzzle he'd fully expected a worthy opponent like Chadwick to investigate—he had a fairly good idea where she was riding.

  And to whom. Pity. He'd hoped Wilkens could have remained a mystery for a while longer—long enough to speed this process to its natural conclusion while sparing the poor fellow his life. Now, it would set things back a few hours, not to mention forcing him to find another gunsmith, one with as great a flair for the creative as Wilkens had.

  It couldn't be helped. Lady Breanna was too fetch­ing, Wilkens too susceptible to beauty, too easily duped, to be relied upon to keep his mouth shut

  Swinging lightly to the ground, the assassin eased through the trees, making his way to the road, then the hidden brush beyond, where his own carriage was concealed.

  A sudden, pleasurable thought struck, made his eyes glitter with anticipation.

  He knew a back route to Maidstone. He'd beat Lady Breanna there by twenty minutes, take care of his task, and get back to Medford Manor ahead of her— and Chadwick, who'd undoubtedly go rushing after her the minute that guard gave him the news of her departure. As for the guards, they'd be frantically searching for her ladyship, cursing themselves for ever allowing her to go.