Page 30 of The Silver Coin

  Leaving the manor vulnerable to attack.

  24

  “ You let her do what?”

  Royce nearly struck Mahoney, visibly controlling himself as the head guard delivered word of Brean­na's departure.

  Mahoney mopped his brow. “I had no choice, sir. She ordered me—”

  “I don't care if she held you at gunpoint.” Royce drew a slow breath, biting back his anger in lieu of reason. “Where did she go?”

  “After the messenger.”

  “What messenger?”

  “The one who sent you that last piece of correspondence, the one I brought to the door right before Lady Breanna left.” Mahoney swallowed. “She took it from me herself, said she'd give it to you when you woke up.”

  “She didn't. And I wasn't sleeping.” Royce scanned the hallway, and spied the letter on the end table. He snatched it up, read through it quickly. “This says nothing about another message. It says ...” He came to the word Maidstone, and his jaw snapped shut. “God, no.”

  He nearly knocked Mahoney down in his haste to leave. “Go inside. Tell Lord Sheldrake that I think Bre­anna's ridden to Maidstone. Post a few guards out­side Anastasia's chambers. Then get the rest of the guards to begin a search, just in case I'm wrong and Breanna's gone elsewhere. We've got to find her.”

  The cottage was quiet.

  Breanna brought her phaeton to a halt, taking a minute to compose herself and review her story be­fore approaching Mr. Wilkens.

  She had to seem pathetic, to weep real tears as she told him her fabricated story of the tragic accident that had churned her father's trigger finger. She'd scatter in as many facts as possible, confess that her father had been involved with unsavory types. She'd say that out of desperation, she'd used those contacts, taken unorthodox steps to find out who the most qualified gunsmith was to craft a new pistol for her father, who was confined to Newgate, and desperate to escape.

  An ironic smile touched her lips. Who'd ever have thought her father's unscrupulous dealings would serve her so well?

  She climbed down, gathered up her skirts, and marched to the door.

  Her first knock went unanswered.

  So did the repeated ones that followed.

  Oh, God, he has to be home, she thought fervently. He has to be.

  Resorting to something she never would have con­sidered, Breanna turned the door handle and entered.

  The door swung open. “Mr. Wilkens?” she called. No response.

  Breanna stepped into the small, cluttered house, praying the gunsmith was either asleep or hard of hearing. Just so long as he was home. She made her way down the hall, calling out his name as she did. She paused at each room, stepping inside and checking to see if he was there.

  The door to the sitting room was shut.

  “Mr. Wilkens?” she tried hopefully, twisting the handle and giving it a push.

  The door wasn't locked. But it wouldn't budge.

  Frowning, Breanna shoved at the wood, only to be met with the same resistance. Finally, she threw her weight against it, jarring the door until it shifted enough to let her squeeze through.

  A blast of cold air accosted her from the open win­dow in the far corner of the room.

  She shivered, drew her mantle more tightly around herself as she stepped inside.

  A scream froze in her throat.

  Wilkens's body lay on the floor, a stream of blood trickling from his chest, pooling on the floor beneath him.

  He was dead.

  “Dear God,” she whispered, pressing her fist to her mouth. “Oh, dear God.” She backed away, unable to stop staring at the man's lifeless form as she inched toward the hall.

  Powerful hands grabbed her from behind.

  This time her scream broke free, and she began struggling violently against whoever held her captive.

  “Breanna, if s me.” Royce swung her around, seized her shoulders in his hands. His eyes were nearly black with anger, his features taut with worry. “Are you all right?”

  “Royce.” She sagged toward him, happier to see him than she'd ever been to see anyone in her life.

  “Reckless little fool,” he muttered, dragging her against him and holding her with arms that shook. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  She gripped the lapels of Royce's coat. “He's dead,” she managed, gesturing toward the sitting room. “Shot like the others.”

  Keeping one arm snaked tightly around Breanna's waist, Royce leaned past her, peered inside. Frown­ing, he released Breanna long enough to check Wilkens, verify he was dead.

  “That son of a bitch beat us here,” he pronounced, rising to his feet, noting the open window. “And not by much. Wilkens couldn't have been shot more than a half hour ago, judging from the body. Somehow that bastard knew where you were headed. He used the window to escape.”

  Breanna was trying to steady her breathing, to clear her head. “How could he know my destination? He didn't read Rogers's letter. It was sealed when Ma­honey delivered it. He must have seen through my story about pursuing the messenger.” Her voice qua­vered. “It's my fault this man is dead.”

  “No.” Royce drew her against him, stroked her hair. “Wilkens was doomed the minute Rogers's note was delivered to Medford. Had I received it first, I would have done precisely what you did—ridden to Maid­stone to question Wilkens. The assassin is smart. He knew I was checking into the gunsmith who crafted his pistol. He'd have seen where I was headed, and put two and two together. He'd have dashed on ahead of me, killed Wilkens before I had the chance to talk to him. Just as he did with you. The only difference is, I would have been the one in danger. Which is low it should have been.”

  Royce buried his lips in her hair. “Dammit, Breanna, don't do that to me ever again. I was terrified.” He paused, realized she was trembling. “Let's go home. Anastasia is probably frantic by now.”

  That had the desired effect.

  “Stacie knows where I've gone?” Breanna asked, worry supplanting shock.

  “By now, yes. I told Mahoney. The whole house­hold is probably in turmoil. And the guards must be scouring Kent looking for you.”

  Breanna's grip on his coat tightened. “If so, they won't be guarding Stacie.”

  “Yes they will.” Royce eased her worry, his knuck­les gently stroking her cheek. “Damen and Wells are with her. They're both armed. I had Mahoney post guards outside her room, as well. No one will get by them.”

  “We've got to go.” Breanna was already heading for the door.

  Royce escorted her to the phaeton, stopping only to harness his mount to the front, alongside the horse who'd guided her here. “I rode here on horseback. It's the only way I could gain the time I needed. We'll ride back together. I'll hail a local constable along the way, tell him about Wilkens's body.”

  Breanna nodded mutely, sitting in a numbed state as Royce turned the phaeton around, headed for home.

  An icy premonition began forming deep in her gut

  It spread, crawling up her spine, intensifying as their carriage neared Medford Manor.

  She'd known that premonition before. It had struck last August, an instant before the assassin stepped out of the shadows, took a shot at Stacie.

  He was closing in, nearing the moment when he'd complete his unfinished execution.

  Abruptly, Breanna seized Royce's arm. “Royce, I've got to get home. Now.”

  Royce studied her terrified expression, instantly slapping the reins to comply. “What is it?”

  “It's the killer. He's getting close to Stacie.”

  Lady Anastasia would wait.

  The assassin's lips curled in a mocking smile as he peered around the corner of the hall, watched the two guards standing rigidly in front of the marchioness's door.

  Putting them there had no doubt been Chadwick's doing. He was making sure Lady Anastasia stayed safe while he dashed off after her cousin. Well, Chad­wick needn't have worried. It wasn't time for her la­dyship to die—not yet. Not witho
ut her wretched cousin there to watch the life drain out of her. That would defeat his whole purpose, take the satisfaction out of his revenge.

  No, this visit would serve a different purpose. This visit would be to deliver his ultimate gift to Lady Bre­anna.

  Getting inside the manor had been pathetically easy.

  The guards were dashing about like frantic mice, leaving gaping holes in security. He'd made his way across the grounds, then lipped inside via the servants' quarters. He'd waited in the shadows, assessing the area to ensure it was lean Not surprisingly, it had been Lady Breanna's loyal staff was undoubtedly combing the house, room by room, looking for a sign of where their mistress had gone.

  He'd scaled the stairs, then hovered in the alcove off the landing before easing his way down the hall to scrutinize Lord and Lady Sheldrake's chambers.

  Scornfully, he turned away, wondering if the guards actually thought him stupid enough, amateur enough, to lunge for the door with them standing out­side it. Perhaps they were novices. He was not.

  He moved furtively toward Lady Breanna's cham­bers.

  Noiselessly, he twisted the door handle and walked in.

  It took him ten seconds to realize something wasn't right. The room looked far more barren than before, a sense of abandonment hovering in the air.

  He scanned the room swiftly, realizing at once that the porcelain figures were gone, as were the other personal touches.

  Lady Breanna had been moved elsewhere.

  Rage boiled up inside him.

  The little bitch had changed rooms, and she'd done so successfully, without alerting him. She'd obviously staged her regular evening routine so he'd think all was as usual.

  She'd pay for this victory. Pay dearly.

  Where were her new chambers?

  He didn't have to rack his brain for an answer.

  Chadwick. He'd moved her closer to his room, put her somewhere he could keep an eye on her.

  A triumphant glint flashed in his eyes. Their little deception had just ended. Now, it was his turn to gloat.

  Breanna burst into the house.

  She gathered up her skirts, dashing up the stairs and down the hall to Stacie's room.

  The two guards looked startled by the commotion. But, seeing who was causing it, they relaxed, very re­lieved to see Lady Breanna home, unhurt.

  “Is my cousin all right?” she demanded.

  “Yes, ma'am,” one guard replied. “We've been post­ed outside her room for over two hours now.”

  “And no one's tried to get in?”

  He gave an adamant shake of his head. “No one.”

  At that instant, the door was flung open, and Stacie bypassed Damen and Wells, stepping into the hallway and giving Breanna a fierce hug. “I heard your voice. Thank God, you're all right.”

  Breanna nearly wept with relief. “My sentiments exactly. I had the most awful feeling. I thought that...” She broke off, drew a steadying breath. “It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're safe.”

  “I'm safe?” Stacie asked in amazement. “You're the one who went out in the open, left Medford Manor to ride to Maidstone. Why? Who was in Maidstone?”

  Before Breanna could reply, Royce came up behind her. “I'll answer your questions, Anastasia,” he said quietly. “I think Breanna needs to lie down.”

  Even as he spoke, Breanna realized her knees were shaking. She felt weak and wobbly, the aftermath of discovering a murdered man's body, then fearing for her cousin's life, more severe than she'd realized.

  “I... Yes, I think I should he down—for a few min­utes,” she added, seeing the concern on Stacie's face. “I'm froe. Just spent.”

  Royce gestured to one of the guards. “Walk Lady Breanna down to her room. Stay outside the door until I get there.”

  “Of course, m'lord.”

  Breanna shot Royce a grateful look, then turned, headed toward her new chambers, the guard by her side. All she needed was a few minutes to herself— time to lie down, put a cool compress on her pounding head. Then she'd be froe, ready to go back and discuss where things stood now that the gunsmith was unable to tell them anything.

  She nodded politely at the guard, opened the door to her room, and shut it behind her. She was relieved to know he was out there. Still, she loathed this need for confinement. She couldn't wait for the day she could come and go again as she pleased.

  If that day ever came.

  Unbidden, the image of Wilkens's lifeless body flashed in her mind, and she fought back the sickness that rose in her throat.

  How many more people would die before this nightmare ended? How much longer would this as­sassin's rampage continue?

  Distraught, she crossed over, turned up the lamp on her nightstand to offset the effects of the intensifying dusk.

  A horrified scream hedged in her throat, and for a moment, she actually stopped breathing.

  In the center of the bed lay a white glove. The glove had been impaled by a sword, which was now imbed­ded deeply in the mattress. It had been driven all the way through the glove's index finger. Three-quarters of that finger had been sliced off. Red paint was splat­tered everywhere, staining the bedcovers and trick­ling onto the carpet. On either side of the glove sat a statue—both from the same set as the previous stat­ues. Once again, the women had been disfigured, their right index fingers lopped off, their right hands and the front of their gowns covered with bright crim­son stains.

  On the pillow, lay a note. It read:

  Your strategy was a mistake. You changed quarters to outsmart me. Instead, you enraged me. I'm an expert track­er. And you're a fool. Your evasive tactics have now guar­anteed Lady Anastasia a more agonizing death. Listen to her screams, as her life drains away. Your cousin's time is up. Her blood is on your hands. My satisfaction will come when I see yours flow. The invasion is about to commence.

  Die, Lady Breanna.

  For a long moment, Breanna just stood there, para­lyzed, besieged by a sort of white shock. She stared at the note, the glove, the crimson splotches that looked so much like blood.

  Hysteria bubbled up inside her.

  Then, the dam burst, and she shattered letting out a low cry of pain, she covered her face with her hands, tears coursing down her cheeks. Her entire body shook with the impact of her sobs, every­thing converging in an unendurable knot of anguish that tore her entire soul apart.

  She couldn't take anymore.

  She sank down on her knees on the rug, fear and agony converging, slashing through her in clawing talons. Her sobs tore at her, emerging in low, wrench­ing gasps as she rocked back and forth, emotionally surrendering to that which she could no longer fight

  As if from far away she heard the door open.

  “Breanna, my God, what is it?” Royce crossed over, then stopped. A muffled oath escaped him as he saw what had occurred.

  He lowered himself to his knees, enfolded Breanna in his arms. “Shh,” he murmured, cradling her to him, feeling her tears drench his shirt. “I'm here, sweet­heart. I'm here.”

  “I'm s-sorry,” she sobbed. “I j-just can't be strong anymore.”

  “You don't have to be.” Royce's grip tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, aching for what this was doing to her. This incredibly strong, resilient woman, this woman he loved to the core of his being, had been pushed beyond human limits.

  At that moment, Royce loathed the assassin with a murderous hatred so powerful, he could have torn him apart limb from limb, killed him with his bare hands.

  “I'm weaker than you b-believed me to be,” Brean­na whispered, in a broken voice that tore at Royce's heart. “I-I didn't mean to disappoint you.”

  “You didn't disappoint me,” he returned fiercely. “You're every bit as strong as I believed. And as brave. Everyone has a breaking point, Breanna. Everyone. Most would have readied theirs long ago.” Royce's fu­rious gaze raked the bed, darkening as it settled on the mutilated glove. “There's no one alive who wouldn't crumple after walking in
and seeing that.”

  Breanna nodded, her sobs beginning to lessen from the sound of Royce's soothing voice, the feel of his arms around her. “I was right about his being in the house,” she managed, her muscles relaxing as Royce stroked her back in slow, soothing circles. “Seeing the guards must have stopped him from going after Sta­cie. Instead, he went to leave me those...” a shudder, “things. And he found out I'd changed rooms.”

  “The guards weren't his only deterrent. You kept him from going after Anastasia.”

  She leaned back, gave him a teary, quizzical look. “I?”

  “Yes. Your not being here.” Royce brushed his lips across her cheeks, taking her tears with him. God, how he wanted to comfort her, give her his strength. “Remember, the bastard wants you present when he takes aim at Anastasia. He knew you were in Maid­stone. So shooting your cousin was out. That wasn't the reason for his breaking in here today.”

  “Leaving me his most hideous gift was.”

  “Yes.” Wisely, Royce omitted telling her his theory about the statues, that he believed the assassin was delivering the remaining three figures, then striking.

  Two of those remaining figures were now sitting on Breanna's bed.

  Which left one.

  “Royce...” Breanna pressed her wet face against his shoulder. “I can't stay in this room another night. I don't know where to go, what to do.”

  “Stay with me.” He rose, gently easing her to her feet. “Not just tonight, but every night until this or­deal is over. I don't give a damn what protocol dic­tates. You're sleeping in my bed, by my side. What’s more, not only will Wells agree, he'll hand-pick the guards who stand outside our door. But sweetheart,” he added, trying to give her a measure of peace. “I don't trunk he means to break into your room again. This was his final appearance.”

  Rather than relieved, Breanna looked more un­nerved, fear darkening her eyes. “That's what terrifies me. It's like this was a culmination of sorts. And, if so, he's about to shoot Stacie.”

  “To try to shoot her,” Royce corrected. “He won't succeed.” He walked over to the bed, picked up the note, and reread it carefully “Something about these notes keeps nagging at me,” he muttered. “I'm going to line up the whole lot of them and read them togeth­er.” He turned his attention back to Breanna. “After we get you settled.” He went back, tilted up her chin. “Better?” he asked softly.