The Silver Coin

  Maurelle was thumbing through a novel when Royce walked in.

  She glanced up indifferently, noting his arrival, then tucking her legs beneath her on the chair and resum­ing her reading.

  Royce shut the door with a firm click. “Put down the book.”

  His icy tone gave her pause.

  She arched a brow, surmising from the unyielding set of his jaw, the brutal determination in his eyes, that he was angrier than he had been previously, and more purposeful.

  “Very well.” She tossed aside the novel and eyed him expectantly.

  “Sit up.” Royce barked out the command.

  She complied, uncurling her legs and lowering her feet to the floor, shaking out the folds of her gown as she did. “There. Is that to your satisfaction, mon­sieur?”

  “Nothing about you is to my satisfaction,” he re­turned, folding his arms across his chest. “But all that's about to change. We're about to have a very in­formative chat.”

  Her expression hardened. “Y ou're wasting your time. I won't give you his name.”

  “Forget his name. Let's talk about yours —Mademoi­selle Rouge.”

  A flicker of surprise, if not alarm. “Bon. Now I am impressed, my lord. I see how you earned your repu­tation.”

  “And I see how you earned yours—beginning fif­teen years ago at Maison Fleur.” Royce crossed over, dragged up a chair and sat directly across from her. “Y ou met your lover then, when you were no more than a prostitute. Y ou held his—and scores of other soldiers'—attention for years.”

  Silence, but the proud tilt of her chin told Royce he was right.

  “Let's discuss a more recent matter, then,” he sug­gested icily. “Y ou were Viscount Medford's Paris con­tact. He sent you the women you sold.”

  Maurelle's sniff was haughty. “Medford was pa­thetic. So was his merchandise. They were nothing more than workhouse women—common and unrefined. Worse, they were drained of youth, beauty, and vitality. In short, they had nothing to offer. What afflu­ent customer would pay to buy such refuse?”

  “Clearly, you found buyers.”

  “A few. No one worth the trouble.”

  Royce clenched his teeth, fighting back the urge to shake Maurelle senseless and make her realize these were human beings they were discussing. He stifled the impulse. Losing control would only weaken his position. Besides, pleas for humanity could do noth­ing but fall on deaf ears when it came to this bitch.

  “Would you like their names, monsieur?” Maurelle taunted, clearly perceiving at least some fraction of Royce's outrage. “Those I'd be happy to provide. And who knows? Maybe you could find the lowlifes I dealt with, rescue the pathetic wenches Medford pro­vided from their lustful hands.”

  “You graduated beyond lowlifes,” Royce shot back instead, his voice devoid of emotion. “As of your last correspondence with Medford, you'd stepped up to aristocratic buyers.”

  “I improved the caliber of my merchandise and my patrons. But no thanks to Medford. He sent me noth­ing. He's an insipid fool. He deserves to rot in New­gate.”

  “So you turned to your lover instead. He took over out of lust for you and the thrill of executing people. He's even rich enough to forego the money. Lucky you. He probably gave you every pence of the profits. Pity you two had lost touch, or he might have served as your business partner from the start. Then, you'd never have had to turn to a weakling like Medford.”

  With that, Royce arched a sardonic brow. “Obvious­ly your charms aren't quite as acute as you believe. Y our beloved assassin was able to stay away from them for years. What was the problem, Maurelle? Were you beneath him in station? Was that what made him leave you at Maison Fleur, cut you off?”

  Anger flared in her eyes. “You're grasping at straws.

  You're also insulting me. So rather than listen to your offensive words, I'll put an end to them. I'm the one who severed the relationship, not he. I was foolish. I didn't want to be a nobleman's property. I vanished. He found me. I won't make that mistake again. I be­lieve that answers your question, n'est ce pas?”

  Royce's eyes narrowed as he digested that tidbit of information. Purposefully keeping her from ponder­ing how much she'd revealed, he segued back to the previous, and less inflammatory, subject. “How did you and Medford start working together?”

  “We didn't start. I did. That fool never even met me, much less knew who I was. He knew only the name M. Rouge. Which was how I wanted it. As for why I approached him, it was a wise business decision. I had the money-making scheme. He had the connec­tions and the desperate need for money.”

  “How did you find out about that?”

  Maurelle's mocking smile returned. “Men are fools when in the throes of passion. My girls listened and often encouraged their patrons to talk. What they learned convinced me that Lord Medford was a fine candidate for what I had in mind. He knew influential people who could supply him with ships and cargo. He was deeply in debt and taking stupid chances to recoup his losses. I gave him an opportunity to do that. He jumped at it.”

  “And when you heard he got caught by Bow Street?”

  She shrugged. “I'd already arranged for M. Rouge to drop out of sight. Lord Sheldrake was digging around, trying to find out who I was. Medford's going to Newgate only reinforced my decision. It was time for Rouge to go on holiday.”

  “But that's not what happened. Instead, your lover showed up and helped you resurrect the role, and the business of selling women. Only now the quality of women was elevated to a higher standard—and the means of acquiring them, murder.”

  “Oui. Exciting, wouldn't you say?”

  “Depraved, I'd say.”

  A purposeful knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” Royce called.

  Hibbert stepped into the room. “The confirming documents you've been awaiting just arrived, my lord. I thought you'd want to know.”

  “I do.” Royce was already heading for the door. He turned, shot Maurelle a glittering, triumphant look. “We'll continue this shortly, Mademoiselle De Rouge.”

  Royce's lips curved as they rounded the corridor of the servants' quarters, strode toward the sitting room. “That bluff worked nicely. It's the first time I've seen Maurelle look worried since she arrived.”

  “I'm hoping it won't be a bluff, sir. If these reports tell us what we expect, we'll have our answer. Then we'll need Miss Le Joyau only to verify it.” He frowned. “She won't do that willingly. We'll have to be very convincing.”

  “We will be.” Royce bore down on the sitting room. “And she'll tell us exactly what we need to know. Her loyalty to her lover will ensure it.”

  The reports were comprehensive.

  Eight of the remaining twelve men had served in the military. However, three of those had done so ei­ther during the wrong years or in the wrong places, and were stationed too far from Paris to be viable choices.

  Which left five men who could be the assassin.

  Damen stood beside Royce, poring over the five names as Wells and Hibbert stood on either side of the settee, flanking Anastasia and Breanna, who sat upon it, eagerly awaiting some answers.

  “Maywood? He's afraid of his own shadow,” Damen muttered. “His father browbeat him until the day he died. He balks at the slightest risk of losing money, much less lives. No. I don't see it. And Crompton's one hell of a shot, but he's also eccentric as hell. He talks so much about his days as a general, we can all recite them by memory. If he'd been in­volved with a woman like Maurelle, she'd have been the high point of his tales. A cold-blooded killer? I can't imagine it. Radebrook, I'm not sure of. He's quiet. He doesn't talk much about himself. It says here his afro is exceptional. Maybe—”

  “He's married,” Royce interrupted. “Happily mar­ried. And the father of three, two of whom are still young enough to live at home. That makes him the least likely candidate of the bunch. Our killer is a loner. He's not a family man. Nor is Maurelle the type to share. I'd strike Radebrook before I struck anyone else.”


  “Fine. That leaves Arthur Landow, who's uneasy about squashing a bug, and James Fairwood, who I didn't expect to be listed here. He always talks of himself as a naval officer.”

  “He was a naval officer.” Royce was rereading the pages. “After Napoleon crushed our navy, he switched to the army. Apparently, he's an expert marksman.”

  Damen slammed his fist against the mantle. “So where do we go from here? How do we figure out which one it is?”

  “We don't.” Royce began organizing the reports into five separate, carefully-labeled folders. “We let Maurelle act as our bloodhound.”

  A startled look. “Royce, you've spent the past two days telling us how staunch Maurelle is when it comes to refusing to betray her lover. Do you honestly believe that by waving five files beneath her nose you're going to goad her into blurting out his name?”

  “No.” Royce carefully lay the most damning pages atop each report, before closing the files. “I believe that by leaving five files beneath her nose I'm going to goad her into acting to protect him.”

  Breanna's chin came up. “You're using her love for him to trap her into giving him away. You're going to leave her alone in the room with those files. Instinc­tively she'll go over and read the report on her lover. She won't be able to help herself. She'll want to see what facts you've compiled, how close you are to finding the man she loves.”

  “Exactly.” Royce shot Breanna an admiring look. “You've become quite the sleuth, my love.”

  “You've trained me well. Too well.” Breanna rose, walked over to him. “Royce, ifs a mistake. Not the idea, the execution. If you casually leave those files lying about in Maurelle's room, she'll know you're up to something. She won't go near the reports. And what will you do? Kneel outside her door all night, peeking through the keyhole, hoping she'll relent?”

  Royce's brows rose in surprise. “You have another way?”

  “Yes.” Breanna nodded, lifting her chin in a gesture that was becoming more and more natural for her to make. “Let me go in there and get the results we need.”

  “No.” Royce was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere near that bitch.”

  Gently, Breanna lay her hand on his forearm. “We only have one chance. If she figures out we're uncertain she'll never give anything away. I can throw her off-guard. You can't. Her defenses go up whenever you walk into that room. You're a man—and a bril­liant one, at that. I'm a woman—a gentle, delicate, weak-minded woman.” Breanna's lips twitched at her own description. “Maurelle will have no regard for me. She'll assume I'm faltering, on the verge of col­lapse. I'll use that to my advantage.”

  Anastasia had perked up and was nodding her agreement. “Breanna has a point. Maurelle is used to battling wits with men, not women. I doubt she believes any woman is as strong as she, much less a soft-spoken, composed woman such as Brean­na. If anyone can prove Maurelle wrong, if s my cousin.”

  “Royce,” Breanna pressed, her jade gaze holding his midnight one. “I'll get what we need.”

  Royce swallowed. “How?”

  Her lips curved. “I'm a very good sketcher. And, as you just said, I've also become an excellent sleuth. Be­tween the two—I have a plan.”

  Maurelle was moving restlessly about the room when the door opened.

  She turned, eager to confront Lord Royce, to probe until she found out just what had incited that arro­gant smirk he'd worn when he left her an hour ago.

  Did he really have confirming documents, or had Hibbert been lying, trying to incite a reaction from her? The older man was an excellent actor. He'd fooled her once. He wouldn't fool her again.

  She forced herself to look nonchalant, to watch casually as Lord Royce entered the room.

  But it wasn't Lord Royce who stepped into the chambers.

  It was a woman. A very pretty, very genteel woman, whose unusual coloring and haunted expres­sion left little doubt as to her identity.

  “Bon.” Maurelle folded her arms across her breasts, studying the woman she knew to be her lover's ulti­mate execution target. She was clutching some folders tightly to her body—folders she seemed unaware of holding.

  Interesting.

  “Lady Breanna Colby, Oui?” Maurelle inquired.

  “ Oui .” Breanna hefted to lean back into the hallway. She glanced about furtively, searching the area in a most thorough fashion. Then, she gestured to that wretched butler of hers, who magically appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to hover just outside the door. “Stand guard,” she instructed him in a fierce whisper—one Maurelle managed to overhear “Don't let Lord Royce know I'm in here. He thinks I'm behaving irrationally, letting my emotions rule my head. But he doesn't un­derstand. I must try this my way. I must.” She inhaled sharply. “Knock twice if you see him approaching.”

  Waiting only for her butler's assent, Lady Breanna shut the door and faced Maurelle.

  “I had to see you,” she announced in a small, shaky voice. “No matter what Lord Royce says, I refuse to believe any woman could remain immune to another woman's anguish. Not in this case. Not if she fully understood it.”

  Maurelle kept her features carefully schooled, although her gaze flickered to the folders clutched Breanna's arms. What was in them? Was this some kind of ploy?

  Doubtful. The insipid girl's state of mind was far too precarious for Chadwick to entrust her with his work. Still, those folders had to contain something. But what?

  She had to find out—for his sake.

  “Go ahead,” she replied carefully. “I'm willing to listen.”

  Breanna swallowed, clearly fighting for control. “I won't denounce you for loving this man. I can only guess you've never seen the side of him I have. I've come here to share that side of him with you, in me hopes that you'll realize what he's capable of, and that you'll help me stop him.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “I don't want to die, Maurelle. I'm twenty one years old. My life is just beginning. Please, help me.”

  “What is it you intend to share with me that will plead your case—your words, your fears?”

  “No. My proof.” Breanna began crossing over to­ward the desk.

  Halfway there, she paused, becoming aware of the five files she still gripped. With a shudder of revul­sion, she tossed them down on the table alongside the wardrobe, keeping only some loose papers in ha hand as she made her way to the desk.

  “Proof?” Maurelle followed her automatically, her dark gaze focusing on the pages Breanna was spread­ing out on the desk top.

  “Yes. His letters to me. The ones that describe what he intends to do to me, and to my cousin. My cousin is with child, Maurelle. And he knows it. He means to kill her unborn babe. He specifically says so.”

  “Does he?” Maurelle controlled her amusement, her glance shifting from the letters she already knew of to the files Breanna had abandoned near the wardrobe. “Those files—are they also proof?”

  Breanna looked up, followed Maurelle's gaze, and shuddered again. “Those are what Lord Royce calls proof. They're facts, dates, and worst of all, drawings, for me to go over.” Her voice trembled. “I can't do that. It's too painful. Especially seeing his face again. I realize Lord Royce has narrowed the search down to five men, and that I'm the only person who can iden­tify the killer—other than Emma, who's too dazed to speak, much less confront the man who killed her mother.”

  “You've actually seen him?” Maurelle asked, keep­ing the fear out of her voice.

  “Twice.” Breanna lowered her lashes, her entire body trembling as she spoke. “The night I shot him, and several days ago, when I left the estate. The first time it was dark, so all I could make out was his build. But the other day, I sew his face, his features, the coldness in his eyes. I can't brave that again. I've described him to Lord Royce. I can't help it if my de­scription could apply to any of those five noblemen. I just can't bear looking at him again.”

  “I find it odd that you'd need to,” Maurelle said carefully “If you re
ally saw him in such great detail, why didn't you recognize him? Surely you've met him at one social gathering or another.”

  “Lord Royce said the same thing—a dozen times. But, as I told him, my father kept me isolated. I never attended a full London Season. So, I wasn't formally introduced to anyone. The gentlemen are all a jumble of faces.”

  “I see.” Maurelle's mind was racing, trying to find a way to use that to her advantage.

  Slowly, she began backing toward the wardrobe.

  Lost in her own pain, Breanna buried her face in her hands, weeping softly as she spoke. “I'm begging you, Maurelle. Read these letters. Tell us his name. Don't make me go through any more than I already have. Please ... spare me. Spare my cousin. And most of all, spare her unborn child, who's innocent and de­serves a chance at life. Please.”

  Maurelle halted beside the files. “Read me the let­ters,” she ordered. “Let me hear this firsthand. I can't believe the man I love would kill an unborn child.”

  Eagerly, Breanna complied, drying her eyes with a handkerchief, and composing herself enough to pick up the first note, read its contents aloud.

  By the time she'd reached the final, dooming letter, Maurelle had completed her perusal, and her work-silently, rapidly, and as thoroughly as time would per­mit.

  The information she had the chance to skim was equally damning to all five men. Any of them could be her noble assassin.

  The drawings were another matter entirely.

  Fear had prickled up her spine as she realized how accurate the visual depictions were, how easy it would be for Lady Breanna to identify her stalker by looking at his likeness.

  Destroying the drawing was unthinkable. So was defacing it enough to disguise his features. Either of those steps would alert Chadwick to the fact that she'd tampered with the file, not to mention leading him to precisely the man she was determined to pro­tect.