So how could she save him, buy him enough time to kill this interfering bitch and vanish?
There was only one way. It was risky, but it was a chance she had to take. After all, the chit had said she wouldn't know one man from the other.
In one swift motion, Maurelle had opened his file, plucked out his picture, and slipped it into the file behind it. Then, she'd stepped away from the reports.
Lady Breanna was reading the final phrase of the last letter. That alerted Maurelle to the fact that she hadn't time to get back over to the desk, where she was supposedly still standing, without calling attention to herself. Even an overwrought fool like Lady Breanna might become suspicious if she saw her enemy standing so close to a report that would condemn her lover. And the last thing Maurelle wanted was to arouse her ladyship's suspicions.
She acted on impulse.
Reaching for the wardrobe, she grabbed at the first item of clothing she could find. A night robe. Fine. She'd feign distress, make it look as if what she'd just heard had upset her so greatly, she couldn't stay still and bear it. She had to busy herself to keep from breaking down.
And what more logical outlet for her anguish than donning her nightclothes, retiring to bed to bury her pain?
Breanna was staring at the page in her hands, her breathing unsteady as she fought back tears. When she finally looked up, Maurelle was unbuttoning her gown in dazed, jerky motions, watching her with a shocked expression.
“Now do you understand?” Breanna beseeched her.
“Oui.” Maurelle kept her voice low, shaken. “How could I not?” She stepped out of her gown, untied the ribbons of her chemise “I never imagined. ..” She finished undressing, then, with trembling hands, shrugged on the absurdly pristine night robe that had been left for her. “I don't know what to do,” she confessed. “To betray him... It's not only love. I'm afraid.”
“We'll protect you,” Breanna assured her quickly “We'll keep you safe until he's caught. Please, help me. If not for my sake, for the sake of Anastasia's babe.”
That, ostensibly, clinched it.
Maurelle nodded, pain twisting her lovely features “I will.” She pressed her palms together, summoning up all her courage. “No unborn child should be killed without ever tasting life.” A heartbeat of a pause. “ His name is Arthur,” she whispered, forcing out the words. “Arthur Landow.”
She watched relief sweep Breanna's face.
Slowly, she counted to ten.
It was time for her seemingly virtuous move.
“Lord Royce will want your verification,” she informed Breanna, dabbing at her eyes. “He's a man, and will never understand your qualms about viewing the drawings. But I'm a woman. I do. So, while I know you must confirm what I've told you, I don't think you should subject yourself to doing so—not alone.” She crossed over, picked up Landow's file, holding it so Breanna could see his name penned in bold letters across the front. “Here. Do it now. With another woman beside you for comfort. Then, you’ll never have to do it again.” She tugged out the sketch she'd placed atop Landow's, flourished it before Breanna's horrified eyes. “Is this not he?”
Breanna stared at the drawing. Her gaze shifted to Maurelle's compassionate expression, and she shuddered, biting her up to stifle a sob. “Yes. It's he.” She turned away from the sketch. “Put it away. I never want to see him again.”
“Mais oui. I understand.” Maurelle hurried back to the stack of files, slipping her noble assassin's sketch back in its proper place before laying Landow's file atop it.
Maurelle picked up the entire stack of reports. “Why don't you give these to your butler right now? He can turn them straight over to Lord Royce, and you need never see Arthur's face again.” A shaky pause. “Just as I won't.”
Breanna stood, gathering up the letters and walking over to Maurelle. “Thank you, Maurelle,” she said fervently, taking the files from her. “I know how difficult this was for you. But you did the right thing. Just as I knew you would.” She opened the door, gestured for Wells to approach. “Take these,” she directed him. “Give them to Lord Royce. Tell him I have his answers. I won't need to see these sketches again.”
27
Ever yone was gathered in the sitting room when Breanna and Wells walked in.
Breanna's ashen expression was no longer feigned, but very real.
“It's done,” she stated simply, her voice more hot low than shaken. “We finally know who he is.” Ha gaze flickered from one beloved face to the next, finally settling on Royce. “Viscount Crompton,” she supplied. “He's the assassin.”
“You're certain.” Royce's words were more statement than query.
“Yes.” Breanna nodded, inte r lacing her fingers tightly in front of he r. “Maurelle went first to his file. She looked at it twice, once before and once after she skimmed the others. Then, she removed my sketch of Crompton from his file and slipped it into Arthur Landow's. She brought Landow's file over to me, made sure I saw his name on it, and flourished the drawing of Crompton, admitting to me that Arthur Landow was indeed the man we sought. Once I acknowledged recognizing his face, she put the sketch back where it belonged and told me I need never look at it again.” Breanna exhaled slowly. “It's Crompton.”
Royce crossed over, enfolded Breanna in his arms. “You're astonishing,” he murmured. “I'm so proud of you.” He tilted up her chin. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” she replied. “A bit numb, but fine.”
“Crompton,” Damen repeated. “I never would have believed he had the presence of mind, much less the coldheartedness, to do this.”
“I told you,” Royce responded. “This killer is a master at deception. Crompton assumed you'd think turn too eccentric to be the culprit. He was right. None of us guessed.”
“I don't think I've ever seen him without his gloves,” Anastasia commented. “Not before or after Breanna shot him. Then again, I'd have no reason to. The only times I've seen him have been at formal or sporting events.”
“Shooting,” Breanna clarified.
“Yes, shooting... no, wait. That's not true.” Anastasia sat up abruptly.
“You've seen him without his gloves?”
“No, but I've seen him outside Medford. It was right around the time Damen and I were about to expose Uncle George. Crompton was at the House of Lockewood...” She turned to gaze at her husband. “Meeting with John Cunnings. I remember because Cunnings came to your office looking for the viscount’s portfolio.”
“He met with John often,” Damen concurred. “In fact, most of the time. He sought me out for large investment decisions, but on a day-to-day basis, he dealt with Cunnings.”
“Obviously, discussing more than finances,” Royce modified caustically.
“So what do we do now?” Damen demanded. “We know who the killer is. Why don't we just ride over to his estate and grab him?”
“That would be the worst thing we could do,” Royce refuted. “First of all, Crompton isn't spending much time at his estate these days. He's here, watching Breanna. And if he knew we were on our way to seize him, he'd simply vanish, the way he did last time.” Royce paused, his worried gaze shifting from Breanna to Anastasia and back.
“Only to resurface Lord knows when to finish what he started.” Breanna completed Royce's unvoiced thought aloud.
“Yes.”
“I see your point.” Damen swallowed. “Then, how do we stop him?”
“We lure him to us. We taunt him, anger him, and turn this little cat and mouse game around.”
Stacie looked intrigued. “How?”
Royce's jaw set, that purposeful gleam returning to his eyes. “I'll have one more chat with Maurelle. Who knows? Maybe I can even unearth a few more details while her tongue is loose—which it will be, as long as it's Landow she, thinks she's betraying. At the end of that time, I'll let her know just how badly she underestimated Breanna. I'll toss out Crompton's name, and let her choke on it. Th
en, I'll help myself to an article of her clothing—preferably something intimate—and I'll leave her in the guards' capable hands.”
“You're going to send the clothing to Crompton,” Breanna murmured. “Let him know we have Maurelle.”
“You're damned right I am. I'm going to flaunt that fact as crudely as I can. Let him think I'm bedding his precious Maurelle, violating the one thing he cares about. He'll react. I guarantee it. He'll go berserk. All his precision, his brilliant strategy, will be cast to the wind. Gut emotion will take over. Even his hatred for you will be temporarily forsaken. He'll want to froe Maurelle, slit my throat for having her. And I'll be ready for him when he tries.”
Breanna raised her chin another notch, studied Royce's face. “It had to come down to this, didn't it?” she asked softly. “From the very beginning. It was going to end in a final battle between you and him. You'd have it no other way.”
“No, I wouldn't.” Royce met her gaze. “From the very beginning? Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. But from the day I fell in love with you? Definitely. So if you're asking if I'm arranging things this way so I can meet him face to face, personally pull the trigger to end his wretched life, the answer is yes. I wanted to wait until the odds were with me. They finally are. And Crompton is a dead man.”
“I understand,” Breanna said in a tremulous voice. “But, Royce, I love you.” She lay her palm against his jaw. “I can't lose you.”
“You won't.” He turned his lips to kiss her finger-tips. “Sweetheart, I'm not doing this out of arrogance.” His tone gentled as he gave voice to that which they already knew. “The truth is that you and Anastasia will never be safe as long as Crompton's alive.”
“I know.” Breanna wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, weighing her next words carefully. “Your letter has to be convincing. Maurelle's chemise, even doused in her scent, won't be enough. Remember, he sent me a bottle of that same perfume. We could be using that to fake Maurelle's capture.”
“True.” Royce nodded, eying Breanna speculatively as he realized she was leading him somewhere in particular. “I intended to include a lock of her hair. I'd parade her across the front lawn so he could see her for himself, if it weren't so risky. Given the frenzy he'll likely be in, he might go off like a loose cannon, firing blindly at everyone in sight. I won't take that chance.”
“You don't need to.” Breanna spoke calmly, her decision made. “Send the chemise and the lock of hair. Make the letter as provoking as you can. And when you do, mention the birthmark on her right breast. It's in a spot only a lover would know about.” She flushed. “I'll describe the exact location to you when you write the letter. But that should get you the response you're looking for.”
Royce stared at Breanna in amazement. “How did you have the presence of mind to—?”
“I didn't. It just so happens that Maurelle used undressing as a means to conceal the fact that she'd been looking through the files. She changed into a nightrobe while I was in the room. The birthmark is very conspicuous.”
“And you call me brilliant.” Royce kissed her triumphantly, unbothered by their audience. “This is almost over,” he said, raising his head to include Anastasia in his assessment. “Hold on a little longer.”
Royce strode into Maurelle's chambers and shut the door behind him. She smiled inwardly, seeing the victorious gleam in his eye. Her ruse had worked. Chadwick now believed that Arthur Landow was her noble assassin. Excellent.
“May I help you, monsieur?” she inquired, folding back the bedcovers. “I was just about to retire for the night.”
Royce glanced at his pocket watch. “It's not even dinnertime.”
“I'm fatigued.” Maurelle smoothed her hand over the sheets. “Your friend Lady Breanna exhausted me.”
His jaw tightened fractionally. “ I heard that Lady Breanna had been in to see you. And while I wish she hasn't subjected herself to that, I can't deny I'm pleased by the results.”
“I thought you would be.”
“Funny, you didn't seem to me to be the type one could reach through compassion.”
“People aren't always as they seem.”
“No, they're not.” Royce paused, rubbed his palms together. “In any case, I'm glad you relented. It will be easier on everyone.”
“Is that why you're here?” Maurelle inquired, gripping the bedpost. “To ease my fears?”
“No. Frankly, I don't give a damn about your fears.”
She smiled. “I appreciate your honesty, monsieur. So tell me, what can I do for you?”
“You can answer a few questions. I want as much evidence against Landow as I can get before I send Bow Street over to arrest him.”
Warning bells sounded in her head, and her gaze turned wary. “What kind of evidence?”
“His relationship with Cunnings—what do you know of it?”
Ah, that. Inwardly, she relaxed. Cunnings was dead. He couldn't deny Landow's guilt. Therefore, the closer she stuck to the truth, the better.
“Arthur knew John Cunnings for quite some time,” she replied.
“So Lady Breanna overheard Cunnings tell her fa ther. He said he'd seen the assassin's... Landow's,” Royce corrected himself, “accomplishments for years.”
“That's true. From what Arthur explained, he needed a contact to arrange the jobs he took on.”
“The executions, you mean.”
“Yes. Cunnings was perfect. He knew scores of people through his position at the House of Lockewood. You'd be surprised to learn how eager some supposedly honorable men and women are to rid themselves of family members that stand between themselves and their fortunes.”
“I don't doubt it.”
“The bank itself made an ideal meeting place. No one suspected anything unscrupulous was going on during their meetings. After all, Arthur was a client—a good one.” Her lips curved. “And a smart one. He eavesdropped on Cunnings's conversations enough times to realize he was willing to compromise himself for money. He confirmed that fact by keeping an ear to the ground and learning Cunnings was spending more than he had, courting women with expensive jewelry, buying homes he couldn't afford. In short, John Cunnings was willing to do anything to support his expensive habits. Arthur offered him that opportunity.''
“Hmm.” Royce stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “In other words, Cunnings got a percentage of Landow's fee on the clients he referred?”
“Exactly.” Maurelle sighed. Tm sorry Monsieur Cunnings had to die. I have a soft spot in my heart for him. After all, it was through him that Arthur came back into my life.”
“So Landow did find you again through Cunnings's notes.”
“ Oui .” Maurelle lowered her lashes, reminding herself that she was supposed to be feeling guilty, torn by her own betrayal. “Arthur didn't come directly to Paris. First, he went to Germany, to visit that brilliant Dr. Helmett. Wilkens, the gunsmith, met them there. Arthur had surgery.” A thought struck her, and she eliminated the quickest and most logical way for Landow to prove his innocence. She had to buy Ansel time—time to finish his mission and vanish. “The surgery was so successful, his finger is as good as new.”
“Is it?” Royce looked surprised. “Then why is he so eager for revenge?”
“Because it took some time to regain his muscle control. And being in control is more important to Arthur than anything else. He was at a disadvantage for months. He had to master the new weapon Wilkens crafted in order to shoot. Also, he can't bear the thought of being bested, especially by a woman.”
“I see.” Royce nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Where is Helmett now?”
Maurelle swallowed. “Arthur killed him. He had no choice. He didn't expect Dr. Helmett to react so strongly when he heard Arthur boast of his plans to do away with Lady Breanna.”
“Ah. The good physician threatened to alert the au t horities?”
“Yes.”
Royce inclined his head. “By the way Wilkens i
s dead, too. Did you know that? Your lover killed him a few days ago.”
“No, I didn't. But I'm not surprised.”
“I didn't expect you would be. He seems very adept at eliminating anyone who might give him away.”
“He is.” She bit her lip. “That's why I'm so frightened. If he should learn I've betrayed him—
“Oh, he win,” Royce assured her cheerfully. He glanced at his timepiece again. “This very night, as a matter of fact.” He stepped aside, yanked open the door. “Hibbert, I could use your help.”
“My pleasure.” Hibbert strolled in, walking over to jerk Maurelle's arms behind her back. “Go ahead, my lord.”
Maurelle's eyes widened as she saw the razor appear in Royce's hand. “Are you mad? I've told you everything you want to know, and in return you're going to slit my throat?”
“No. You're not worth it.” Royce crossed over, quickly shearing off a lock of her heft Wrapping it in his handkerchief, he glanced about the room, spying the pile of clothing Maurelle had left on the chair near the wardrobe. He went over, rifled through it until he found her chemise. “This will do.” He crumpled it up, tucked it beneath his arm. “Let her go, Hibbert.”
Hibbert complied, shoving Maurelle away from him as if she were an odious insect. He headed to the door, Royce directly behind him.
“Oh, Maurelle.” Royce paused on the threshold, arching a brow in her direction. “In case you're wondering, I'll be sending off your chemise and your strand of heft, together with a very provocative letter.” His teeth gleamed. “Crompton should have it before midnight. That's Ansel Crompton, by the way, not Arthur Landow. Then again, you already know that. Your attempt to save him was valiant. Speaking of which, Lady Breanna asked me to thank you. She appreciated your switching those drawings. You played right into her hands and helped ensure Crompton's downfall.”
If Royce needed any further proof, the look of sheer panic on Maurelle's face provided it.
Her anguished cry, “Ansel,” echoed through the halls as Royce and Hibbert walked away.