The Silver Coin

  Crompton was applying the final touches of red paint to the last porcelain figure when the messenger galloped up his drive.

  He frowned, wondering who could be contacting him this late at night.

  Ah, Maurelle, he thought, his frown vanishing. No doubt she was summoning him, eager to have him back in her arms, her bed.

  Well, she hasn't long to wait. By tomorrow at this time, Lady Anastasia and Lady Breanna would be dead, and he'd be on his way to Paris.

  He held the statue away from him, admired his own handiwork. The two women were leaning over a book, clutching it as they read together. And they were smiling—placid smiles that seemed incredibly out of place when one considered their fatal injuries and mutilated hands.

  Satisfaction glinted in his eyes. He'd severed both women's right index fingers, trickled bloodlike paint over their hands and the book's binding and added a final red splotch over their hearts.

  His final gift to Lady Breanna. It would arrive in the dead of night.

  Tomorrow morning, it would be time.

  He'd planned it all very carefully. The guards changed shifts at 6 a.m . A s always, that stout, uncouth sentry posted on the far side of the estate would have been drinking his secret cache of ale from sometime after midnight, and would have nodded off no later than half past 5 a.m . That left thirty minutes—more than enough time to climb the sturdy oak he'd been using for his comings and goings, and slip onto the premises. From there, he'd creep toward the manor, hide in the thick brush, and eventually ease his way around the house until he had a clear view of the sit ting room.

  Then, he'd wait.

  Sometime between 10 and 10:20 a.m., both Lady Breanna and Lady Anastasia would appear—heavily guarded by Chadwick, Sheldrake, and those two old codgers, Hibbert and Wells.

  Did any of them actually believe they could scare him off or—an even more ludicrous thought—block his shot?

  If so, they were bigger fools than he'd realized. They weren't what had kept him from striking before now. His battle plan was. He'd devised it. He meant to carry it out.

  The first step had been to terrorize Lady Breanna. That step was complete.

  Now, it was time for the second step. Lady Anasta­sia had to die—right at her cousin's feet. For that, he needed no more than fifteen seconds. And he'd get those seconds, the instant Sheldrake stepped away from his wife.

  Lady Anastasia would be dead by ten thirty.

  Then came the tricky part—step three.

  He had to isolate Lady Breanna. It wasn't enough to kill her. If it was, he'd simply shoot her right after he did away with her cousin. No, he had to first ensure that she knew precisely who he was, what he intended to do to her. He had to close in on her like a tiger stalking its prey, see the stark terror in her eyes as she realized her life was about to end.

  He needed to see her crawl, to hear her plead for her life, sob for mercy.

  Then, he'd blast away her life with one long-awaited shot.

  It wouldn't be that difficult to get her alone. The house would be in an uproar once Lady Anastasia fell down dead. People would scatter. Chadwick would rush outside, determined to find the killer.

  Taking Lady Breanna with him to ensure her safety.

  That's when he'd make his move. He'd grab her the instant Chadwick turned his back.

  No, this wouldn't be difficult at all.

  A knock on the front door broke into his thoughts, reminded him of the messenger's arrival.

  Carefully, he lined his desk drawer with a handker­chief, then placed the statue upon it, sliding the draw­er shut to conceal it. He'd write the note later. For now, he wanted to read Maurelle's words of love.

  He left his study, made his way to the entranceway.

  His butler had just accepted a small package from the messenger and was shutting the door. He looked up, saw the viscount approaching.

  “For you, sir,” he announced.

  “Excellent. Thank you.” Crompton took the parcel, glancing at it as he retreated to the privacy of his study. He'd expected a letter. Had Maurelle sent him a gift?

  He locked his study door, lowered himself to the settee, and unwrapped the package. A carnal smile touched his lips as Maurelle's fragrance greeted his nostrils. He lifted out the perfume-scented chemise, amused by Maurelle's uncharacteristically girlish ges­ture. Evidently, she missed him as much as he missed her. But she needn't have gone to such extremes to tell him so. She, of all people, knew he needed no entice­ment. Not when it came to her. His desire for her was compulsive, a gnawing in his belly that seemed never to fade.

  He brought the chemise to his face, inhaled deeply, and felt his body throb to life. Another day. That's all it would be. Then he'd be with her. And not just for a brief interlude. For the rest of their lives.

  He lowered the garment, intending to restore it to the box.

  A look of heft tumbled out of the folds.

  His brows arched in surprise. Maurelle's hair? Why on earth... ?

  The note caught his eye. It was neatly penned, but not in Maurelle's hand.

  A warning bell sounded in his head, and he tensed, snatched up the page.

  Crompton, it read. Your maneuvers were good. Mine were better. To the victor go the spoils. In this case, the spoils are the prisoner I've taken. And I do mean taken. Not once, but repeatedly. Her body is too lush to resist—espe­cially that erotic birthmark just under her right nipple. I salute you for your taste in women. Maurelle Rouge is one woman I'd never sell. She's extraordinary. Insatiable, but extraordinary. She keeps begging for more, insisting that my charms exceed yours. Yet another victory, wouldn't you say?

  Crompton's skull was hammering so loud he could scarcely think, his body shaking with a rage like none he had ever known.

  Chadwick had Maurelle. His intimate description left no room for doubt. That filthy bastard was bed­ding his Maurelle.

  Damn him. Damn him to hell.

  Crompton dragged his sleeve across his forehead, sweat tricking down the side of his face as he forced himself to read on.

  Did you think I'd summon Bow Street? Think again. I want no intermediary. It's just you and me, Crompton. Except the roles have now reversed. You're the mouse and I'm the cat. I've hunted you down. Now I can torment you as you tormented Lady Breanna. I've already stripped you of everything—your anonymity, your unblemished success record, even your woman. Concede defeat. Or die by my hand. The war is over. The best man has won. — Chadwick

  A roar of denial exploded from Crompton's chest. He bolted to his feet, crumpling the note into a ball and hurling it and the box across the room.

  He raked both hands through his hair, pacing about in an effort to comprehend what had happened, how it had happened.

  Chadwick knew who he was. He knew who Mau­relle was. He'd called her Maurelle Rouge. Worse, he'd kidnapped her, forced her to act as his whore. She'd never have gone willingly. He had to have brutalized her.

  Had he also brutalized her into revealing her lover's name?

  No. Maurelle would never betray him. Not even if she were tortured.

  Then how had Chadwick figured it out? How had he gotten his hands on Maurelle to begin with?

  Hibbert.

  That wretched old fool had been in Paris. He must have found Le Joyau, seized her there.

  Which meant he'd found the women. All the women.

  Emma Martin. That's who'd given him away. She was the only one who'd seen his face.

  He'd kill her later. After he took care of the others.

  He stopped pacing, forced air into his lungs. He had to think, to come up with a plan. Chadwick wasn't sending Bow Street here. He was too pompous, too cocky.

  Too smart.

  He knew bloody well that if Bow Street showed up here, the man they sought would find a way to elude them, to drop out of sight and, as a result, be back in a position of control. Instead, Chadwick was trying to lure him out, to goad him into showing himself.

  Oh, he'd show h
imself, all right. But not in the reck­less way Chadwick expected.

  He'd rethink his strategy. He'd get into that house. He'd rescue Maurelle.

  And then he'd kill every last one of them.

  28

  He arrived at Medford as originally planned, at half past 5 a.m.

  It had taken all his self-control to wait out the night, to restrain himself from rushing right over there and breaking down the front door, firing at everyone until he found Maurelle.

  But that's what Chadwick assumed he'd do. T he son of a bitch was lying in wait.

  As a result, the only thing to do was to outmaneuver him.

  Oh, the best man would wm, all right.

  And Chadwick would be dead.

  Crompton jumped down lightly from the oak tree, glancing behind him at the sleeping guard. Scornfully, he noted the half-empty bottle clutched in the man's

  Pathetic fool.

  Turning away, he crept across the grounds, his black clothes invisible in the darkness of night's final hours.

  He reached the manor.

  This was where his original strategy ended, and his modified one began.

  He squatted down in the bushes, remaining in the rear of the house rather than inching around front, as initially planned.

  He edged his way along the outside wall, raising up a bit when he reached the kitchen window. He peered through, checking to see if the staff had ap­peared to begin preparing breakfast.

  A cook and two scullery maids were moving about, starting their morning routine.

  Splendid. Just enough people to suit his purposes, not so many as to obstruct his entry.

  Silently, he dropped to the ground, choosing a spot next to the rear entrance—one with just a spotty num­ber of evergreen shrubs. It wouldn't do to choose a denser patch. His goal was to cause a disturbance, not to burn the whole manor to the ground.

  He struck the match.

  It took two minutes for the fire to leap high enough to be seen, and for the fumes to be smelled as they seeped beneath the windows and door.

  The kitchen staff reacted.

  One of the scullery maids shrieked and dropped a frying pan, pointing to the curling wisps of smoke.

  The cook grabbed a kettle of water and doused the area, only to realize the source of the fire was outside.

  She flung open the door, wringing her hands as she saw the flames.

  She swung around, shooing the two maids away, and gesturing toward the inside hallway.

  The three servants dashed off to alert the household.

  Crompton waited ten seconds. No more, no less. Then, he slipped inside, making his way straight to the pantry and concealing himself in a dim, barren al­cove within it.

  He pulled up a stool, sank down on it. Alert yet un-moving, he settled himself for the long hours that lay ahead.

  He was an expert at lying in wait. It was one of the skills that had made him the froe general he was. He knew how to outlast the enemy, to create the illusion that the danger was gone.

  Only then would he strike.

  By 7 a.m., the flames were doused.

  By 10 a.m ., the guards had given up patrolling the area. Having spied no one suspicious lurking about, they'd come to the conclusion that the fire was indeed an accident and bore no connection to the intruder they were guarding against.

  Chadwick wasn't so certain.

  He hovered at the scene, scrutinizing the shrubs and muttering to Hibbert, who had accompanied him outside to search the area.

  Eventually, they let themselves in through the kitchen.

  “Go back to Breanna,” Chadwick instructed his manservant. “I don't want her left alone.”

  Hibbert frowned. “You suspect Crompton did this?”

  “I don't know. It's winter. The air is cold and dry. A spark from the kitchen might have started the fire. So, it could be a coincidence. But I'm not taking any chances. If Crompton is behind this, he's on the grounds. I'm going to alert Mahoney's men, have them search every inch of the estate, not only this immediate area. After that, I'm heading down to the servants' quarters to see what Maurelle is up to. If Crompton did break into Medford, she's the reason why.”

  “I agree.” Hibbert nodded briskly. “I'll watch Lady Breanna. Lord Sheldrake is with his wife. And Wells is standing guard outside Maurelle's room, just in case. He’s been there since he awakened.”

  “Good. Putting Maurelle in the room next to his was wise. He can keep a close eye on her.” Chadwick was already heading out. “I'll cheek in with you later.”

  “Fine.”

  The two men left. Quiet ensued. The day wore on.

  Slowly, the ordinary routine resumed, tension ebbing away as hour gave way to hour and no further incident occurred.

  At last, the sun set.

  Darkness fell, settling over the manor with the cus­tomary impatience of January.

  The evening meal was served. The kitchen staff completed their work, washed the last of the evening dishes, and doused the lights.

  The lower level fell silent.

  Just above the pantry, the family chatted in the li­brary, the distinct sounds of Lady Breanna's lilting tones and her cousin's more Americanized accent drifting to the floor below, interdispersed by com­ments issued in Sheldrake and Chadwick's deeper baritones.

  It was time.

  Inside the cramped alcove, Crompton stood, stretching his arms and legs to restore feeling. He winced at the throbbing pain that gripped his finger, which was raw and stiff after the prolonged day he'd spent in this chilly room.

  Soon that pain would be vindicated. Then, he'd sail off to a warm climate where the sun would ease his physical torment.

  But first, he had to rescue Maurelle.

  She was alone now. He'd watched the house often enough to know the evening routine. Wells would be posted at the entranceway—especially at this point, when they were anticipating the delivery of the final statue—and Hibbert would be stationed in the hall between Wells and the family, adding his presence for extra security.

  That was froe. They weren't his targets—yet.

  Of course, there was always the chance that Chad­wick had kept guards posted outside Maurelle's door. However, that prospect was unlikely, now that this morning's threat had been removed and there was no reason to believe the noble assassin was anywhere near Maurelle, much less on the verge of rescuing hen Chad­wick wouldn't want to waste the men, not when they could be patrolling the perimeter of the estate, or stand­ing guard over Lady Anastasia and Lady Breanna.

  A bitter smile curved Crompton's lips.

  Cautiously, he crept out of the pantry and through the kitchen, made his way to the servants' quarters.

  The wing was deserted. Not a surprise, given that the staff was doubtless either retiring for the night or upstairs preparing their employers' chambers so that they might do the same.

  Nonetheless, his fingers closed around his pistol to ready it, most particularly when he rounded the cor­ner that led to the butler's quarters.

  Wells's chambers were silent. Clearly, he was up­stairs at his post.

  Crompton relaxed his grip, moving to the door next to Wells's.

  It was locked.

  Ever so slightly, he jiggled the handle to make sure. Yes. Definitely locked.

  He glanced about, ensured he was alone. Then, he knocked—a hushed little rap. No answer.

  He tried again, this time louder.

  “Have you lost your key, monsieur?” Maurelle's icy voice sounded from within. “Don't bother getting an­other. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  That was all Crompton needed.

  He pulled out a blade, slipped it into the keyhole, and gave a hard flick of his wrist.

  A telltale click told him he'd accomplished his goal.

  He turned the door handle and stepped into the room.

  Maurelle looked up from the chair her features set in hard, unyielding lines. “I just said I'm finished speaking to...” Her mou
th snapped shut, and she gave a start of surprise as she saw who her guest was. “Ansel.” She rushed over, gripping his arms and peer­ing wildly over his shoulder. “Are you insane? You're playing right into Chadwick's hands.”

  “No. He's playing into mine.” Crompton shut the door, capturing Maurelle's chin in his gloved hand and tilting up her face so he could study it. “What methods did he use to force you? I'll prolong his death one painful minute for every time he took you.”

  Maurelle's brows drew together. “What are you talking about? He didn't bed me. Is that what his let­ter said? He was baiting you, Ansel. He cut a lock of my hair and took my chemise. But he never laid a hand on me.”

  Thunderclouds erupted on Crompton's face. “He described your birthmark. The one here.” He touched her breast.

  “My birthmark.” Maurelle glanced down at herself in puzzlement. “How could he ... ?” Abruptly, her head snapped up, and her eyes blazed with anger. “That bitch Lady Breanna. She was in here while I was changing. She must have given him a descrip­tion.” Worry supplanted rage. “Chadwick arranged this. So he must know you're here. He'll kill you.”

  “No. He doesn’t know I'm here and, no, he won't kill me.” Fury rippled through Crompton's body in violent currents, intensifying as he realized how Chadwick had duped him. “I have no intentions of letting him win.”

  “But he set this whole thing up so—”

  “Yes.” Crompton's confidence returned as he reevaluated the events of the day. “He managed to de­ceive me. But I've outmaneuvered him. This morning, he suspected I broke in. But I've since convinced him otherwise. He now thinks the household is safe and secure. Which gives me the advantage.”

  Crompton seized Maurelle's hand, led her to the door. “ Chadwick 's amateur tactics are over. I'm get­ting you out of here. Then, I'm coming back and completing things once and for all. I'll execute Lady Anastasia the way I should have in August. Then, I'll make her wretched cousin beg for mercy. And once I have, I'll fire a shot through her heart right in front of Chadwick, show him how pitifully he's failed in his attempts to protect her.”

  “And Chadwick?” Maurelle's eyes were glowing with smug anticipation.