Page 5 of The Silver Coin

  “No, sir, it's not.” Mahoney cleared his throat. “If you'll excuse me, I'll- get back to my post. I've got to calm everyone down, make sure the constable ar­rives—”

  “Go.” Damen gestured for the guard to leave. “Do what you have to.”

  “Did Mr. Knox have a family?” Breanna broke in, her fingers laced so tightly together, they ached.

  “Yes, m'lady. A wife and two grown sons.”

  “His wife... she's been told?”

  A terse nod. “Her sons live nearby. They'll help their mother out, to the best of their abilities, anyway But they have families of their own and—”

  “Tell Mrs. Knox we'll take care of her expenses,” Breanna interrupted. “ All her expenses, from a proper funeral to whatever she needs -clothing , food—any­thing. And please, tell her how sorry we are.” With a choked sound, she averted her head.

  “I'm sure she'll appreciate that. I know my wife would.” Mahoney paused, staring down at the tips of his shoes. “Lady Breanna, if you'll forgive me for speaking out of turn, stop blaming yourself. Knox knew the risks of his job. We all do. Most of the time we beat the odds. But once in a while—we don't. The thief pulled the trigger, not you.”

  Unsteadily, Breanna nodded. “Yes... the thief.”

  A heavy silence descended.

  “I'll be going now,” Mahoney said at last. “If you need me, send for me.”

  Wells shut the door behind the retreating guard. “You don't think it was a thief,” he said to Damen, a statement rather than a question.

  Damen's stare was brooding. “If it was, his appear­ance was extremely coincidental, wouldn't you say?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  Breanna spun around, faced the men. “You think it was ...he. Well, so do I.”

  “I think it might have been he,” Damen corrected her gently.

  “If it was, his message is clear,” Anastasia pro­nounced, worry glittering in her eyes. “He's showing us no guards can keep him away.”

  “Then we're prisoners.” Twin spots of red stained Breanna's cheeks, and she looked almost as angry as she did fearful. “We can't go out, we can't protect our­selves ...” She shot Wells a purposeful look. “We cer­tainly can't have that party. It's too risky. We'll have to cancel it.”

  “Even if we do, that's still no guarantee we'll be stopping him from doing whatever it is he intends to do.” Anastasia's palm drifted automatically to her ab­domen as if to protect her unborn child from harm.

  Damen followed her motion, and felt his gut clench. Perhaps they were all overreacting, letting their imaginations run wild. But for his family's sake, for the sake of his own peace of mind, he couldn 't take that risk.

  Abruptly, he made a decision.

  “I've got to ride into Town.” He reached for his top­coat.

  “To Town? Why?” Quick as a wink, Anastasia was beside him. “Damen, what are you planning?”

  He caressed her cheek, kissed the bridge of her nose. “I want to speak with someone. Someone I think can help us.”

  “Who?”

  “Royce Chadwick.” Damen shrugged into his coat. “You don't know him. He couldn't make it to out wedding; he was out of the country. But he's an old acquaintance of mine. We attended Oxford together. From there, he went on to the military. He was a bril­liant strategist during the war with Napoleon. Since then, well, let's just say he's gone on to become the best at what he does.”

  “Which is?”

  “He finds people—people who either can't or don 't want to be found.”

  “Royce Chadwick,” Wells repeated. “Isn't he the Earl of Searby's brother?”

  “Yes. Although Edmund and Royce are about as alike as tea and spirits.”

  “Indeed.” Wells was frowning now. “If gossip stands me correctly, the earl's brother is a reckless fel­low—a bit too wild and daring.” Dames lips curved. “Yes, Royce is not your staid ballroom type. He lives by his own set of rules. But he's incredibly shrewd, he 's honest, and he's smart as a whip. And, as I said, he's the best man I know at finding people who have vanished—people even Bow Street can 't find.”

  “Such as people who choose not to repay their loans?” Stacie guessed, astutely determining how Damen knew of this Royce Chadwick 's work first-

  “Exactly.” Her husband smiled, admiring her keen insights—insights he'd come to know and love. “He 's done some fine work for me and my bank.” Pausing, he framed Stacie's face between his palms, bent to ki ss her shining crown of hair. “Stay put,” he ordered. His glance lifted to include Breanna. “Both of you. In this case, it 's better to be overcautious. Wells, don't let either of them out of your sight. I 'll be back later today—with a plan.”

  6

  Royce Chadwick lived and worked on Bond Street.

  His home, which also served as his office, stood in a row of three-story, gated Town houses, all of which exuded an aura of understated wealth and power—an aura that both commanded a second look and, at the same time, demanded privacy.

  A description one could just as easily ascribe to Royce.

  He and Damen had met at Oxford. The two men had developed an immediate affinity for each other, despite the fact that their philosophies of life differed sharply.

  Damen was a pragmatist. He met life head-on, con­fronted its challenges, and emerged from them wiser, surer, and farther along the path to his own success.

  Royce created his own challenges.

  Bold, defiant, he took on the world, unwilling to accept the status quo, loath to compromise. He lived on the edge, pushed the rules as far as they could go—and then some—a fact that nearly got him ex­ pelled from Oxford on more than one occasion by the narrow-minded administration who ran it.

  But, damn, he was brilliant. Brilliant and, in his own way, honorable. True, he was unconventional, driven by demons he never discussed. And yes, he lived by his own code of conduct, conduct that too often got him in trouble. But he never used people, never took advantage of those less intelligent or weaker than he. On the contrary, he was a loner, rely­ing upon his own ingenuity and cunning to get him what he wanted—partially because he was a man of integrity and partially because he refused to settle for the mediocrity offered by others. He probed, he chal­lenged, yet he drew his own figurative line—a line he wouldn't cross to reach his ends.

  In short, reckless or not, Royce Chadwick was a fine man—one Damen admired and, at the moment, needed.

  Pulling his carriage alongside the house, Damen swung down, hastened up the steps, and knocked.

  An older man with ice blue eyes, silver hair, and a cloaked expression answered the door. “Yes? Ah, Lord Sheldrake.” His thin lips pursed so tightly they seemed to disappear into his face. “Forgive me, sir, I didn't realize you had an appointment.”

  “Don't apologize, Hibbert. I didn't.”

  Damen stepped into the entranceway, knowing he had his work cut out for him. Trying to talk his way past this man was akin to single-handedly taking on an army. Hibbert was more than Royce's butler, more even than his steward and his clerk. He was all three— and a veritable sentry who stood between his employer and the world. Plus, he was Royce's right hand, his advisor, ofttimes his eyes and his ears. Hib­bert's distinguished, elderly appearance stood him in good stead when he was helping Royce gather infor­mation. No one suspected that beneath the aged, be­nign exterior lurked the intelligence, cunning and agility of a fox.

  “Is Royce home?” Damen demanded without pre­liminaries. “Because, if so, I need to see him. Now.”

  Hibbert arched a brow. “It's not like you to become overwrought, my lord.”

  “That's because I'm usually here because some­one's threatening my money. This time someone's threatening my wife.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “I see.” Hibbert studied Damen for one long thoughtful moment. Then, he nodded. “Have a seat in Lord Royce's office. You know where it is. I'll see if I can free up some of his time.”

  “I'd appreciate t
hat.” Damen strode down the hall, turning into the cluster of rooms Royce used for his work. He stepped into the outer office, bypassing the settee and pacing over to the bookshelves. He tapped the volumes impatiently, not really seeing them, then walked over to the window and gazed out.

  Damn, he hoped he was overreacting. Maybe it real­ly had been a thief who'd killed Knox. Maybe it wasn 't that demented assassin. Maybe the incident was total­ly unrelated to the package Breanna had received. Maybe neither she nor Anastasia were in danger.

  Then again, maybe they were.

  “Hibbert's right! You aren't yourself.”

  Damen turned, grateful as hell to see Royce Chad­wick lounging in the doorway. “No, I'm not.”

  “Welcome home.” The tall, broad-shouldered man straightened, folding his arms across his chest and studying Damen through penetrating midnight blue eyes that were so dark people often mistook them for black. “Congratulations, albeit belatedly, on your marriage. I'm sorry I missed the wedding. It couldn't be helped. I was halfway back from India.” Royce ran a hand over his square jaw, missing nothing of his col­league's distress. “For a man who just returned from his wedding trip, you look wretched. Marriage too much for you?”

  “Hardly.” Damen wasn't in a lighthearted mood. “In fact, I'm beginning to wish that Stacie and I had never come home. She was finally safe. The biggest worry I had was seeing how weak she became after perpetually kneeling over the chamber pot—”

  Dark brows shot up. “Kneeling over the chamber pot? Does that mean you have another announcement to make?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  A low whistle. “I'm impressed. After only three months of marriage. No wonder you enjoyed your trip so much.” Royce gave Damen a mock salute be­fore moving into the room, crossing over toward the inner office and gesturing for Damen to follow. “Dou­ble my congratulations, then.”

  “Royce, we need to talk.” Damen entered the room, shut the door behind him.

  “So I gathered. Hibbert said it was urgent.” All humor having vanished, Royce perched against the mahogany desk, turned his watchful gaze back on Damen. “He also said that it concerned your wife. Judging from your agitation, it must be serious.”

  “It is. At least I think it is.” Damen paused, drew a slow breath to compose himself.

  “Sit down. I'll get you a drink.” Royce indicated the armchair by his desk, then went to the sideboard, poured two glasses of Madeira. “Here. Drink this. You obviously need it. Then, tell me what's wrong. I've never seen you so unnerved.”

  “I've never felt so unnerved.” Damen tossed off the contents of the glass. “Then again, I've never cared as deeply about anyone as I do about Stacie. And now, with the babe on the way...” His head came up. “Royce, I want you to find someone for me.”

  Royce's eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “That's the problem. I don't know. I don't know his name, where he lives, or what he looks like. I'm not even sure he's in England—although my instincts scream out that he is. All I know is that I need him found. Found and locked up.”

  Slowly, Royce sipped at his Madeira. If he was taken aback by Damen's request, he kept his surprise carefully hidden. “Start at the beginning. Not with what you don't know, but with what you do know. The circumstances that brought you here, the basis for your apprehension.”

  A terse nod. “I'm sure Hibbert told you who I had him checking into for me while you were in India.”

  “The Viscount Medford. Yes, he told me. He also told me that Medford owed money everywhere, to everyone. And that he was recouping it by involving himself in some pretty shady business dealings-shadier, as it turned out, than any of us realized. But Medford's in prison now. So he's hardly a threat.” A heartbeat of a pause. “Does this have to do with what happened right after his arrest? That assassin Med­ford hired through Cunnings—the one who showed up at the docks to do away with your wife?”

  “You heard about that, then.”

  “The minute I set foot on English soil. Does that surprise you?”

  Damen shrugged. “Not really. Some things can't be ke pt quiet. Do you know all the details?”

  “I asked a few questions at Bow Street. They filled me in. This paid killer aimed at your wife, but before he could shoot, he was maimed by her cousin. He fled the scene, stopped off at the bank to silence Cun­nings—permanently—then vanished. Is that close enough?”

  “All but the last. He didn't vanish—at least not for good.”

  Royce's glass paused midway to his lips. “He's back.”

  “It damned well looks that way.” With that, Damen told Royce about the note and package Breanna had received, her subsequent trip to Bow Street, and the precautionary security Wells had hired. He concluded by relaying the news that a guard had been killed ear­lier today, describing where Knox had been when the alleged thief came upon him.

  Royce listened intently, swirling the contents of his drink, his brow furrowed in thought. When Damen finished, he took a deep swallow of Madeira, then placed the glass on his desk. “I can see why you're worried,” he said. “As for Bow Street, I wouldn't ex­pect much help from them. They're up to their necks investigating the murders that are throwing the ton into a frenzy. Not to mention that you've given them no real proof to go on. Which doesn't mean the threat to your wife and her cousin isn't real, only that you can't count on Bow Street to hunt this assassin down.”

  Damen leaned forward. “I agree. The question is, can we count on you to hunt him down?”

  Pensively, Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “This is an ugly situation, Damen.”

  “Since when has that deterred you? Usually, the greater the challenge, the more determined you are to go after it. Hell, this should really intrigue you—an unknown assailant, a crime that could happen any­where, anytime. It's just the kind of danger you thrive on. So whaf s stopping you?”

  “This crime involves lives. Lives of people you care about.”

  “That should motivate you, not frighten you off.”

  “I'm not frightened. I'm realistic. Locating a face­less, nameless assassin is not exactly my specialty.”

  “An assassin is nothing more than an exceedingly violent criminal. And understanding criminals' minds is precisely how you manage to track them down.”

  “The criminals I track have names and faces,” Royce reminded him. “You're talking about some ­ thing entirely different.”

  “Surely you've met men who enjoy killing. All those years in the military—there must have been some sol­diers who actually enjoyed pulling the trigger.”

  In response, Royce's jaw set, his dark eyes guttering harshly. “I've met men who enjoy killing others and men who thrive on destroying others without actually killing them. And not just in the military. So, do I un­derstand a mind-Eke this assassin's? Yes. But you know the way I work, Damen. My tactics involve taking risks—big risks. I won't jeopardize your wife's life.”

  “Stacie's life is already in jeopardy.”

  Silence.

  Damen slammed his glass to the desk. “Does this mean you refuse to help me?” Royce studied the naked pain on his friend's face, swore quietly under his breath—and relented. “No. I'll help you. I'll do as much as I can. As much as you'll let me,” he amended. “You might not like my ideas, or my methods. Not when it comes to a matter this close to your heart.” “I'll take that chance.”

  Nodding, Royce rifled through some pages on his desk. “The other problem I have is that I'm in the middle of another case—one I took on weeks ago. I can't walk away from that.”

  “I wouldn't ask you to. Handle both cases at once. Set up an office at Medford if you need to. Bring Hib­bert. I don't care. Just find this lunatic before he...” Damen bit off the rest of his sentence, too sickened to utter it.

  “He's not a lunatic,” Royce countered quietly. “Let's begin with that. At least not in the way you mean. He's unbalanced, yes, but he's very controlled, very methodical, very intelligen
t. He couldn't be a professional assassin unless he was. He's got to be thorough, well-organized, and have excellent timing. Which means his mind is quick, maybe even as quick as his pistol. To relegate him to the role of madman would be a grave error in judgment—one that could cost you dearly.” Royce's lips pursed in thought. “I want to see that letter. And the dolls. I also want to talk to Lady Breanna, hear everything she remembers about the night her father was arrested, or rather, after he was arrested and the assassin showed up.” A wary stare. “Tell me about her.”

  “Who? Breanna?”

  “Yes. Is she fragile? Will I have an hysterical female on my hands? Is she a swooner, one who'll collapse each time I ask a question that triggers a memory? Or is she a wailer, one who will drench three handker­chiefs before I find out everything I need to?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Damen couldn't stifle a smile. “You don't have a very high opinion of women, do you? Odd, considering, from what I've seen over the years, they have a very high opinion of you. They gravitate to you like flies to honey—until you tire of them and move on.”

  “On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of women. They're ideal companions—both in bed and out—splendid conversationalists and, before you be­rate me for not giving your wife the credit she's due, occasionally fine business partners. In fact, I often suspect that women are smarter than men—smart enough to know that it's best to hide that fact from our easily shattered self-esteem. But when it comes to emotions, all that wisdom goes straight to hell. They whine, they weep, they cajole, they pout. When that happens, I become exasperated and walk away I'm not the comforting type. Nor the type who's easily moved or manipulated. So I'm asking you, what is Lady Breanna like? Particularly now, when she's under duress?”

  “She's a remarkable young woman,” Damen replied honestly. “She's been through a lot, particular­ly these past few months. Finding out what her father was capable of, weathering the scandal that followed his arrest—she's been astonishingly strong. I don't think you have to worry about her weeping or swooning. She's not inclined to do either.”