The Silver Coin

  “Good.” That determined, Royce rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “I'll ride to Kent with you, attempt to make some sense out of this—at least enough to keep your wife and Lady Breanna safe while we fig­ure out who this killer is and when he's going to strike.” “How long can you stay?”

  “Just overnight. I've got to get back here by tomor­row, tie up some loose ends. I promised Edmund I'd spend Christmas with him and his family. Then, if necessary, I'll return to Lady Breanna's estate. I take it you're staying there rather than here in Town?”

  “Yes.” A terse nod. “Christmas. I'd almost forgotten about it.” Damen frowned, speaking half to himself. “Breanna wants to cancel her party.”

  “What party?”

  “She and Anastasia both just turned twenty-one. They planned a party to celebrate that and the holi­days.”

  Royce grew thoughtful. “Canceling it might be un­wise.” “Why?”

  “Let me read that note. Then I'll answer your ques­tion.” Royce inclined his head. “When is this party scheduled to be held?”

  “On the twenty-eighth and the twenty-ninth of De­cember. But now, with Jamie Knox being murdered—”

  “As I said, let me read the note. After that, we'll make a decision about the party.” Royce gestured to­ward the door. “Go home to your wife. I'll fill Hibbert in, then follow in my own carriage.”

  “Fine.” Damen stood as well, giving Royce a grate­ful look. “Thank you. I'm in your debt.”

  “Not yet you're not. If we figure out who this killer is, stop him from hurting anyone else— then you'll be in my debt.”

  7

  The guard held up a commanding hand.

  Royce reined his horses to a stop, waiting patiently at the gates of Medford Manor for the expected inter­rogation.

  Two uniformed sentries approached his phaeton slowly, carefully, each of them keeping one hand in­side his pocket, doubtless clutching his pistol lest it be needed. The first guard held up a lantern, using its light to better make out Royce's features in the grow­ing darkness of the evening.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he inquired, reaching Royce and staring him down with a hard, no-nonsense look.

  Who could blame him, given that one of his men had been killed that very day?

  “My name is Royce Chadwick. The Marquess of Sheldrake is expecting me.”

  The guard studied Royce for another moment-presumably matching his physical appearance to the description Damen had provided. Clearly satisfied with what he saw, he relaxed. “Yes, my lord, he is. Go right through.” He gestured for the other guard to open the gates.

  A minute later, the gates made a grating sound, and swung wide to admit Royce's phaeton.

  Nodding politely, Royce led his horses on, guiding them down the long drive leading to the manor. He took the opportunity to look around, taking in as much of the scenery as twilight would permit.

  He could make out the construction site, a broad area that would soon house what appeared to be an imposing dwelling. That would be Damen's new home, Royce reflected. Hibbert had reported to him that the marquess planned to move to his wife's fami­ly estate once their new manor had been completed. Evidently, the construction was corning along nicely. But it was far from finished.

  Which meant that workmen would be coming and going from the grounds at an alarming rate. And that, in turn, meant the assassin could more easily find his way onto the estate, lose himself in a crowd of people.

  The most logical thing for Royce to do was to shut down the construction—at least for now. On the other hand, he might be able to use that accessibility to Medford Manor to his advantage. He wasn't sure yet. But he wasn't ready to close any doors—not until he had every shred of information in his possession and the time to evaluate it.

  Rounding the drive, Royce brought his phaeton to a stop, and swung down to his feet. He'd reviewed the details of the case with Hibbert before leaving Lon­don. Then, he'd mulled them over during his two-hour ride to Kent. The package Lady Breanna had received, the too-coincidental murder of the guard— the whole situation had a very unpleasant taste to it.

  Instinct told Royce that Damen's worries were well-founded. The question was, could they find this animal, stop him in time?

  Mounting the front steps, he knocked.

  A distinguished older man with spectacles answered the door, and a look of consummate relief swept across his face as he scrutinized their visitor, determined who he was. “Lord Royce,” he stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Come in.” The butler stepped aside. “My name is Wells. Lord Sheldrake's been expecting you. Accord­ing to him ... that is, I'm praying... truthfully, we're all praying that you can help keep Miss Breanna and Miss Stacie safe.” Wells cleared his throat, abruptly re­membering his place—and his composure. “ Your room is already made up. I'll have a footman carry in your bags.” He extended his hand to take Royce 's topcoat.

  “Thank you.” Royce shrugged out of the thick wool coat, handing it over. He assessed the butler quickly although little insight was needed to see that this man was loyal to the core, and deeply attached to the two grown women he still considered to be his young charges.

  That would be an asset and a liability.

  It meant that Wells could be counted upon for any and every form of assistance. He could also, however, be counted upon to let his feelings interfere with his objectivity.

  And that could be a problem.

  Then again, Damen suffered from the same affli c tion. He was so bloody in love with his wife, not to mention doubly protective of her now that she was pregnant, that it was dubious whether or not he could be counted upon to act with his customary pragma­tism.

  Which left the women.

  Royce frowned. Lord help him if Damen's wife wasn't every bit as bold and strong-willed as he'd de­scribed her. And as for Lady Breanna, well, she'd better be more than remarkable. She'd better have the inter­nal strength of a soldier about to march into battle.

  “I'll show you to the sitting room,” Wells was say­ing. “The family is gathered there. Lord Sheldrake thought you'd want to speak with them before you freshened up for dinner.”

  “He's right. I would.”

  Royce followed Wells down the hall, glancing about as he did.

  Medford Manor was spacious and warm, an ap­pealing combination of aged beauty and modern freshness. Twin staircases with curving, mahogany banisters, divided by a rich Oriental carpet, were ac­cented with low tables filled with vases of holly sprigs and snowdrops and, hanging on the walls, in­tricate needlepoints depicting sunsets, children play­ing in the snow, and colorful gardens.

  Interesting. It was as if several generations had had a hand in fashioning this place, each adding its own strokes to the canvas, yet together creating a painting that blended together as naturally as dawn and day.

  He was growing more and more curious about the cousins he was about to meet. He knew little about them, other than the fact that they strongly resembled each other, and that Anastasia had been raised in the States—Philadelphia, if he correctly recalled. She must be extraordinary for Damen to have fallen so hard, so fast, not to mention brilliant for him to have entered into a business partnership with her—a part­nership that, according to Damen, had been forged on his respect for Anastasia's business acumen rather than his personal feelings for her.

  Where did Lady Breanna fit into all this? Royce mused. She hadn't been raised in America. She'd been raised right here, by a father who'd effectively sealed her off from the world, relegated her to the manor while he tried to manipulate her future in order to cling to his own. A father who'd turned out to be, not only a felon and a scoundrel, but a cold-hearted bas­tard who'd resort to murder to achieve his ends.

  What effect had that had on her?

  He was about to find out.

  “Lord Royce has arrived,” Wells announced in the sitting room doorway.

  All three of the room's occupants rose.

/>   “Royce, come in.” Damen moved forward, his arm wrapped around the waist of a beautiful young woman with delicate features, jade green eyes, and auburn hair that tumbled, unbound, about her shoul­ders. “This is my wife, Anastasia.”

  Boldly, Anastasia Lockewood appraised Royce as he approached, kissed her hand.

  “Lady Sheldrake. It's a pleasure.”

  “I'm happy to .meet you, my lord,” she replied, still studying his face. “I didn't even know of your exis­tence until today. .But, based on Damen's description of the investigations you conduct for him, I have the feeling you helped fit together the pieces to a very ugly puzzle several months ago that ended up saving my life. For that, I thank you.”

  Royce inclined his head with interest. A straightfor­ward, candid woman—now that was refreshing.

  “You're welcome,” he responded with a hint of a smile. “But I'm afraid I can't take credit for the inves­tigation you're describing. I was in India when Damen sought me out. My associate is the one who did the probing.”

  Damen's wife smiled, an open, infectious grin. “Then please thank him for me. As for you—your as­sociate's skill speaks just as highly of you. After all, you chose him. And only the cleverest of businessmen are shrewd enough to ally themselves with equally clever partners. Just look at Damen.”

  A chuckle. “I see what you mean.” Royce's gaze shifted, as a flash of color and movement from beside the settee caught his eye, drew his attention to the room's final occupant.

  He found himself gazing at a woman who ap­peared, at first glance, to be a very close replica of Anas t asia .

  At second glance, he realized she was no replica, but an original.

  Breanna Colby was a portrait come to life, all flaw­less lines and subtle hues—and yet, decidedly inac­cessible.

  She was nothing short of exquisite—a graceful, del­icate, punch-in-the-gut beauty. True, her features were seemingly identical to her cousin's. Still, they were somehow different. Or perhaps it was the personality he could sense hovering behind the vivid coloring and fine features that made it so.

  To begin with, Breanna's eyes, the same jade green as Anastasia's, were softer, more remote than her cousin's—as if she were guarding a part of herself she was reluctant to share, reserving judgment while let­ting you know you had to earn the right to be allowed in. Her expression was thoughtful, speculative, but carefully schooled. And her hair, that same glorious auburn color as Anastasia's, was upswept, perfectly arranged atop her head without a single str and mussed or out of place. She was lovely, proper, self-contained—a lady through and through.

  Abruptly, Royce knew why Damen had said Brean­na would never weep or swoon. This was a woman who kept her emotions in check. Her feelings, her thoughts, certainly her fears, would remain private, known only to her and to the select few she chose to trust.

  He could even guess why. She'd survived George Colby. But he'd left his mark—in ways others could only imagine.

  Yes, there was more to Lady Breanna than met the eye. Much more. Royce was willing to bet his life on it.

  Damen cleared his throat, alerting Royce to the fact that he'd been staring. “Royce, may I present Lady Breanna Colby. Breanna—Lord Royce Chadwick.”

  “Lady Breanna.” Royce said politely, bowing at the waist, then walking over to kiss her hand.

  “Welcome to Medford Manor, my lord.” Breanna's tone was measured, her voice soft, lilting. Whereas Anastasia's crisp English inflections had been muted by years in America, Breanna's speech was utterly precise, the epitome of refinement.

  Royce's lips grazed her knuckles. “Your home is lovely.”

  “Thank you. Not only for the compliment, but for your kind intentions.” She hesitated, then added, “I appreciate your riding out here so late in the day Damen seems to think you can help us.”

  Royce straightened, one brow arching in question. “But you don't?”

  She rubbed the folds of her lavender day dress be­tween her fingers. “I'm not certain. It's not that I don't trust Damen's instincts. I do. It's just that—”

  “It's just that I'm a total stranger and you're un­comfortable with me.”

  Surprise flashed in her pale green eyes, and she gave a self-conscious nod. “Exactly.”

  “I understand your reluctance. But, I assure you, I know what I'm doing. How I do it, now that's a differ­ent story. You might not care for my methods, espe­cially since they can get a bit risky. What I suggest is this: let me take a look at the package and note you re­ceived, ask you a few questions. After dinner, we'll discuss my strategy. If you don't care for it, I'll leave.”

  “And we'll be right back where we started,” Damen put in tersely.

  Breanna gave a resigned sigh. “That's certainly true. Very well, my lord. We'll try it your way.” She crossed over, retrieved a box from the end table, and brought it to Royce, shuddering with distaste as she handed it to him. “This is what he sent.”

  Royce opened the box, carefully examining each doll before replacing them, turning his attention to the note.

  He read it through three times before lifting his head, meeting Breanna's anxious stare.

  “Sit down,” he advised, gesturing toward the set­tee. “I want to hear everything you remember about what happened the night your father was arrested. Beginning after Bow Street led him away.”

  Breanna inclined her head, frowning a bit. “Aren't you going to react to the dolls and the note?”

  “Yes. After I've gotten all the facts. Now have a seat and tell me about your confrontation with this assas­sin.” Royce glanced up, speaking to Anastasia and Damen as Breanna settled herself on the settee. “I want to hear the entire story from Lady Breanna's point of view. No interruptions. Once I've finished, I'll ask each of you if you remember anything different from or in addition to what she's said.”

  “In other words, keep quiet,” Anastasia supplied.

  Royce perched on the arm of the settee, folding his arms across his chest and turning his full attention to Lady Breanna. “Go ahead.”

  She wet her lips, lowering her lashes and staring at the rug as she mentally traveled back to the night in question. “The Bow Street runners led Father off. Damen, Stacie, and I stayed behind on the docks for a moment. I suppose we needed reality to sink in, to convince ourselves that the whole nightmare was truly over. I was weak-kneed with relief that Stacie was safe. She'd taken a terrible risk dragging that con­fession out of my father. Finally, we started to leave. Stacie walked first. Damen and I were right behind her. I got the oddest feeling...” She made a vague gesture with her hand. “I can't explain it. I just sensed a pair of eyes boring into me. I whirled around—and reached for the pistol I'd been carrying. That's when I sew him.”

  “You saw him,” Royce repeated. “How clearly?”

  “Not clearly at all. He was some distance away. It was late at night, and the fog was fairly thick. What I saw was the silhouette of a man, and the glint of his pistol. I saw him raise the pistol, aim in Stacie's direc­tion. I knew exactly who he was, and what he intend­ed to do. I had to stop him. So I shot. I scarcely remember that moment. All I remember is knowing I had to do something or he'd kill Stacie. There wasn't time to call out and warn her. There was only time to act. So I did.” “Then what happened?”

  “He screamed. His pistol struck the ground. I heard it. He clutched at his hand. Then, he bent, groped for his gun. That was when Damen drew his own weapon. The killer turned, stumbled away. After that, the night literally swallowed him up.”

  “He never said anything? Never shouted anything at you?”

  “No. I never heard his voice—other than the scream of pain.”

  “And his appearance? What can you remember about that?”

  “Only that he was tall. And somewhat lean, in terms of his build. I couldn't make out his features, or even his hair color.”

  Royce stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And the only one who knew this killer's identity was John Cun?
?nings. Unless...” A penetrating look. “You're sure your father couldn't shed any light on this? I under­stand that visiting him in Newgate would be unpleas­ant for you, but...”

  To Royce's surprise, Breanna's chin came up, and she negated his statement with an adamant shake of her head. “No, my lord, you don't understand. And I don't mean how unpleasant it would be to brave Newgate. I mean how unthinkable it would be to face Father. However, that's irrelevant. Because I'd do pre­cisely that—anguish or not—if I thought it would help. But it wouldn't. Father can't tell us anything. I know that firsthand. You see, Wells and I were in the pub when my father met with Mr. Cunnings, instruct­ed him to hire that killer.”

  “Were you?” Royce could feel his interest peak “You overheard their conversation?”

  “Every word. My father pressed Cunnings about meeting this associate of his. Cunnings refused. He insisted on being the sole contact. He said his associate preferred it that way. No name was ever mentioned Whoever this gunman is, only Cunnings knew his identity. Which is why Mr. Cunnings himself is now dead.”

  “The assassin had to eliminate him. I agree.” Royce's fingers stilled against his jaw. “Let's get back to this meeting between your father and Cunnings-the one you overheard. Tell me what else Cunnings said, besides refusing to divulge the killer's name. What other specifics about him did he mention?”

  Breanna knotted her hands in her lap. “Cunnings said he'd known him for quite some time. He implied that the man's accomplishments were impressive Cunnings assured Father that no matter where Stacie was hiding, his associate would find her and kill he. He described him as an expert tracker and an even better shot. Oh—and he added that he was expensive Very expensive. The implication was that he was worth it, that he was accomplished in his line of work Does that answer your question, my lord?”

  “As a matter of fact, it does.” Royce glanced down at the note he still held, reread its message. Then, he rose, lowering the piece of paper and leveling a grave stare at Breanna. “This man is dead serious about his threats, my lady. You were right to be afraid.”