Page 7 of The Silver Coin

  She flinched, but didn't look away. “I suspected as much.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Royce frowned, wishing he had a different evaluation to relay. He didn't normally ex­perience personal feelings when it came to the people involved in his investigations. But in this case ... hell, in this case, it was more than money or finding miss­ing relatives that was at stake—it was lives. What's more, he couldn't help but admire the way Lady Bre­anna was holding herself together, especially since he'd just confirmed her worst fear: that she was the ultimate target of a killer. Her inner strength was re­markable. Yet, at the same time, there was something about her—something disturbingly vulnerable—that made Royce wish there were a way to spare her this ordeal.

  But there wasn't.

  The only way to maximize her odds of survival was to be as honest as possible, to let her know exactly what she was up against. And then to offer his ser­vices to protect her.

  Roughly, he cleared his throat. “The only mistake you made was to assume the assassin would disap­pear from your life. He never would. His arrogance wouldn't let him. He believes he's superior, that no one can thwart him. You challenged that belief. Not only that, you had the audacity to maim him—who knows how badly. My guess is you put him out of commission for a while, which would explain his ab­sence these past few months. He was probably nurs­ing his wounded hand, recovering his marksmanship to its full potential. Now he's back. He's had months to harbor his rage and thirst for vengeance. He's de­termined to put you in your place, and punish you for what you did.” A swift glance at Anastasia. “After he finishes the job he took on but never completed.”

  Breanna made a soft sound of surprise. “Are you saying he wants to hurt Stacie, not simply as retalia­tion against me, but to prove he's the ultimate master at killing people?”

  A terse nod. “Not only killing people, but complet­ing his assignments. He wants to prove to you, to the world, to himself, that he never fails. The marchioness represents a failed execution—his first, if I had to ven­ture a guess. He won't leave a stone like that un­turned.”

  Damen swore. “So the reason he's back—”

  “Is to kill your wife and Lady Breanna. In that order.” Royce didn't mince words. “But first, he wants to torment Lady Breanna. To make her feel the maxi­mum amount of anguish and fear. That will restore the sense of power he feels he's lost.”

  Breanna came to her feet, and began moving rest­lessly about the room. “Tell me, my lord,” she said at last. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  Royce weighed his answer carefully. “In my opin­ion, the best way to hold him at bay, to keep him from striking while we figure out who he is, is to pointedly ignore him.''

  “I don't understand.”

  “He's expecting you to come apart at the seams. He can scarcely wait for that to happen, in fact. So you must deny him” the satisfaction. You have to retain your composure at all costs, to pretend you're un-bothered by his threats. You have to make him believe his actions aren't having the desired effect. That will force him to keep trying, which buys us more time. If he doesn't think he's successfully terrorized you—or terrorized you severely enough—he won't move on to the next step of his plan.”

  “Which is killing me,” Anastasia clarified. “Yes.”

  “There's only one problem with that, Royce,” Damen inserted. “While I'm relieved as hell that it will deter him from corning after my wife, won't it make things worse for Breanna? Won't it infuriate him if she remains so totally unruffled, intensify his obsession to try—and succeed—in terrorizing her?”

  Royce nodded. “Yes. He'll become bolder, more vio­lent in his demonstrations. He'll also become angrier, more frustrated. The positive consequence of that, is it might cause him to make a mistake.” A weighted pause. “The negative consequence is that it will make him that much more dangerous. Especially to Lady Breanna, who's the main target of his rage. I won't he to you. There's risk involved here—high risk. On the other hand, there's risk involved right now. A profes­sional assassin is determined to murder these two women. The only way to eliminate the danger is to eliminate the killer. Which is just what I'm trying to do. Whether you choose to do things my way—that decision is yours.”

  Silence descended, suffocated the room like a heavy blanket.

  Breanna was the first to speak.

  “You said you'd discuss your strategy with us after dinner. Does that mean you have a specific plan in mind?”

  “I have the first steps of a plan, yes.” “I'd like to hear it.”

  Royce pursed his lips, considering her request. As a rule, he never shared unfinished strategy with anyone other than Hibbert. But in this case, with both these women's lives at stake, didn't he owe them an expla­nation, if for no other reason than to let them make a decision as to whether or not they chose to put their safety in his hands?

  “All right,” he conceded. “But remember, I have yet to review everything we've just discussed. I also haven't heard Damen or your cousin's recollections of the night you shot the assassin. Further, I have some remaining questions. For example, we haven't even touched on the subject of the murdered guard. Some of the details of my plan won't be worked out until I'm satisfied I have all the information I need—and until you've decided whether you'll go along with my methods.”

  “Fair enough.” Breanna smoothed a hand over her hair. “Putting those issues aside, tell us your ideas. Your preliminary ideas,” she amended.

  Anastasia interrupted with an exasperated sound. “You both act as if we have all the time in the world. How do you know this madman will be patient while you sort out your plan? Shouldn't we be doing some­thing— now?”

  Royce flashed Anastasia a tolerant look, unsurprised by her reaction. Having sized up Damen's wife, he'd guessed she'd be the impatient one, the one who was unwilling to wait. “I don't think our time is unlimit­ed,” he clarified. “But no, we shouldn't be doing something. Not unless it's the right something. If Lady Breanna takes my advice, stays calm and outwardly un-bothered by what's happened thus far, it will buy us more than a week to close in on this man. I can almost guarantee it. The way his mind works—he won't kill until the stage is set precisely as he means it to be.”

  Breanna paced slowly about the settee as she con­sidered his words. Then, she raised her head, regard­ed him through wary, questioning eyes. “You keep talking about my behaving a certain way, acting a cer­tain part. You believe he's watching me.”

  At every possible opportunity, and without alert­ing the guards—yes.”

  She paled a bit, but didn't flinch. “And how do I show him I'm unaffected by his threats?”

  “You go on with your life—taking certain necessary but subtle precautions,” he added. “You've already hired additional guards. Hire more. After all, a man was murdered just outside your estate. It's only nat­ural for you to seek protection. Get Wells to situate guards all around the periphery of the estate. After that, go about your business.”

  This time it was Damen who reacted, tensing as if he'd been struck. “Go about her business?”

  Royce's nod was definitive. “In a manner of speak­ing. Of course, it's expected that Lady Breanna will be distressed by the guard's death. No one will be sur­prised if, until the highwayman who's allegedly re­sponsible is caught, she chooses not to leave the grounds. Also, it's assumed she'll want to spend time with her cousin, who's only just arrived home. The two women should stroll out to the construction site each day—with you at their sides, of course. After all, it is your house, too, that's being built. You'd obvious­ly want to see it take shape.”

  “You don't think we should call a halt to the con­struction?”

  “No. At least not yet. We don't want to take away every opportunity this assassin has to creep onto the grounds, and to blend in, undetected. The more rope we give him, the more likely he is to hang himself.”

  Damen started, swearing under his breath. “That's insane. Now you're tempti
ng fate to an absurd de­gree, Royce. I don't like it.”

  “I didn't expect you would,” Royce replied calmly. “But that's how I'd handle things— if I end up han­dling things.” He offered no further explanation. But it was clear that, unspoken or not, he'd demand ab­solute control if he were running this investigation, and that he wouldn't diverge from his rash tactics, de­spite Damen's objections. “In the meantime,” he con­tinued, “what my role would be over the next few days would be to check out as many local shops as possible, see if I can determine where those dolls were bought. And who bought them.” A frown. “Although I don't hold out much hope. At least not initially. The assassin probably bought them far enough away so they couldn't be easily traced.”

  “What about extending your search?” Anastasia de­manded.

  “I will. After the holidays. Christmas is next week. It makes no sense to travel to shops that will be closed. And speaking of Christmas,” Royce added, “the three of you should share a private family cele­bration.” He paused, turned to meet Breanna's gaze. “And after your private celebration, you must hold your party, as planned.”

  Breanna's eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath. “You want “the party to take place, in spite of the killer? Or maybe J should say because of him. You really do believe in taking risks, don't you, my lord?”

  “I believe in outwitting my enemies. That involves taking risks.”

  “Risks?” Damen bit out. “You're not only inviting the bastard onto Breanna's grounds, now you're invit­ing him into her house.”

  “Maybe.” Royce weighed that possibility carefully. “I suppose he could use the opportunity to slip by the guards and into the manor. But it's a hazardous step for him to take. He might sneak in to leave another of his gifts. But he wouldn't use the occasion to hurt Lady Breanna or your wife. Not with so many poten­tial witnesses around. Such extreme carelessness would, in his mind, be unacceptable, beneath his level of genius.” A defiant glint lit Royce's eyes. “Still, if he does slink into the ballroom or gaming rooms, I'll be ready for him.”

  “You will?” Breanna exclaimed, her delicate brows arching.

  “Um-hum.” Royce was as surprised as Breanna by the offer he'd just extended. He hated large house parties. They bored him. He hadn't attended one in years. An occasional ball or two during the Season, gambling at White's and at the more lucrative horse races—those were the extent of his social appear­ances. Yet, suddenly, he knew he'd made the right de­cision by opting to attend Breanna's party. It was the only way to keep things looking normal, while at the same time shielding Breanna and Anastasia from un­warranted danger.

  “You've got to hold that party,” he stated flatly. “Otherwise, the entire ton will be abuzz and the assas­sin will catch wind of the fact that he's unnerved you. Still, I'm not completely reckless. I realize you'll need protection. So consider that protection granted. I'll delay checking out the more remote shops about those dolls until after all your guests have left. In­stead, I'll ride to Medford Manor in time for the fes­tivities. If the assassin should show up—he'll be properly greeted.”

  “By you?”

  A corner of Royce's mouth lifted. “I know it's boorish to arrive at a holiday gatheri ng without an invitation. But, should you decide to retain my services that's exactly what I intend to do.”

  “I see.” Lady Breanna acknowledged his statement and for the first time Royce saw a trace of humor light her far-too-serious eyes, warming them to a rich shimmering jade. “Well, thank you for warning me”'

  He nodded slowly, feeling a keen surge of anticipation at the prospect of bringing down this ki ller and putting that luminous glow back in L ady Breanna 's eyes. “Y ou're welcome.”

  8

  Christmas morning—the perfect time to arrange a shipment.

  A n uncommon quiet settled over the L ondon docks, the normal rush of activity suspended as work­ers joi ned their families to attend mass. Hoists and w inches were silent, ships swayed lazily in the chilly waters with few crewmen aboard to attend them. Tiny snowflakes sprinkled about, covering the docks in a d i aphanous veil of white and adding to the un­natural sense of stillness hovering over the Thames.

  The assass in's footsteps echoed as he crossed the alley d i vid ing the cluster of warehouses. He glanced about, smiling as he took in the deserted buildings and path, contemplated all the sailors and workmen now gathered in Church.

  What a pity that they were ignorant of the brilliant strategy taking place just beyond.

  He 'd done a thorough job. Organized just the right crew to convey his cargo. Selected excellent merchandise. Readied the choice assortment without leaving a mark— any mark that might detract from their worth.

  And made all the arrangements right out in the open, while the residents of L ondon were deep in prayer.

  The instructions to his men hadn't taken long This was his regular crew—a crew that had worked for him in the past, and were far more afraid of him than they were of the authorities. Fear was a splendid mo­tivator. It ensured loyalty in a way that even money could not. Because if there was one thing stronger than greed, it was the drive for self-preservation.

  Everything was in place—at least for this crop of merchandise.

  What a lovely New Year's gift his cargo would make for three fortunate gentlemen.

  There would be another delivery sent on its heels. Plans were already in motion.

  Yes, the week ahead looked promising indeed. An­other target to hit, another shipment to begin arrange­ments for, and—most exhilarating of all—in four days a trip to Medford Manor.

  A trip he'd counted on making with the utmost dis­cretion. After all, there wasn't a prayer Lady Breanna would throw open her gates to hundreds of guests. Not now. Not after the dolls, the note, the guard. The party would, of course, be canceled.

  But it hadn't been.

  His anticipation faded, transformed to the anger that had been boiling inside him all week long, inten­sifying more with each passing day. He gritted his teeth, pondering the unexpected response—or rather, lack of response— L ady Breanna had displayed to last week's events. That maddening little bitch. Rather than quaking with fear, she'd spent her days strolling the grounds with her cousin and Sheldrake, toughing and chatting as if all was right with the world. De­spite the fact that that guard was killed at the portals of her home, she still hadn't panicked, hadn't can­celed her holiday gathering and looked herself in her house.

  There was only one explanation that made sense, he reminded himself, resorting to the same logic he'd used all week to bring himself under control.

  She hadn't made the connection.

  It was more than plausible. After all, he had done an exceptional job of making the murder look like the work of a highwayman. She'd obviously believed his ruse, dismissed the incident as being unrelated to the package she'd received. Yes. That's what had hap­pened. It made sense, not only in comprehending Lady Breanna's behavior, but Sheldrake's, as well. The marquess's mind was far too sharp not to have considered the possibility that the two incidents were related. And, given his romantic attachment to his wife, it was unthinkable he'd subject her to danger. Therefore, he must have examined the evidence and determined that whoever sent those dolls to Lady Breanna had not been the same person who killed the guard outside her estate.

  The assassin's lips curved, his good humor re­stored

  How delightful. He'd outwitted the entire family. More fools they.

  Actually, he was wasting his time feeling angry. Be­cause, disappointed though he was that Lady Breanna wasn't yet shivering with terror, he was equally pleased at what that meant for him. Now he could ac­complish this next part of his plan with great ease. He wouldn't have to sneak into Medford Manor, or resort to forcible entry. He'd simply stroll through the front door, right along with the other guests, choose the ap­propriate moment to leave the gift he'd brought for her ladyship.

  After discovering this memento, she wouldn't be lau
ghing.

  No, on the contrary, she'd be overcome with honor, gripped with fear. Any hopes she'd entertained that the dolls were an isolated incident, that the guard's death was a coincidence, that she was safe in her own home, would be dashed.

  He could hardly wait to see the terror in her eyes.

  A gust of wind struck him and he winced, fitting his gloves more snugly into place, then shoving his hands in his pockets. Damn, how he loathed the cold.

  Almost as much as he loathed her.

  It was fitting the two would come together; that she'd die during winter.

  A twig snapped and, reflexively, he turned up his collar, pulled the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face from view.

  An instant later, two people—a young man and an even younger woman—darted by, sparing him not even a second glance. Giggling, they darted into one of the warehouses, the heated look in the young man's eye revealing precisely what was going to occur inside that wooden shed. The lad paused, as­sessed the area—deserted but for the assassin's re­treating figure—and, having ensured their privacy, shut the warehouse door.

  The assassin kept walking, head lowered, feeling a pang of envy. Ah, the pleasures that young couple were about to enjoy.

  It was times like these he missed Maurelle. Just thinking of her made his pulse quicken in a way no other woman could begin to equal. Even after all these years.

  He could still remember the first time he saw her. It was a sultry summer evening more than fifteen years ago, and she'd been coming down the stairs of that dilapidated brothel right outside Paris. He'd been pacing back and forth just across the street— whether by chance or by fate—driven there by the internal demons that pumped through his blood. Restless, consumed by a lethal hunger only he un­derstood, he'd been eyeing the brothel, trying to de­cide if sex would ease the yearnings pounding inside him.

  That's when she'd emerged.

  She was easily the most striking woman he'd ever seen—thick black hair, huge dark eyes, offset by the palest of skin, all crowning the most lush, desirable body any woman could boast. The instant he glimpsed her, all his inner turmoil had converged, slamming forcibly from his brain to his loins.