The Silver Coin

by Andrea Kane

  “You don't believe that,” Stacie said quietly.

  Soberly, Damen met her gaze, deliberately masking the full extent of his worry, yet unable to demean what they had together by offering her a barefaced lie. “No. I don't.”

  A heartbeat of silence.

  Breanna drew herself up—a gesture that pro­claimed she was battling her own fears, and deter­mined to master them. “This is the first day I've ventured out since Mr. Marks delivered his report,” she admitted “I've been too alarmed and too preoc­cupied to go about my business. But when I awak­ened this morning, I made a decision. I refuse to become a prisoner in my own home— again . Father's gone. No one's going to do to me what he did.

  “Besides,” she continued, the edge in her tone soft­ening, giving way to anticipation—and more than a touch of eagerness. “I was impatient to come out here and see how much work had been done on your home.” She clasped Stacie's hands, hoping against hope that she and Damen might still salvage the plea­sure of watching their new home take shape—a sur­prise she'd relished giving them long before the threatening package arrived. “Let's not let this ruin your homecoming. Come. I want to show you your new manor—or at least the portion of it that's com­pleted.”

  “Of course.” Anastasia tossed Damen a beseeching look—one that spoke volumes. She was asking him to grant Breanna the measure of peace she needed—for the moment. There would be plenty of time to dwell on the horrid possibilities suggested by the threaten­ing package. But for now, it was time to savor the joys of being home. For all their sakes.

  “All right.” Damen's taut nod told her he under­stood, although he did pause long enough to scan the grounds with an unsettled eye. “But,” he added, un­able to totally dismiss the worry that still gnawed at him, “after that I want to inspect those dolls and read that note.”

  “Of course.” Breanna agreed at once, more grateful than she was unnerved. “Oh, and Damen? If you could convince Wells that your being here means there's another strong and able-bodied man to see to our safety, I'd be forever in your debt. That poor man has taken on the roles of guardian, overseer, and sen­try. I worry about his strength holding out.”

  “I'll talk to him the minute we get to the manor.” Damen's lips thinned into a tight, unyielding line. “As for you and Stacie, nothing and no one will get near you. You can count on that.” He cleared his throat, de­ferring this conversation for later. “Now, let's take a tour of our home.”

  He guided the two women forward, pausing only long enough to peer over his shoulder, his penetrating gaze raking the grounds in one more exhaustive sweep.

  Other than the crew of workmen toiling in their im­mediate vicinity, everything seemed quiet. Safe, he thought. At least for now.

  5

  So this is Lady Breanna's bedchamber .

  He smiled darkly, hovering near the doorway and surveying the feminine decor.

  Immaculate mahogany furniture . Canopied bed . Pristine bedcovers. A n array of tiny porcelain figures decorating the night-stand, dresser, and fireplace man­tel.

  Orderly, delicate, and intact. Just like its owner.

  She wouldn't stay intact for long.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass, and smiled at the bizarre image he made. Workman's clothes. They hardly suited him. Still, the disguise had gained him entry to the estate. He'd known today would be the day. The minute he heard the gossip in London—that the Marquess of Shel­drake had returned from his wedding trip—he knew she'd finally be leaving her sanctuary today. If only to show the partially finished manor to the newly married couple.

  She'd surprised him by leaving the house early” even before her cousin arrived. Evidently, she'd grown tired of being cooped up. Or perhaps it was that more than a week without threats had made her bold. Either way, she'd strolled across the grounds, venturing over to the construction site.

  Giving him the perfect opportunity to lie in wait.

  And then, when Anastasia and her new husband arrived, to do what he'd come here to do.

  The ladder he'd taken from the shed had proved most useful. He'd propped it against the rear of the house—the side facing the wooded section of proper­ty—and climbed into a hall window on the second floor.

  From there, he'd made his way to Breanna's room.

  He rubbed his gloved palms together, moving slowly from the mantel to the dressing table. Idly, he fingered first one object, then another. He had to choose wisely. Something personal. Yet nothing she'd miss. Also, something intimate.

  He lifted the silver-handled brush, then changed his mind. No. She'd notice that immediately.

  The porcelain figures.

  He prowled about the chamber, studying the dozens of tiny glass statues, wondering which would be least missed.

  None of them fit that bill.

  The lady was a collector. She obviously took great pride in her treasures. If any one of them disappeared, she'd realize it was gone.

  No. It had to be something else.

  He glanced into the modest sitting room beyond.

  A sketchpad sat neatly on the desk, beside which lay a quill, some pencils, and a pile of papers.

  She was a good artist, he mused, flipping through the book. The sketches were all of rooms, all in differ­ent stages of completion. A bedchamber, with a large, four-poster bed. An impressive walnut library whose shelves were lined with books. A sitting room. A nurs­ery. Each page contained notes on recommendations for carpets, drapes, paintings, and other personal touches, bearing in mind “Stacie's” favorite colors and textures.

  Obviously, these were Lady Breanna's ideas for the manor being built across the way.

  He shook his head, flipped the pad shut, and re­placed it. Instead, he reached for the loose pile of pa­pers alongside it.

  Ah. Other sketches, ones that were far less defined than the first set. Clearly, these were abstract doodlings, done during thoughtful moments, then torn away as extraneous. A bouquet of flowers. A ship sail­ing the ocean . Snow falling around a manor, blanket ­ ing the grounds in white.

  Lingering over the winter sketch, his eyes guttered triumphantly. The starkness. The long stretch of bare snow. Yes. This one would do quite nicely.

  He folded the sketch, slipped it into his pocket. Swiftly, he rearranged the contents of the desk so they looked undisturbed.

  Now for the intimate item.

  For this, he needed something that would make her feel truly invaded. Invaded and, once he'd added his personal touch, terrified.

  He didn't hesitate. Going over to the dresser, he eased open the drawers until he found what he sought.

  A chemise. White. Unadorned and untainted. Untainted—for now.

  He stuffed the undergarment beneath his coat, then mindfully shut every drawer.

  His job done, he slipped out of the bedchamber and retraced his steps: through the hall, out the window, down the ladder.

  He returned the ladder to the shed, where he gath­ered up some tools—tools he had no idea how to use but that seemed functional enough for one who was supposedly building a house. After all, he had to look the part of a workman, in the unlikely event someone stopped him.

  Keeping his step loose-limbed, he made his way through the wooded portion of the estate. Cap pulled low, he threw continuous sidelong glances to his right and left, ensuring he was alone.

  He was.

  This might be the last time he'd be able to enter the manor via this route, he reflected. Once his gifts had been delivered—clearly divulging his unwelcome visit—guards would doubtless be swarming the es­tate, posted on this section and every section, rather than just at the front gates as they were now. That dili­gent butler would see to it.

  Ah, well. He had other means of entry. More tradi­tional means.

  Means Lady Breanna herself had offered him.

  He'd just eased onto the main path and was about to head toward his concealed carriage, when he heard the voice.

  “Y
ou there! What are you doing?”

  He froze, his hand immediately slipping into his pocket, closing around his pistol.

  Slowly, he pivoted about, keeping his head down— low enough so his face remained hidden, but not so low that he couldn't see his potential adversary from beneath the cap's rim.

  One glance told him that this stocky, uniformed person was not a workman

  Fine. That meant he wouldn't know anyone on the crew—a fact that might just spare his life.

  Staring at the dirt, the assassin assumed the role his clothing proclaimed him to be. “I need a drink,” he muttered. “I've been layin' bricks all morning.”

  “A drink?” Rather than sympathetic, the man sounded assessing. “If s scarcely mid-day.”

  An adversary with a conscience, he thought, fingers gripping the pistol more tightly. Not a promising sign.

  Still, he'd make one last attempt.

  “Yer right, sir.” He took a half-step backward, ap­pearing to retreat even as he purposefully kept his quarry in view. “I'll get back to work, get me ale at quittin' time.”

  He waited for a reaction, impatiently hoping the man would continue along, make this easy on both of them.

  It didn't happen that way.

  The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don't look too eager to go back. In fact, you look more like a fleeing thief than a thirsty workman.” He stepped for­ward, his hand sliding to his pocket—and doubtless his weapon. “You're corning with me. We'll soon find out who you are.”

  “Now that's where you're wrong.” Jerking up his head, the assassin simultaneously whipped out his gun—flourishing it before the other man could even begin to grope for his. “You won't find out who I am. No one will.”

  The guard's eyes darted from the assassin's face to his pistol, widening in fear as he realized he'd fatally underestimated his opponent.

  A cry formed on his lips.

  It was never uttered.

  The single bullet penetrated his heart.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Rather than feel relieved, the assassin felt a surge of annoyance. How irritating he contemplated, eyeing the lifeless man crumpled at his feet. Now he'd have to dispose of the body and stage a reason for the shooting. After all, he couldn't have Bow Street dis­cover the guard here, thus introducing the possibility that the murder was tied to Medford Manor—and to the package Lady Breanna had received. That might cause them to reopen her case.

  No. He had to remove the body, place it elsewhere. Somewhere and in some manner that would provide an explanation as to why this man—one who hap­pened to be on his way to do a guard shift at Medford Manor—would be killed.

  But move it where? And why would someone kill this fellow in cold blood?

  The answer was as obvious as it was ironic, because the victim himself had provided it.

  A robbery.

  He'd make it appear that the killing was the result of a theft, that the guard had resisted the bandit's de­mands—and paid for it with his life.

  Swiftly, he glanced about, made sure he was still alone, undetected.

  He was.

  Further, the pounding and hammering, still rever­berating from the construction site, was deafening enough to ensure that the sound of his gunshot had been drowned out—a lucky break, since the pistol crack would normally have been audible from this distance.

  In conclusion, he had enough time to properly arrange things.

  That determined, he crouched down, rifled the guard's pockets. The first thing he did was to confis­cate the man's weapon. Just as expected, it was an average flintlock pistol. Unimpressive and unimag­inative.

  He spared it but one disparaging glance before shoving it into his own pocket, to be disposed of later. Then, he helped himself to the thin wad of pound notes and handful of shillings he found in the man's coat. He grimaced as he extracted a plain, well-worn timepiece. Cheap and tawdry. Ah, well. He'd bring it home and destroy it, so there would be nothing to trace back to him. True, it would be a nuisance. Still, it was a necessary nuisance, if he wanted to protect himself and convince the authorities that this murder had indeed been the result of a theft.

  He tore the guard's coat in two spots, mussed his shirt and waistcoat. Minutes later, he dragged the body onto the path. He trudged the exact route the guard would have taken to reach his post, hauling the body a respectable distance before hiding it in the bushes on the roadside halfway between the rear por­tion of the estate and the front gates.

  With a distasteful frown, he brushed dirt off his gloves, simultaneously retracing his steps until he reached the isolated spot where he'd left his carriage.

  How irksome to have wasted his talents in so de­meaning a fashion, he brooded, climbing into the driver's seat, taking up the reins, and guiding the horses onto the deserted path.

  On the other hand, the guard seemed of good stock. True, not a member of the gentry, but not a gutter rat either. He had morals, dignity. He'd probably raised his children that way.

  Perhaps he had a daughter. A daughter on the threshold of womanhood, maybe even a virgin. Now that might be worth looking into.

  The assassin's irritation vanished. He'd have to find out the dead fellow's name, get some information on his background, his family. Then, he'd decide whether or not this was worth pursuing.

  That line of thought reminded him that there was probably a message awaiting him from the Conti­nent—a message whose contents he was eager to read.

  He urged his horses into a trot.

  Jamie Knox's body was discovered two hours later.

  Known for his punctuality, Knox was missed within twenty minutes of the time when he'd been expected to report for duty at the front gates. And since he only lived a mile away and traveled to work by foot rather than by carriage, it seemed logical to send a groundskeeper to his cottage to find out what was keeping him.

  His puzzled wife assured the servant that Jamie had left for work at the usual time. That fact aroused everyone's suspicions—enough to check out Knox's walking route more thoroughly.

  It was one of the young gardeners who found him, coming upon Knox's lifeless body in a thicket of brush.

  Wild-eyed, the lad backed away from the corpse, taking off for the front gates at a dead run. In a voice trembling with tears and dread, he blurted the situa­tion out to the guards.

  Pandemonium broke loose.

  Breanna had just arranged for tea to be served in the sitting room, and Wells was congratulating Ana­stasia and Damen on becoming expectant parents, when the ruckus outside reached their ears.

  “What on earth is going on?” Breanna murmured, moving aside the sitting-room curtain and peering out. She started. “Something's wrong.”

  She dropped the curtain, her face pale as she turned to Wells.

  “I'll find out,” he said at once.

  “I'll go with you,” Damen added quickly. He jumped up from the settee and followed Wells into the hall.

  Anastasia and Breanna exchanged glances. Then, without a word, they left the sitting room, joining the men as they headed for the front door.

  The pounding started before Wells could reach his post.

  He hurried forward, flung open the door.

  “What is it?” he demanded, meeting the grave stare of Albert Mahoney, the head of the security staff he'd personally hired to safeguard the estate.

  “One of my guards,” Mahoney replied, not mincing any words. “Knox. He's been killed. Shot to death.”

  “Oh my God.” Breanna's hand flew to her mouth, “Here?”

  “No, ma'am. On his way to work.” Mahoney swal­lowed, turning to face Breanna with a tight, drawn ex­pression. “From what we can tell, he was robbed. His money's missing. So's his timepiece. And, of course, his gun. He must have been grabbed from behind, which would explain why he didn't have a chance to draw his weapon. My guess is he fought back. And the thief shot him.”

  “How close to our gates?” Anasta
sia demanded “Where exactly did you find him?”

  Seeing Anastasia for the first time, Mahoney blinked, his head whipping from Anastasia to Brean­na and back again.

  “Mr. Mahoney, this is my cousin—the Marchioness of Sheldrake,” Breanna managed, her voice shaky. “And her husband, Lord Sheldrake, head of the House of Lockewood. I'm sure you've heard of him.”

  “I have.” Mahoney gave a half bow. “An honor to meet you both. Sorry it has to be under such grim cir­cumstances.”

  “As are we,” Damen replied.

  “Speak freely, Mr. Mahoney,” Breanna advised him. “Both Lord and Lady Sheldrake are aware of why you've been hired. They know the entire story, since it affects them, too.”

  “Very well” The guard nodded his compliance, turned to address Anastasia. “We found Knox in the bushes off the path leading to the manor—around the curve, about halfway between the rear of the estate and the front gates.”

  “And you say he was shot—by a thief.” Damen frowned. “How do you know it was a thief?”

  The guard gave an uneasy cough. “We don't know anything, not for sure. No culprit's been found. Still, Knox's valuables were missing. So my guess is, it was a thief. Unless you have proof that says otherwise.”

  “I don't.” Damen raked a hand through his hair.

  “No attempt was made to break into Medford Manor,” Mahoney reminded him. “So I doubt it was the intruder we're guarding against.”

  “Unless the intruder never got a chance to break ii because Knox scared him off first. Or unless he had no intentions of breaking in, but was just scrutinizing the estate, watching Breanna's comings and goings There are a dozen 'unlesses.' But none of them is worth a damn. They're pure speculation—not enough to get Bow Street to ride out here, much less to take action.” Damen began pacing about the entranceway.

  Mahoney eyed him speculatively. “I've sent for a constable, sir. He'll take all the information and make arrangements for the body. If there's anything you think he should know—”

  “No.” Damen halted, gave a hard shake of his head, “There's nothing. Nothing but a bad feeling. And that's not evidence.”