The Silver Coin

by Andrea Kane

  “Indeed,” Wells agreed with a sniff. “There could be no other explanation for it”

  “A sentry.” Stacie rolled her eyes at the two men. “I see. And as her sentry, Royce took her for a half-hour walk on a night that's so cold no one else would dare venture out and he'd therefore be assured of complete privacy.”

  “No,” Damen countered. “Knowing Royce, he probably took her for a walk to try to keep her mind off her anxiety. Breanna's coping with an enormous emotional burden. Not only is she grappling with her own fears, she's terrified for you and the babe.”

  “That's true.” A pained expression crossed Wells's lined face. “Miss Breanna feels responsible—unfound­ed though her guilt might be—for jeopardizing you all. She feels that if she'd never taken that shot—”

  “I'd be dead right now,” Stacie stated flatly. “Brean­na saved my life. I've told her over and over again that she's not responsible for the threats of a madman. But she won't be appeased until he's found and stopped. Nevertheless...” Stacie broke off, still studying Breanna pensively. “None of this has any bearing on what's happening here tonight. After all, worry wouldn't bring a glow to Breanna's cheeks, nor would her overly acute sense of responsibility cause tendrils of her hair to topple.”

  Wells frowned, puzzled. He polished his spectacles, then shoved them back on, peering worriedly toward Breanna. “Miss Breanna's hair looks fine to me.”

  “Fine? Wells, you know Breanna. Her hair is never fine. It's perfect. Except now. Even from this distance, I can distinctly see a few curls sagging at her nape.” Stacie arched a brow, first at Wells, then at Damen. “What shall we attribute it to?” She paused for effect, then snapped her fingers in mock deduction. “I know—the wind!”

  Damen's lips twitched, as much at Wells's vigilant lower as at Stacie's observation. “You made your point. Fine, maybe there is something going on between those two. But whatever it is, you're not going to find out about it until you've eaten and drunk very drop of that.” He gestured toward her plate and glass.

  “Whatever you say, my lord.” She gave him a beatific smile and returned to her refreshment. “Stop glaring, Wells,” she berated gently, sipping at her punch. “Breanna's a grown woman. She's entitled to share a chaste embrace with an enigmatic man:—especially when that man is one we've entrusted to safeguard her life. Besides, aren't you the one who wanted Breanna to find someone special?” “I didn't have a reckless womanizer in mind.” “If Royce is a womanizer, he's abandoned that trait tonight.” Stacie took a small bite of her lemon tart. “He hasn't so much as danced with another woman . Only Breanna. As for reckless ...” Another bite. “I wouldn't describe personal, fun-time guard service as reckless behavior, would you?” She shot Wells a look “I know you worry about Breanna. But give Royce a chance. He might surprise you.” With that, she pol­ished off her tart, dabbing at her mouth with a nap­kin.

  “Ah, word about your condition just reached Breanna,” Damen noted, watching Lady Dutton insert her plump figure between Breanna and Royce, then begin chatting excitedly. “Let's see, Breanna now knows you're with child, which she already knew, and she's about to find out that you're dizzy.”

  As if on cue, Breanna's head came up, and she whipped about to face Stacie.

  Her cousin gestured to her that she was fine, that she was eating, and that Breanna could safely go about her business.

  Visibly relieved, Breanna concurred, turning back to Lady Dutton— and deliberately ignoring the ques­tioning look that flitted across Stacie's face as she glanced meaningfully from Breanna to Royce and back again.

  “I'll have to get my answers later,” Stacie concluded with a sigh. “Breanna's too private to confide in me during the ball.” Shelving her curiosity, Stacie watched Lady Dutton move on to the next group to share her news. “I'm so glad we're providing the evening entertainment,” she muttered. “My pregnan­cy is the topic of conversation among our guests.”

  “That's not necessarily bad,” Damen replied, cradling her gloved hand between his. “At least they're discussing something other than the murders Bow Street is investigating. That topic has dominated the party thus far, and dampened the mood of the ball. Good news must feel like a welcome balm to everyone.”

  “The situation is terrifying,” Stacie murmured, placing her empty glass and plate on the tray of a passing footman. “This is the third murder in a fort­night. Certainly Bow Street can't still suspect the men's wives. Three wives—three young wives scarce­ly older than I am—capable of murdering their hus­bands? I doubt that's possible.”

  “Yet all three women have disappeared,” Wells re­minded her.

  “Maybe they were kidnapped,” Stacie suggested. “Possibly.” Damen pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then again, if they were kidnapped, where are the

  ransom notes? And who would the kidnapper expect to extort money from if the husbands in question are all dead?”

  The assassin brushed by in time to hear Sheldrake's last comment, and a hint of a smile touched his lips at he knowledge that he was responsible for Sheldrake's bafflement and for the fear pervading the ton.

  Good, he thought, heading down the hall, away from the ball and toward the servants' quarters. The marquess was as baffled as the detectives, and he was an exceedingly intelligent man, far smarter than the Bow Street runners. So, if he couldn't figure out the mystery of those noblemen's deaths, neither would hey.

  Then again, Sheldrake wouldn't be contemplating the London murders for long. The deaths of three strangers would soon pale in comparison to his own loss. In a matter of days, maybe weeks, the poor man would have his own, very personal, grief to deal with.

  Pity Sheldrake had to be involved. Ah well. He'd married the chit and made things worse by falling in love with her and now filling her with his child. He'd lave to suffer the consequences. He'd have to nurse a broken heart and re-acquaint himself with the life of a bachelor.

  Because Anastasia Lockewood would die. The babe she was carrying would die.

  And then that bitch of a cousin of hers would die.

  The assassin paused when he reached the flight of stairs at the darkened rear of the house. It was deserted.

  Excellent.

  He took the steps purposefully, but not so as to call attention to himself—just in case anyone was watching.

  He rounded the second-floor landing, and headed directly for Lady Breanna's bedchamber, still thinking about the snatches of conversation he'd overheard be­tween Sheldrake and his wife.

  It wasn't a shock that, with this third murder, the ton —and Bow Street itself—would begin to doubt the merit of their original theory that the wives of the murdered noblemen were responsible. The killings were adding up. Only a dolt would believe that these women had all killed their husbands. Instead, Bow Street would doubtless assume that the three women were being held for ransom.

  Which was another reason he'd abandoned his plan to use Knox's death to his advantage—a decision he'd made even before discovering the victim had only sons. Knox was a working-class fellow, a security guard with a modest income. If a woman in his family were to suddenly disappear like the noblemen's young wives, it would contradict the notion that ran­som was involved. Not to mention, Knox's murder had taken place too close to Medford Manor. And if his death were linked with the others, someone might get suspicious and tie the crimes to the threats Lady Breanna had received

  Someone like Royce Chadwick.

  The assassin felt a warning tremor ripple through him.

  Seeing Chadwick here had been an unexpected sur­prise—and not a welcome one. The man was clever— far brighter than everyone at Bow Street. He was also a rebel, certainly not the type to attend holiday gatherings. So why was he here?

  At first, he'd attributed Chadwick's attendance to his friendship with Sheldrake, not to mention the fact that he was still poking around the ton to see if he could uncover information on Ryder's bastard daughter. Observations of Chadwick throughout the day seem
ed to support that theory. Sticking close by him during the day's events—the morning ride, the mid-day meal, the afternoon card games—and listening closely to what he discussed had yielded no cause for alarm. Chadwick's topics of conversation were predictable: business ventures, the likely contenders at Newmarket this spring, the trip he'd taken to India. Interdispersed with the discussions were frank inquiries of the men he had yet to formally question—inquiries about whether or not they knew anyone who'd employed a chamber maid matching Ryder's paramour's description.

  It seemed Chadwick's intentions were innocuous, at least so far as he was concerned.

  But tonight, watching the way he hovered around Breanna Colby...

  Could Chadwick be here for another reason?

  Could he be here to keep an eye out for him—the killer threatening Anastasia and Breanna's lives?

  No, he silently concluded, reaching Lady Breanna's room. Royce Chadwick hunted down missing people; he didn't investigate murders. Besides, after seeing the heated way he stared at Lady Breanna at tonight's ball, it was obvious that if Chadwick had any other motive for being here, it was to get Lady Breanna into his bed.

  As for the lady in question, she seemed interested enough. Maybe that explained her damnably good spirits.

  The familiar anger knotted his gut.

  He loathed her for her laughter, for her vitality, for her well-being. He loathed her for still being alive. But that wouldn't last long.

  He would kill her now if his hatred had its way. For­tunately, his brilliant mind and iron discipline kept him in check. The stage hadn't been properly set. Unfin­ished business remained—namely, Anastasia Lockewood. More important, Breanna hadn't suffered nearly enough. Not nearly enough. Tonight had demonstrated that. She was so infernally happy— greeting her guests, drinking her punch, strolling out­side with Chadwick.

  All that gaiety would vanish the instant she walked into her room tonight.

  With that, he focused on the business at hand.

  Pausing outside her bedchamber door, he scanned the hallway. Deserted. The guests were at the ball. Ladies Breanna and Anastasia were otherwise occu­pied. The guards were safeguarding the estate from intruders.

  But he had no need to intrude.

  On that ironic thought, he turned the door handle and crossed the threshold. Shutting the door behind him, he reached swiftly into his pocket to extract his little surprises.

  The room carried her scent—sweet, floral—the lin­gering fragrance of her customary perfume.

  He could picture her, cheeks flushed with excite­ment as she'd readied herself for her ball. Lighthearted, enthused.

  She'd be neither when she went to bed tonight.

  If she went to bed. She wouldn't be able to sleep. She'd feel violated, numb with shock, quaking with terror.

  The image was exhilarating.

  He crossed over to her nightstand, having decided it was the best place to leave his tokens. Not as intimate as the dressing table, perhaps, but far closer to the bed, and more visible from the doorway. Illuminated by a single lamp, his gifts would render their full impact the moment she walked in. They would make her feel all the more vulnerable—draped across her nightstand, just brushing her bedcovers.

  With a bitter smile, he went to work, arranging the reminders just so.

  Five minutes later, he let himself out of Lady Breanna's bedchamber and retraced his steps to the ball.

  He was just about to enter the ballroom when he heard the argument.

  Not an argument exactly, but a heated debate. Quiet but intense. Fervent enough to capture one's attention—if one was listening. And he was listening, especially given the repeated use of the name “Lord Royce.”

  The dispute was taking place in the front hallway. And the men involved were Wells, the efficient Colby butler, and Hibbert, Royce Chadwick's trusted manservant.

  Whatever this discussion pertained to, it was worth eavesdropping.

  He meandered toward the entranceway, threading his way through the tangle of guests moving in the opposite direction. Alone, he hovered near the stair-case, an inconspicuous guest enjoying a bit of solitary time at a crowded party. Then, in one thoroughly unobtrusive motion, he slipped into an alcove behind he staircase. He pressed close to the wall so as to see but not be seen.

  “I run this household,” Wells was stating flatly. “When a message arrives, I deliver it.”

  “And J work for Lord Royce,” Hibbert retaliated icily. “When a message arrives addressed to him, I de­liver it.”

  “Deliver it, or read it?”

  “Both.”

  The two servants glowered silently at each other, each standing his ground, yet each managing to retain the requisite amount of composure.

  “I'll take full responsibility for my actions,” Hibbert pronounced with arrogant certainty. “I—and only I— know this is what my employer expects of me. If you're so disturbed by my conduct, I suggest you go and summon him. But in the meantime, I intend to see that letter.”

  “As you wish.” Wells's jaw was clenched so tight it looked as if it might snap. He slapped the missive into Hibbert's hand and walked around him. “I'll summon Lord Royce at once.”

  “Fine.” A rustle of paper as Hibbert slit open the letter. “I respect your principles. I'm equally princi­pled—and equally loyal to my employer. As you'll soon find out.”

  “We shall see.” Wells marched by, heading directly to the ballroom, presumably weaving his way over to the French doors.

  Two or three minutes passed.

  Abruptly, Royce Chadwick emerged, preceding Wells, and crossing directly over to where Hibbert stood, openly reading the contents of the letter.

  “What is it?” he asked his manservant quietly.

  “One of your avenues paid off.” Hibbert turned to face his employer, his tone no lower than normal.

  Clearly, whatever was in that missive was not of a confidential nature.

  “Which one? The list of noblemen I gave you to follow up on, or the list of wealthy matrons who help but abandoned women?”

  “The latter. It's Lady Barton, the seventy-year-old matron you suggested contacting in Berkshire. She's been abroad, and only just returned. One of our men spoke with her. She remembers Glynnis Martin, went on and on about how pretty she was, how desolate she was left alone with her babe. It seems Lady Barton sent her to an elderly dowager's home—a Dowager Duchess...” Hibbert glanced at the message, “of Pearson.”

  “And the babe?”

  “She went with her mother. Glynnis was hired as a paid companion. As far as Lady Barton knows, she and her daughter are still living at Pearson Manor in Berkshire.”

  “Excellent.” Chadwick was triumphant. “This party will be over tomorrow night. I'll ride to the duchess's home straight from here. With any luck, I'll have news of Ryder's daughter for him by the first of the year.”

  “Fine work, my lord.”

  “Thanks to Lady Barton.” Chadwick clapped Hib­bert on the shoulder. “Come. This calls for a drink.”

  “In the ballroom?” -

  “Of course. Where else?” Chadwick paused to glance at Wells, who was looming behind them like a vigilant sentry, far enough away to ensure their priva­cy, but nearby enough to assert his position in the household—and to clearly demonstrate his disap­proval over Hibbert's behavior.

  “It's all right, Wells,” Chadwick assured him. “I ap­preciate your diligence, but Hibbert was following my orders. He's instructed to read my mail. He also knew I was expecting this letter. So you can relax.”

  Wells nodded, although his back remained stiff. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “Would you care to join Hibbert and me for a drink?”

  The butler cleared his throat. “No, thank you.” He slanted a purposeful look at Hibbert. “I wouldn't feel right.”

  Chadwick shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He gestured toward the ballroom. “Let's go, Hibbert.”

  Hastily, Wells interceded, takin
g an inadvertent step to block Hibbert's way. “My lord,” he addressed Chadwick respectfully. “It really isn't appropriate—”

  “I realize that.” Chadwick was already in motion, his heels echoing as he bypassed Wells and headed to­ward the party. “But as you've probably heard about me, I rarely give a damn what's appropriate and what's not. I'm going into the ballroom for a drink. And Hibbert is joining me.” He paused, angled about to face Wells. “My invitation still stands. You can make it a threesome.”

  “I think not, my lord.”

  “Fine. Until later then.” Chadwick continued on his way.

  Hibbert gave a dry chuckle as he followed behind his employer, ignoring Wells's censuring glare. “I don't expect the guests to be any more pleased than Wells is.”

  “Probably not. They'll probably be outraged. But they won't be surprised.”

  “And our hosts?”

  Chadwick paused again, this time mere yards away from the stairway alcove. “Damen's known me for years. He won't even flinch. As for Anastasia, she might just applaud. And Breanna...” A poignant pause as Chadwick contemplated the woman he'd been squiring about all evening. “Breanna will be as gracious as she always is—no matter how taken aback she might be. And behind that proper veneer, she'll be smiling.”