by Andrea Kane
A slow nod. “I've never lost control so totally,” she murmured self-consciously, her hand fluttering over her hair. “You must have thought I'd gone insane when you walked in and saw me on the floor, weeping like that.”
“Stop it.” Royce caught her hand, tugged it away from her hair, and brought her palm to his lips. I thought we'd broken down that ludicrous wall of self-restraint by now.”
Her lashes lowered. “We have.”
“Breanna, do you trust me?”
Her head shot up. “You know I do—with my life.”
“Then trust me with your vulnerabilities, as well. I promise, I'll protect them.”
Breanna's eyes .misted. “You're such a wonderful man,” she whispered.
“I'm a man in love.” Royce kissed her tenderly. “And, by the way,” he added with a twinkle. “You have lost control so totally. You do so every night in my arms.”
She flushed, his teasing comment having the desired effect, melting away a bit of the past hour's horror. “You're right.”
“And have you ever regretted it?”
“Never.”
“T hen don't regret this either.” He enfolded her against him for one brief, intense moment. “I'll never let anyone hurt you,” he said in a raw voice. “Not physically or emotionally. You have my word.” He re leased her, guided her toward the door. “Now, let's get you out of here.”
Outside, the assassin watched the room go dark. Chadwick was taking her out of there, hiding her elsewhere. It didn't matter.
T here was no need to invade her bedchamber again .
He'd selected a different battlefield for her death.
25
Royce made Breanna drink an entire glass Madeira, then ordered dinner for two to be served his chambers.
Instructing two guards to remain outside his door, he left Breanna only long enough to tell Anastasia, Damen, and Wells what had happened, as well as what provisions he'd made.
He'd dealt with their distress as expediently as possible, answered their questions with terse directness. Then, he informed them they'd discuss this tomorrow, after Breanna had gotten some sleep.
“Royce, is she all right?” Anastasia had asked anxiously.
“She's badly shaken. But you know how bloody strong she is.” Royce had frowned. “How strong she insists on being. I'd let you see her, but I want you to stay put. I'm going to go over those letters the killer sent. Maybe there's something there that will point me in the right direction. We'll discuss it at breakfast.
With that, he'd left them. Wells, as he'd suspected, was more relieved than shocked to learn where Breanna would be sleeping. The safety of his beloved charges was more important than his adherence to protocol. After quietly thanking Royce for caring for Miss Breanna, he'd summoned two footmen, ordered them to clean up the violated bedchamber immediately; removing all traces of the break-in, but saving the defaced items for Lord Royce's later inspection.
Royce had returned to his room, expecting to find Breanna huddled by the fire. Instead, she was sitting at the desk, scrutinizing the assassin's notes.
She looked up when he entered, her composure fully restored, her brows knit speculatively. “I was paralyzed when I first read tonight's message,” she murmured “But now that I examine it with a clear head, one of the killer's phrases triggered a memory—a memory of something Mr. Cunnings said to my father at their meeting in the tavern.”
“The meeting you eavesdropped on.”
“Yes. The one at which they made arrangements for the assassin to execute Stacie.”
“Go on,” Royce urged.
“I remember Father asking about the assassin's credentials, and Mr. Cunnings assuring him there was no one better at tracking people down and killing them—no matter where they were hiding. Cunnings's exact words were that the assassin was an expert tracker and an even better shot”
“'An expert tracker'—the very words the assassin uses here.” Royce walked over, reexamined the notes with that in mind. “Interesting. And maybe not as straightforward as I originally thought”
“What do you mean?”
“I realized from the start that every one of these messages sounded like a battle call. But I just assumed it was this arrogant bastard's way of making you feel like he was the hunter, and you the prey. But looking at it in light of what Cunnings said—maybe there's more to it than that.”
Breanna twisted around to gaze up at him. “Like what?”
Royce's eyes narrowed, a flash of insight illuminating their midnight blue color. “Maybe that's what's been bothering me. These notes are all full of military jargon: retreat, flank, reconnaissance, strategy; and phrases like 'evasive tactics' and 'the invasion is about to commence.'“
“True,” Breanna concurred. “I wouldn't have recognized the ones you just mentioned, having never served in the military, as you did. But even I know that words like battle, warrior and ranks are combat terms.”
“So maybe we're overlooking the obvious,” Royce concluded. “Maybe this isn't just an arbitrary choice of analogies. Maybe it's based on the killer's personal experience.”
Breanna rose slowly. “He had to get his training somewhere. What better place than the army?”
Royce was already yanking out the guest list, grabbing a quill. “I'll make a list of these twenty-two remaining names. “First thing tomorrow, my contacts will check into every one of their backgrounds, see who's served.” He frowned. “Offhand, I see three or four names this could apply to. Obviously, Crompton was a general. He tells that to anyone who will listen. Radebrook was an officer in the infantry. Landow spent a few years in the horse artillery, if I'm not mistaken. The Duke of Maywood served, too—I believe in the cavalry. His enlisting was a big scandal, since he was heir to his father's dukedom. He only served a few months before his father won out and he returned.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Fifteen or more years ago. I was young, away at school. All I recall is the gossip surrounding the event. I have no idea how adept any of these men are at shooting, or if there are others on this list who are equally competent. I want every name looked into, every military man found. I want to know where they were stationed, what branch they served in, details of their service records. We'll line up the information, compare it to the traits I've established for this killer, and see if we come up with some plausible matches. Then, I'll pay visits to all those matches. I'll accuse each man of being a murderer, if need be, tell them I have evidence of their crimes, just to gauge their reactions. All of them will call me out. Only one will follow me back to kill me. I don't care how damned risky it is. Not anymore. It's the only way I'm going to get at the truth in time.”
Breanna was about to protest, when a commotion from downstairs met their ears.
Voices. Slamming doors. Treading feet.
Breanna went sheet white.
Royce whipped out his pistol, moved slowly toward the hallway. “Stay put,” he ordered Breanna. “Don't go near the door or the windows. I'll find out what this is about.”
He was halfway to the door when the knock sounded. “Lord Royce?” one of the guards called. “Mr. Hibbert's back. He needs to see you immediately.”
Royce and Breanna exchanged glances. “Tell Hibbert to come directly to my chambers,” Royce instructed the guard. “Yes, sir.”
Three minutes later, Hibbert walked in, looking rumpled and tired, but rife with purpose. “I have some crucial information and even more crucial cargo...” He broke off, spying Breanna leaning against the desk. “My lady,” he acknowledged. His forehead creased with worry as he saw the frightened state she was in. “What's happened?”
“A great deal,” Royce answered for her. “But all that can wait. Something obviously took place in Paris. Were you able to learn who bought that perfume?”
“Bought not only the perfume, but the women, as well,” Hibbert corrected. Breanna gasped. “What?”
“Is she all right?” Breanna asked. “And the other kidnapped women—are they unharmed?”
“Other than being badly shaken, yes. Fortunately, we got there before any real damage had been done. The first thing I did was to grab Mademoiselle Le Joyau. Then, I questioned her employees, only to find out that none of them had any more information on the killer than Emma did. Their description of hint matched hers, as did the fact that they knew him only as the noble assassin.”
“My God,” Breanna managed.
Hibbert rubbed his palms together. “I escorted Mademoiselle Le Joyau out of her establishment and into a carriage headed for Calais—at gunpoint. We bearded the first ship to Dover. As for the kidnapped women, Girard is keeping them in Paris until it's safe for them to return. And Maurelle Le Joyau,” he concluded with a tight smile, “is downstairs in the servants' quarters, being looked after by three guards. I'll take you to her whenever you wish.”
Royce rubbed the back of his neck pensively. “So the assassin's partner is a woman. Tell me about this Maurelle Le Joyau.”
“Obviously, she's French. She's also exquisitely beautiful and equally cunning. She was more than charming to Lord Hobson. Especially when she saw how wealthy he was. To Hibbert...” A mocking smile. “She's refused to speak a word since we left Paris. Girard is running a check on her background and history to see what he can find out. He said he'll dispatch his findings posthaste. Oh, he also said to tell you that the physician who treated the assassin's finger was a doctor named Helmett. He's German-born, extreme ly wealthy and successful. He's a genius at re-constructing limbs. He's also on an extended holiday. But it seems no one knows where he's gone or when he'll be returning.”
“Convenient. Hopefully, we won't need to hunt him down. Not with Mademoiselle Le Joyau at our disposal. She'll lead us to the killer more quickly than his physician.” Royce's features tightened into fierce lines, his predatory stance making him look like a wolf about to close in on a sheep.
“Stay with Breanna,” Royce instructed Hibbert. “Keep her in this room—with you by her side, and the guards outside the door. As for Mademoiselle Le Joyau, I want to see her. Immediatement.”
Hibbert nodded. “I thought you might.”
Royce took a step, then halted, as a troublesome prospect struck home. “Did you and Mademoiselle Le Joyau arrive in an open carriage?”
“No.” Hibbert had obviously anticipated this question. “I lured a closed carriage. And when we neared Medford Manor, I insisted that Mademoiselle Le Joyau he down beneath the opposite seat, covered by some blankets. She wasn't pleased. Nevertheless, my pistol ensured her cooperation. I smuggled her in the rear entrance, the blanket over her head. Believe me, my lord, no one sew her arrive.”
“Excellent.” Anticipation glinted in Royce's eyes. “That means her presence at Medford is our little secret. Fine work, Hibbert. That resolved, it's time for me to pay mademoiselle a little visit. Where in the servants' quarters can I find her?”
“In the vacant room next to Wells's quarters.” An ironic lift of Hibbert's brows. “I hate to admit it, but Wells has proven himself to have stamina, a quick mind, and fine instincts. All of which,” he added, with a quick sideways look at Breanna, “I will deny having said, should anyone feel compelled to tell him.” A hint of a smile. “In any case, given Wells's abilities, I thought it best we restrict Mademoiselle Le Joyau to an area he can oversee—when he isn't guarding Lady Sheldrake's door.”
“I agree.” Royce paused only long enough to go to Breanna, frame her face between his palms. “Will you be all right?” he asked tenderly “I won't be gone long.”
“I'll be fine,” she assured him, actually able to force a smile, thanks to Hibbert's light banter. “Hibbert will take excellent care of me. And I'll fill him in on what happened here since he left. Now, go. I'm itching to hear what this Maurelle Le Joyau has to say. If she'll say anything, that is.”
Royce's jaw clenched. “Oh, she'll say plenty—^beginning with that bastard's name. Because if she doesn't...” He sucked in his breath. “Let's just say she won't like the consequences.”
Royce stalked into the tiny room in the servants' wing firmly intending to intimidate Maurelle Le Joyau into telling him everything, even if he had to choke the information out of her.
Two things stopped him.
One, was his immediate assessment that this was no ordinary woman.
Despite her fragile appearance, Maurelle was impervious as steel, her chin held high, her dark eyes mocking him and any attempt he'd make to extract information from her. She wouldn't relent, his instincts proclaimed, not even if he thrashed her. Violence didn't frighten her. Knowing her relationship to the killer, she was probably accustomed to it—witnessing it and, quite possibly, enduring it. So, threats would be wasted.
And then, there was the second thing.
Royce had seen this woman before.
He wasn't quite sure where. But the instant he laid eyes on Maurelle Le Joyau, he was certain of it.
She didn't know him.
There wasn't a flicker of recognition on her face, not even before she had time to school her features. She simply sat at the edge of the chair, her hands folded primly in her lap, her taunting stare daring him to do his worst.
Instantly, Royce abandoned his plan to take the harshest, most correct avenue possible, to go in for the kill simply because they were running out of time.
A different approach was in order with this woman—one she wasn't used to. The direct approach No tricks, no casually asked questions she was too smart to answer, and definitely no browbeating.
He'd learn far more about her this way.
And in the process, figure out where he'd met her.
“Hello, mademoiselle,” he greeted, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it. “My name is Royce Chadwick.”
A glint of interest. “Ah, so you're the infamous Lord Chadwick.” She inclined her head, appraising him thoughtfully. “You're not what I expected.”
“Really?” Royce purposely abandoned his sentry-like stance, strolling over to pull up a chair directly across from her. “What did you expect?”
“An older man. One with more wrath and less charm.”
Royce leaned back in his seat, crossed one long leg over the other. “How did you form this opinion? From what Hibbert told you?”
An arrogant smile, one that confirmed Royce's belief that she was far too shrewd to fall into a trap “No. Mr. Hibbert and I didn't discuss you at all. Au contraire, my lord you need no discussion. Your reputation precedes you. It travels all the way to the Continent—even to establishments like Le Joyau.”
“I'm flattered.” Royce tried to place her voice. He'd heard it before—briefly. But mostly what he recognized was her face. Where had he been when he'd seen it?
“Maurelle—may I call you Maurelle?” he inquired politely.
“Mais oui.” She gave a careless shrug. “Suit yourself. You're in charge here.”
“As you were at Le Joyau.”
“Certainement.”
Royce drummed his fingers lightly on his leg. “I don't enjoy playing cat and mouse, Maurelle. I suspect you don't either. So why don't I refrain from insulting you? I want the name of the noble assassin. And you're going to give it to me.”
Maurelle didn't bat a lash. “You're insane if you believe that.”
“Why?” Royce demanded. “Are we engaged in some sort of contest? A battle of wills? Are you determined to best me, just as your friend is?”
“You flatter yourself, my lord. You mean as little to me as you do to rum. You're just an obstacle, nothing more. So, no, I'm not trying to best you. As for him— let's s
ay our motives are quite different. He has his, and I mine.”
“And what are yours?”
“To protect him. Which I will do, no matter what you do to me.” Maurelle rose, shook out the folds of her gown, and braced herself before him, as if preparing for a vicious beating. “I'm sure you require proof. So go ahead. Do your worst. You'll find out I'm true to my word.”
Royce feigned shock, letting his jaw drop a notch. “You'd endure physical abuse just to protect a lover?”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “He's not just a lover. In fact, the word 'just' never applies to him. He's not 'just' anything. He's extraordinary.”
“You're in love with him.”
A brittle stare. “Did you think women like me didn't fall in love? That because we've been with hundreds of men over the years that there could never be one that actually meant something? If so, you're a fool.”
“I'm no fool, Maurelle.” Royce stood, steadily meeting her gaze. “I was just making a statement, not a judgment. You're in love with this man.”
“Oui —now more than ever.”
Now more than ever? An interesting choice of phrases.
How long had these two known each other?
Royce pursued the question from a non-threatening angle. “As for your bedding hundreds of men, I was under the impression that you're the proprietor of Le Joyau. Do you entertain customers, as well?”
“Only him. That part of my life is over.”
Just the answer he wanted.
So, Maurelle Le Joyau had been a prostitute before graduating to her more lucrative role. Had it been at the establishment now known as Le Joyau, or had it been elsewhere? And when had she met the assassin—before or after she changed roles?
Royce had to tread carefully to get his answers.
“Tell me, Maurelle, how would your noble assassin feel if he knew you were once a common whore?”