by Andrea Kane
Although, after carefully questioning dozens of people—servants and associates alike—they did have their theories.
This should be fascinating , he thought, settling back in his dining room chair and skimming the article beneath the headline.
His brows raised in interest as he read on.
While the murders were still unsolved, Bow Street had begun to alter their original theory that the crimes were linked, at least so far as sharing the same assailant. Instead, the police were now speculating that, while one crime probably inspired the other, the two murders had been committed by different killers. And not by two hardened criminals, but by two women, each with the same relationship to the victim and the same motivation to do him in.
Women?
Now that was an intriguing notion.
Leaning forward, he read on.
Evidently, Bow Street was corning to suspect that the wives of these renowned noblemen were, in fact, the murderesses they sought. The women in question might or might not have devised their plans together, but their motivations were doubtless the same: greed and a yearning for freedom.
He continued, almost laughing out loud as he followed Bow Street's reasoning.
The fact was that both wives had mysteriously disappeared at the same time their husbands had been shot. Initially, it was presumed that they'd been kidnapped. But now, more than a week later, no ransom notes had surfaced, nor had any trace of the women or their whereabouts been uncovered. So it was looking more and more like they'd killed their husbands, then run -off, perhaps with other lovers, most likely taking with them some private source of wealth—be it cash or jewels—that no one other than they and their husbands knew about.
Haw clever, he thought, his teeth gleaming with amusement. What would we ever do without Bow Street and their unmatched genius?
The article concluded by assuring everyone that the authorities were hard at work, determined to apprehend the perpetrators.
What a waste of time, he reflected, folding the newspaper in half and placing it on the table. Bow Street will never find them. No one will. They've vanished forever.
He was just biting into his second scone when a knock sounded at the dining room door.
His butler entered. “Pardon me, m'lord, but a gentleman from Bow Street is here to see you. A Mr. Marks. He insists on speaking with you personally.”
A flicker of apprehension—one he kept carefully concealed.
Slowly, he chewed and swallowed his food, then dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. “Does he now?” He rose, a frown creasing his brow as he smoothed his gloves into place. “Did he state what his business was?”
“Something about John Cunnings, sir. Apparently, the authorities are speaking to all his associates again. I have no idea why.”
Ah, but he did know why. He knew precisely why.
Or, more specifically, who.
Breanna Colby.
“I see,” he replied, his mind racing.
Marks's visit had to tie in to the trip Lady Breanna had made to Bow Street three days ago. The miserable bitch. She'd obviously accomplished more than he'd realized, done a better job of convincing the police to help her than he'd anticipated.
Still, this conversation had to be strictly routine. Bow Street had no evidence to link him to Cunnings—not then or now—and certainly none to link him to their current murder investigation. They were searching for runaway wives, for heaven's sake, not reputable gentlemen.
He'd do nothing to sway their way of thinking. Nor would he antagonize them. To the contrary, he'd be warm, gracious, utterly cooperative.
And Marks would leave no wiser than when he arrived.
Lady Breanna was another matter entirely. She had to be punished for her brazen act.
The very notion made excitement surge through his blood. He'd find a means of punishment that would intensify her fear beyond measure.
And, as a result, heighten his exhilaration even more.
“Sir?” the butler prompted. “What shall I tell Mr. Marks?”
“By all means, show him in,” he replied graciously, clasping his hands behind his back. “I'll answer any questions he has.”
And then I'll deal with the lovely Breanna Colby.
Four days later, Bow Street delivered its report.
Marks arrived at Medford just before lunch. He propped himself against the sitting-room door frame—a blatant indication that this wasn't going to be a lengthy visit—and relayed his findings to Brean na and Wells.
Thoroughly, meticulously, he read through the entire list of interviews he'd conducted, and their outcomes. He'd spoken with every conceivable one of John Cunnings's associates, from the women he'd squandered his illegally acquired money on, to the men he did business with, to his neighbors, to those few friends he had. No one knew anything about an assassin, nor did they know of anyone who'd want to kill Cunnings. In fact, they knew nothing more about Cunnings's illegal dealings than they had three months ago—which was nil, other than whatever they'd read in the newspapers.
Having concluded his report, Marks straightened and smoothed his scarlet waistcoat. “That's all I have, my lady.” He shut his notebook. “Have you received any more threats?”
Breanna shook her head. “No.”
“Then I'd say you're in no immediate danger. Nor is your cousin, Lady Sheldrake. Besides, the point is moot. We have nothing more to go on.”
“But Mr. Marks—”
“I've done everything I can, my lady.” His mouth set in grim lines. “I can't justify spending another hour on this—not with the current murder investigation I'm involved in. My suggestion is: be careful. Don't go out alone. Tell your cousin the same when she returns from her wedding trip. I noticed you hired some guards. Good idea. The more security you have the better. That'll scare this lunatic off— if he plans to carry out his threats. Which I don't think he will.” With that, Marks tipped his hat. “Good day, my lady.”
He crouched down in the bushes by the roadside, watching as Marks drove through the iron gates and curved onto the road leading away from Medford Manor.
Good. Bow Street's finished. She's on her own now. Which means I can strike whenever I wish. I won't rush it. The time has to be right...
It was two days later when the carriage bearing the Lockewood family crest turned off the road, heading toward Medford.
Inside the carriage, Anastasia frowned as the iron gates loomed into view—along with two burly men posted on either side.
“Who are they?” she demanded, scooting to the edge of her seat and eyeing them. “And why are they standing so rigidly at the gates—as if they're sentries?”
“I don't know.” Even Damen looked perplexed, his brows knitting as one of the two men gestured for their driver to stop.
The driver complied, and the man approached the carriage.
“I'll need your names, please,” he began, peering inside the window. “Then you'll have to wait to be announced... oh forgive me, Lady Breanna. I didn't know you'd gone out.” He bowed, backed away from the carriage, and waved them on. “Drive right through.”
“But I'm not...”
Damen stopped Anastasia with a gentle squeeze of her arm. “Thank you,” he called to the guard, gesturing for their driver to continue on his way.
“Why did you silence me?” Anastasia demanded, turning to her husband. “He thought I was Breanna.”
“I know,” Damen responded. “I wanted it that way. It got us inside faster, without further explanation. The sooner we reach the manor, the sooner we find out what the hell's going on here.”
Anastasia opened her mouth to reply, then gasped, her attention captured by another, far more enticing sight. She pointed out the window as the carriage rolled down the drive toward the house. “Damen, look.” Her eyes widened, and she stared at the graceful structure to their left, workmen swarming all around it. “That's our house—and it's already standing. Why, it's practically completed.”
“I'll be damned.” Damen shook his head in amazement, as stunned by the progress that had been made during their absence as was his wife. “Breanna must have had these people working day and night.”
“Breanna must be working day and night,” Anastasia amended. “If I know her, she's overseen all this construction herself. In fact...” She scrutinized the area carefully, searching until she saw the bright spot of burnished color that was her cousin's hair. “There she is!” She whipped around. “Dixon, stop,” she instructed the driver.
The bewildered driver brought the carriage to a screeching halt.
“Take our bags to the house,” Damen advised him, stifling a grin. “We'll follow on foot.”
“Yes, m'lord.” Dixon alighted, intending to properly assist his passengers, only to have Anastasia fling open her door, knocking him flat on his back as she leapt down from the carriage herself.
“Oh, Dixon, forgive me. Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, relief flooding her face as the driver squirmed to a sitting position.
“Fine, m'lady,” he assured her, brushing dirt off his uniform.
“Thank goodness.” She gathered up her skirts, looking like a thoroughbred at the starting gate. “Then if you'll excuse me ...”
She didn't wait for a reply.
She took off at a run, shouting, “Breanna!” and waving her arm.
Damen swung down from the carriage, offering a hand to the half-crouched, half-sitting driver. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Dixon,” he consoled, his lips twitching as he helped the still-dazed driver to his feet. “Keeping up with my wife is next to impossible.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Dragging his sleeve across his brow, Dixon stared after Anastasia's rapidly moving figure. Then, with a hard shake of his head, he jumped back into his seat and drove on.
Chuckling, Damen watched Stacie rush toward her cousin, shouting over the din and waving frantically.
Breanna glanced up, spotted her, and broke into at immediate run.
“Stacie!”
The cousins embraced, laughing as they broke apart, saw all the workmen gaping at them, and realized what a spectacle they were making.
“You're home. I can't believe it!” Breanna grasped Stacie's hands, surveying her from head to toe. “You look wonderful. Positively radiant. Marriage agree; with you.” She glanced beyond Stacie and smiled as Damen approached them. “And here's the man responsible for your radiance. Welcome home, Damen.”
“Breanna.” He kissed her hand, then gave her a warm hug. “It's so good to see you.”
“Home, indeed,” Stacie piped up, moving excitedly about as she assessed the manor that was fast taking shape. “I can't believe what you've accomplished. My God, have you slept since September?”
A hopeful look lit Breanna's eyes—eyes that seemed unusually puffy, lined, with heavy dark circles beneath them.
For reasons of her own, she disregarded Stacie's question in lieu of her own. “Do you like it? I was half afraid you'd object to the artistic liberties I took. But you were so preoccupied before the wedding, and couldn't get you to sit still and look at the sketches. And with winter nearly upon us, we had to lay the foundation right away. Either that or we'd have to wait until spring, which would mean your home wouldn't be ready until next fall. I couldn't bear having you in London until then. So I got things started. You'll do all the decorating yourself, of course.”
“Of course not,” Stacie corrected. “I have no talent at decorating, and you know it. I need your help— with every last piece of furniture.” She gazed at the half-finished manor again, her eyes growing damp. “You did all this for us... Breanna, what would I ever do without you?” She gulped back a sob.
Breanna blinked in surprise. “Stacie, you're crying. Why?”
“Because I'm touched. Because I'm so glad to be home. Because I missed you. Because I can't believe how much you took on while we were away. Because—”
“That's not what I meant,” Breanna interrupted, inclining her head in puzzlement. “I know why you're happy. And I'm as thrilled as you—that you're home, that you like what I've done. But you never cry. At least you never used to.”
“That was then,” Stacie informed her ruefully, dabbing at her eyes. “This is now. I seem to be doing a fair amount of crying these days. Crying and swooning and retching. It's completely unlike me.”
Their gazes met.
“You're with child.” Breanna's words were a statement, not a question, and she seized Stacie's hands again, staring insightfully at the spot where her mantle covered her abdomen, as if she could see through to the changes beneath. “I knew it. Oh, Stacie, I'm so happy for you.” She hugged her cousin, then Damen, tears glistening on her own lashes. “I'm going to be an aunt. Not a second cousin, mind you, because as far as I'm concerned, you're my sister, not my cousin. So, this babe will call me Aunt Breanna.” She grew serious for a moment. “Are you all right—you and the babe?”
“We are . But Damen's not.” Anastasia shot her husband a teasing look. “He's been overwrought the en tire trip home. The ship's doctor nearly tossed bin overboard several times. Not to mention that the doctor was the first one to disembark when we docked He nearly knocked down three elderly women in hi; haste to get away. By now, he's probably at some out of-the-way alehouse, in a drunken stupor and planning how to avoid the House of Lockewood for the next six months.”
Breanna laughed—a small, strained sound. “I'll take that as a warning. Wells will make sure Damen has a full snifter of brandy each night before bed to calm his nerves.” Her expression grew hopeful. “That is, if you stay here. You will stay here, won't you? You won't go to London? I know it'll mean less privacy fa you, but—”
“I've already sent our driver on to the manor with our bags,” Damen interceded, dismissing her concern with a wave of his arm. “Knowing how much Stacie missed you, I'd never think of separating you two again. Besides, this way we can take over supervising the building of our home. Correction, I can take over supervising the building of our home. Stacie is to get no closer to the construction than we are now. Please Breanna, I'm counting on you to keep an eye on your cousin during the hours I spend at the bank. I'll be forever in your debt.”
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “I'm pregnant, Damen not incapacitated. Fine.” She held up her palm to ward off his tirade. “I'll be as docile as a lamb.”
“That'll be the day.”
“I'll take care of Stacie.” Breanna smoothed he hand over her hair—and Stacie could have sworn her fingers shook. “You have my word, Damen. I'll never let any harm befall her. Never.”
Breanna's oddly somber tone, her seemingly extreme reaction struck an uneasy chord in Stacie's mind. But before she could open her mouth to respond, her cousin had rushed on.
“I have so much to tell you,” she declared, feeling Stacie's quizzical stare, and averting her gaze to avoid it.
Nonetheless, Stacie saw the worried shadow flicker across her face.
“We're hosting that party you and I discussed,” Breanna informed her brightly. “Right here. The week after Christmas. Wells, Mrs. Charles, and Mrs. Rhodes planned the whole thing. It will be a holiday party, birthday celebration, and welcome home gathering all in one. I'm sure it will be the talk of the ton. In addition, we've also been invited to a dozen holiday parties elsewhere. Of course, you'll have to tell me which invitations you want to accept and which you don't—”
“Breanna.” Stacie had had enough. This sort of aimless babbling was as unusual for Breanna as crying was for her. It was time to get to the bottom of this.
Silencing her cousin's chatter, Stacie lifted Breanna's chin and studied her—closely—for the first time. No, she hadn't imagined the dark shadows beneath Breanna's eyes, nor the strain tightening her face. And her cheeks, when she wasn't smiling, were pale.
“What's wrong?” Stacie demanded. “And don't tell me nothing. I won't believe you. I've had the oddes
t feeling for over a week now—like something ominous was going on here. Tell me what's happened.”
Shoulders sagging, Breanna gave up the pretense.
“I prayed I wouldn't have to tell you,” she said, lacing her fingers tightly together. “I prayed it would all be resolved by the time you got home. But it isn't. And now, there's a babe to consider ... so you have to know.”
“Know what?”
“A little over a week ago I received a package—a package and a note.” A weighted pause. “They were a warning.”
“A warning?” Stacie echoed. “From whom?”
“From the man Father paid to kill you.” “What?” Stacie blanched. “From that assassin who tried—?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be so certain?” A muscle flexed in Damen's jaw. “What was in the package? What did the note say? What land of warning?” Damen's questions sliced the air like a knife, and he slid a protective arm about his wife. “Breanna, I think you'd better tell us everything.”
With a weary nod, Breanna did, eliminating none of the details, including the trip she'd made to Bow Street and the lack of information they'd turned up. “But I know in my gut it was he who sent them. I think Bow Street agrees, even if they've washed their hands of the matter.”
“That explains the extra security,” Anastasia concluded aloud. “ And my uneasy feeling.”
“Yes. Wells arranged for guards.”
“How can Bow Street just dismiss such blatant evidence?” Anastasia asked, twisting around to gaze up at her husband.
“No crime has been committed,' Damen returned quietly, his forehead creased in thought. “Did they talk to the messenger who delivered the package?”
“Yes.” Breanna nodded. “He had no contact with whoever sent it. The lad was given the box by his supervisor when he reported for work. And, according to the supervisor, the package was left, along with an envelope containing delivery instructions and a ten pound note, on his doorstep.”
“Then Bow Street's exhausted their clues. Also, judging from the headlines of the newspaper we bought in London, they're consumed with this murder investigation.” Damen pursed his lips. “There's got to be something we can do. And there is always the chance Marks is right—that this madman will stop his threats as quickly as he started them,”
