by Andrea Kane
“The decorating, the arrangements, all the finishing touches are Miss Breanna's gift,” Wells refuted proudly. “She brings beauty to everything she touches.”
“I'm not surprised.” Royce's head came up, and he inspected the festive greenery more closely—the boughs of holly and sprigs of mistletoe that decorated the entranceway and halls, the freshly arranged vases of snowdrops and ivy that sat atop every table.
“Everything looks lovely,” he murmured. “Warm, inviting, and incredibly beautiful.” He meant it, too. Each carefully placed adornment, each colorful wreath emanated the elegant taste and grace that was Lady Breanna.
The notion of anything threatening such beauty was unthinkable.
Brow furrowed, Royce turned to Wells. “I'll need to see the guest list. I'm sure most of the names will be familiar to me. You've hired extra guards?”
“They're stationed all around the perimeter of the estate and near every door to the manor,” Wells replied.
“Good. Then if it's all right with you, I'll have a word with the head guard—Mahoney, I believe it was—after I review the guest list. I want everything in place when the guests start to arrive. Most especial ly, I want the guards poised and ready tomorrow when darkness starts to fall. The big ball is tomorrow night. I don't want any surprises.”
Damen shot him a worried look. “You think that's when the killer might strike?”
“I don't think he'll strike at all. What he might do is visit. If he does, I'll be prepared.”
“I hope to God you know what you're doing, Royce.”
Royce's gaze remained steady. “I do.”
The sound of yet another approaching carriage split the quiet of night.
“I hope we haven't made the biggest mistake of our lives,” Damen muttered, retying his cravat for the third time. “There are over a hundred people downstairs already. The entranceway doors are opening and closing ten times an hour. The French doors in the ballroom are all slightly ajar to let in some air.”
“And there are dozens of guards marching around the estate with loaded pistols,” Anastasia reminded him, walking over to fix the cravat Damen's valet had long since abandoned. “Damen, you have to stop worrying. We all agreed Royce's plan was the right one. Even Wells couldn't convince us there was another way. Because there isn't. The fact is, Breanna and I are at risk. We're going to be at risk until this killer is found and stopped. And if s up to us to do that.” She smoothed her hand across her husband's jaw. “Besides, wasn't it you who sought out Royce Chadwick, brought him here to help?”
“Yes, God help me, it was.”
“And we all agree he was the right person for the job—extreme methods or not” She grew thoughtful.
“Actually, I think it's uncanny the way he understands this killer's mind. If he's right—”
“It's if he's wrong that worries me.” Damen threaded his fingers through his wife's hair, caressed her cheeks with his thumbs. “It doesn't just worry me, it scares me to death.”
Anastasia's sharp jade eyes searched his face. “You don't think he's wrong. You trust him. You'd never be working with him if you didn't. What's more, I trust him. So does Breanna. We all believe in his abilities.” She let her hand slip down her bodice, placed her palm on her abdomen. “Believe me, I know what's at stake. That's why we've got to go through with this.”
Damen's eyes darkened. “Half of me keeps hoping that madman has vanished,” he muttered, laying his palm over Stacie's. “We haven't received a single communication from him in over a week.”
“According to Royce, he was waiting to see if Breanna went through with the party. Well, by now, he's seen guests flocking to Medford Manor. So he knows—or believes—she's brushed off any worries she might have had. He'll be reacting to that soon.”
“And that's supposed to appease me?”
“No. It's supposed to make you realize that the only way to catch this killer is to lure him out. This unnatural calm is more frightening than anything else. It's like knowing there's a terrible storm coming—one that's going to strike at any moment and destroy everyone you love. Only it hovers, gathers force, and circles like some kind of predatory hawk.” Anastasia shuddered. “This waiting, bracing for the assault—it's unbearable.”
Damen gathered her close, tucked her head beneath his chin. “I know.” His embrace tightened. “I'm not leaving your side tonight. I don't care how you explain it. Tell everyone I'm insanely worried about your condition. Say whatever you want to. But don't expect to eat, talk, or dance unless it's with me.”
His wife smiled against his waistcoat. “You've become very possessive, my lord. It's a good thing you're the best dancer and the most fascinating conversationalist in the room. Otherwise, I might be forced to protest.”
Damen didn't smile back. “I love you,” he said fiercely. “No one and nothing is going to hurt you.”
Despite her independent nature, Stacie felt a surge of welcome relief, and she gave silent thanks to the heavens for giving her this wonderful man as her husband. “I love you, too,” she breathed. “And I intend to keep myself and the babe perfectly safe. I promise.” She leaned back, gazed up at him. “Let's try to enjoy ourselves. This is a celebration.” Her lips twitched. “It's also the first opportunity I'll have to mingle with the businessmen I offended last summer when I asked them to finance my bank. I have quite a few fences to mend. Especially since most of those men are clients of yours.”
“It's they who should be apologizing to you,” Damen countered flatly. “Your idea was brilliant. Choosing to dismiss it simply because it was a woman who thought it up was their loss—and my gain. It gave me the opportunity to” become your business partner. Our American bank is thriving. Believe me, sweetheart, if those men are feeling anything, it's jealousy and regret. And if any of them makes the slightest disparaging remark, they'll have me to answer to.”
“My knight in shining armor,” Stacie returned tenderly. “Thank you for always believing in me, and for rescuing me when I need it.” A thoughtful expression flitted across her face. “That brings me to an interesting question. Damen, have you noticed anything ... distinctive about the way Royce treats Breanna?” “Distinctive?”
“Yes. Different from the way he treats the rest of us. Royce is a hard man, and a somewhat detached one. I suppose he has to be, given what he does. Yet with Breanna, he's gentler, more compassionate. It's not the words he uses with her, it's the tone. As if he's trying to cushion the ordeal she's going through. And the way he stares at her—like he's trying to absorb her, figure her out. I can't quite put my finger on it...” Stacie broke off, trying to find the right words to describe her perception.
“Are you suggesting Royce is interested in Breanna?” Damen asked with more than a trace of surprise
Anastasia lifted one shoulder in an ambivalent shrug. “I don't mink interested is the right choice of words. It's more like he's fascinated by her. Whether it's just a combination of attraction and protective-ness, or it's the prelude to something deeper—that I'm not sure. What's more, Breanna is drawn to him, too. I can sense it . She's thoroughly intrigued by him—on many levels. Not that she's said a word to me. She hasn't Probably because she's still sorting out whatever it is she's feeling—if she's even aware of those feelings at all. Still, there's definitely something different about her since Royce's first visit. I can sense it”
Damen's brows lifted fractionally. “Royce is hardly the kind of man Breanna's used to. He's—”
“He's what—worldly? Experienced? A risk-taker?” Stacie's lips curved. “I know. Maybe that's just what Breanna finds intriguing.” She dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “If s just a thought. A fascinating one to consider, though.”
“In other words, you're going to be scrutinizing Breanna all night,” Damen concluded dryly.
His wife's grin was impish. “She deserves to be scrutinized a bit. She certainly did the same to me when you
and I first met and she was convinced we belonged together.” A pointed look. “As it turned out, she was right. Then again, she and I usually are when it comes to seeing inside each other's hearts.”
Damen rubbed one of his wife's auburn tresses between his fingers. “Indeed you are,” he murmured, his features tightening with emotion. “And yes, Breanna was right about us. You're my life. Which is why I'm far more concerned about your safety—and Breanna's, for that matter—than I am about her romantic interests.”
“All I meant was that maybe my instincts about her and Royce are also right and—”
“I know what you meant.” Damen silenced her by pressing his forefinger to her lips. “And if you want to keep a close eye on your cousin all night and speculate about the prospect—however unlikely—of a future between her and Royce, feel free to do so. So long as while you're watching her, you stay close enough to my side for me to watch you. As I said, my main concern tonight is safety—yours and Breanna's.”
Anastasia nodded. “I'll place my safety in your hands.” Another faraway look. “I have a funny feeling I know whose hands Breanna's will be in.”
Breanna studied her reflection in the looking glass, smoothing the satin trim adorning the bodice of her lilac silk ball gown, and checking for the third time to make sure her hair was in place.
It was.
Reflexively, her fingers brushed her cheeks and nape to make sure no strands had broken free of their upswept coronet atop her head. Finding no traitorous locks, she appraised the strand of pearls her lady's maid had woven through her tresses.
Her earrings and necklace were simple, gold with a dusting of amethysts in the center, left to her by her mother. She hoped the effect was enough, but she felt ridiculous doused in the amount of jewelry worn by most of her friends. So the earrings and necklace would have to do.
Her gaze shifted critically, starting at the crown of her head and descending to the tips of her slippered feet, only to retrace its path, hovering at her face and throat. Pale, unadorned, but adequate.
Why am I so preoccupied with my appearance tonight? she thought in disgust, twisting about and walking away from the looking glass. It wasn't as if she'd never attended a ball before. And this evening for the first time, she didn't have her father to contend with.
Instead she had his hired killer.
Flinching, she walked about her bedchamber, running a fingertip over her porcelain figures and trying to calm her nerves.
Nothing was going to happen. Lord Royce had all but assured her of it. The assassin was not going to stroll into a ballroom and open fire.
Then why did she feel so ill at ease? So vulnerable?
She glanced about the bedchamber as she had a dozen times since Jamie Knox had been murdered. She'd felt uneasy since that day, as if her domain had somehow been invaded. She couldn't shake the feeling that the killer had been here—at her home. She knew it was irrational, but she could actually feel his presence. He was watching her, waiting, coiled to strike.
But he hadn't been here. Not inside. Not in her house, and certainly not in her room.
She'd checked and rechecked, giving in to her inexplicable need to ensure her chambers hadn't been violated.
Everything was intact.
She'd inspected every personal item on her dressing table, every porcelain figure in her collection. Most especially her two favorites: the porcelain horse she'd had since childhood, and the porcelain statue of two little girls playing together among a field of flowers. That was her most cherished figure, because in it was wedged the precious silver coin her grandfather had given her.
Nothing had been touched; not the figures, not the coin—nothing.
And yet...
Breanna steeled herself, her gloved hands balling into fists as she drew slow, steadying breaths. This was ridiculous. She was letting her imagination run wild. And with no basis. There were guards posted all over the estate, manning each and every door. Further, the people gathered downstairs were her family and friends. And she was their hostess.
She had to gain control of herself. She'd survived on internal strength all her life. Now was no time to lose it.
Besides, Royce Chadwick would be there.
That thought crystallized out of nowhere, and Breanna was startled at how much comfort it brought her. Despite the limited amount of time he'd spent here, Lord Royce had come to represent strength, confidence and—no matter how risky his tactics—security.
It was more than the knowledge that he was good at his job. It was an instinctive awareness that somehow he would protect her. Protect her and at the same time make her part of that excitement he exuded—an excitement she never knew existed and wanted nothing more than to...
Breanna squelched that thought in the making, stunned at the direction her own reflections had taken. What in heaven's name was she thinking? Lord Royce was a professional, hired by Damen to do a job. He wasn't here to... to...
To what?
With a bemused shake of her head, Breanna turned her attention to her gloves, smoothing them more snugly up to her elbows. She was beginning to think too much like Stacie, she chastised herself. It was Stacie who possessed the romantic nature, not she.
Then again, it was Stacie who'd grown up seeing romantic love firsthand, having parents who adored each other— truly adored each other—with the kind of intensity she now shared with Damen.
Just thinking about Stacie and Damen— and the babe they'd now conceived—made Breanna's heart swell. If ever there was evidence of happily-ever-after, of two people who deserved joy and fulfillment, it was they.
If only they could keep the evils of the world at bay...
No, Breanna refuted silently. She was not going to revert back to that subject yet again. She was going to behave as tonight commanded she should—like a proper lady and hostess. It was time to stop procrastinating and get to that party. Purposefully she straightened her shoulders. Then, without so much as another glance at her reflection, she marched out of her bedchamber and down the stairs to the ballroom.
10
“Miss Breanna.” Wells greeted her at the foot of the steps, beaming with a paternal pride that was as intense as if she were his own child. “Y ou look lovely.”
“Thank you, Wells.” Breanna squeezed his arm, grateful that a guard had been assigned to act as butler for the evening—not only because it meant added protection, but because it meant Wells could see the fruits of his labor by stationing himself at the ballroom door.
A cluster of chatting matrons breezed by, so engrossed in their gossip that they never noticed Breanna. They hovered at the ballroom doorway—all shimmering jewels and rustling silk—finishing their whispered conversation, then hastened in to rejoin the party.
A wave of familiar nervousness accosted Breanna in a rush, bringing with it the lingering remnants of a shy child who'd stayed in the background, let her bolder, more outspoken cousin lead the way.
“Wells,” she murmured tentatively, rubbing her skirts between her fingers. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me in? You know how I hate making entrances.”
Wells frowned, fully aware of Breanna's reticence— and its cause. “Your father's gone, Miss Breanna,” he reminded her gently. “And, yes, I know you hate making entrances. You hate anything that makes you the center of attention. Well, tonight you are the center of attention—you and Miss Stacie. This party is in your honor. I refuse to pretend otherwise.”
He cupped Breanna's elbow, guided her toward the ballroom. “In the eyes of the ton, I'm a butler. Which doesn't bother me a bit. I take great pride in my position. Besides, you and Miss Stacie view me as family, and that's all that matters. My point is, I won't escort you. That would cause those women who just passed by here to swoon, which would, in turn, detract from your entrance. What I will do is announce you—just as I announced Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake. How would that be?”
Breanna stu
died the throngs of people, the movement of light and color as laughing couples whirled about the dance floor, helped themselves to plates of food and glasses of punch. There were easily a hundred and fifty people already filling the room.
Her gut clenched.
“Please, Miss Breanna,” Wells urged, resorting to the one tactic he knew would work. “Do it for me.”
How could she not? Especially when he was looking at her like a proud father about to present his treasure to the world.
“All right, Wells,” she managed. “Let's get this over with. Once everyone stops staring at me, I'll be fine.”
“You're already fine,” he countered. “You're far more than fine. In less than one minute, you'll be swamped by admirers, most of whom will be totally unworthy. I, myself, shall keep an eye on things, make sure you're not pestered by any one suitor for too long. Should you need further reinforcements, Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake are directly to your right, chatting with Lord and Lady Dutton and the Earl and Countess of Geldrick. Actually, they're not chatting. Both men are frantically trying to make amends to Miss Stacie for their stupidity in snubbing her business proposition last summer. And Miss Stacie is having fun watching them squirm. She's already done the same to the Duke of Maywood, the Marquess of Radebrook, and the Viscount Crompton.” Breanna couldn't help but laugh. “Thank you, fells. For pointing out where I can find a safe haven and for giving me that status report.”
“Your safe haven. I'm glad you brought that up.” Wells's humor vanished, and his uneasy gaze traveled the room. “Lord Royce is near the French doors. So are two guards. The others are positioned everywhere on the estate. Given that a third nobleman was murdered in London last week, no one will question the added security. In fact, they'll be grateful for it. So relax and have fun. All will be well.” Soberly, Breanna nodded, sickened by the re-minder of what was fast becoming an epidemic of killings. Three men had now died, and their wives had vanished. The whole situation was terrifying. Between that and the fear surrounding her own dilemma...
