by Andrea Kane
“Only to lose her again—and this time not to the safe haven provided by her mother.” Royce frowned. “I'll leave Ryder to you. But as for Emma, I'm starting a new search. I intend to find her. That's what I'm being paid to do.”
“After we find the killer.”
“Agreed. The killer comes first.” Royce chose his words with care, deliberately avoiding a blatant refusal to leave the detective work to them. Not because he agreed with Marks's assessment. Nor because he intended to stay out of Bow Street's way. But because he knew in his gut that the assassin wasn't after Ryder.
No, the son of a bitch had made his point, right here at Pearson Manor today. Now, Royce would be willing to bet that he'd be returning to circle his true quarry like the vicious predator he was.
Royce's gut clenched tighter.
Let Bow Street guard Ryder.
He was speeding back to Breanna as fast as his phaeton could travel.
17
Breanna had been on edge all day.
She'd tried doing her needlepoint, then abandoned it after pricking herself three times. She'd then turned to her sketches, but couldn't seem to get the colors right. Finally, she picked up the novel she'd been reading, and found herself staring blankly at the words.
The tension was beginning to get to her.
She tossed down the book, smoothing her hair and glancing at the clock.
Just after four—ten minutes later than the last time she'd checked.
Sighing, she left the bedchamber for the third time since lunch.
Hibbert jumped up from his chair the instant she emerged. “My lady?”
“I'm fine, Hibbert,” she assured him, touched by the concern she heard in his voice. “Losing my mind, but fine.” She rubbed the folds of her gown between her fingers. “You haven't received word from Royce, nave you?”
The barest hint of a smile touched Hibbert's carefully schooled features. “No. Nor do I expect to. Hell finish his business and ride back here as quickly as possible. If not tonight, then tomorrow.”
“I suppose.” Breanna nodded. “He's probably reuniting Lord Ryder and his daughter as we speak.”
“That could very well be.” Hibbert gestured down the hall “Your cousin and her husband went down for tea a few minutes ago. Lady Sheldrake said you should feel free to join them.”
“Thank you. I will.” Breanna paused. “And so will you.”
“Pardon me?”
“Oh, come now, Hibbert.” This time it was Breanna who smiled. “Certainly a man irreverent enough to join his employer for a drink in the middle of a ballroom isn't shocked by the notion of joining my family for tea.”
“Good point, my lady.” One brow rose fractionally. “I am rather thirsty.”
“Besides, Wells will be there. The two of you can resume glazing at each other like two male cats fighting for their territory. That should please you.”
Hibbert actually chuckled. “A rousing activity, I agree. Very well, you've convinced me. Tea it is.”
They were halfway down the stairs when the knock resounded at the front door.
At his post, Wells stiffened. He threw a quick glance at the sitting room, then turned to fix his stare on Breanna, noting that Hibbert was one step behind her.
“I'm armed, Wells,” Hibbert said quietly, reaching for his pocket. “Go ahead and open it.”
With a terse nod, Wells yanked open the door.
Mahoney stood there, a parcel in his hands.
“This was just delivered to the front gate,” he said without preliminaries. “It's for Lady Breanna. The messenger had no idea who sent it. It was left on his employer's doorstep, along with a ten pound note.”
“Like the last time.” Breanna felt everything inside her go cold. Outwardly, she remained calm, continuing to descend the steps. She put one foot in front of the other, watching Wells and Mahoney stare up at her, seeing Stacie and Damen walk out of the sitting room and into the hall, where they, too, turned anxious gazes to her.
The scene unfolded as if it were a dream.
More aptly, a nightmare.
“You don't have to open it, Miss Breanna,” Wells interceded, planting himself between her and Mahoney as if to stave off the inevitable.
“That's true,” Mahoney concurred. “I can just toss it out.”
“No,” Hibbert refuted. “You can't. We have to know what's in there.” He made his way to the doorway, leaned around Wells, and took the box from Mahoney. “Thank you. We'll deal with this from here.”
Mahoney shot Wells a quizzical look, waiting for official instructions.
This time there was no argument. Wells nodded. “Hibbert's right. We'll deal with the matter. You can go, Mahoney. Thank you for bringing the package to us.”
He shut the door behind Mahoney's retreating figure, his face ashen as he stared at the box in Hibbert's hands.
“I'll open it, Hibbert.” Breanna took the package, which was about the length and width of a portfolio, though twice the thickness, and fairly light of weight.
“Are you sure, my lady?”
“Yes. I'm sure. It's addressed to me.” A slight tremor rippled through Breanna's fingers as she tugged off the paper and string, pulled off the lid.
Inside was a smaller box, cushioned by what appeared to be just a rumpled sheet of paper.
It wasn't.
Setting the box on a table, Breanna smoothed out the folds of the rumpled page, and realized it had come from a sketch book.
Her sketch book.
She recognized at once what had been her drawing—an expanse of snow-covered ground, flakes falling everywhere, Medford Manor in the background.
Two women had been added to the picture.
Both had green eyes and auburn hair. Both stood, side by side, pain etched on their faces.
Both had blood trickling from the bodices of their yellow gowns to form crimson puddles on the snow beneath them.
“Oh, God,” Breanna whispered.
“That's supposed to be us.” Anastasia had come to stand beside her cousin, and her voice was choked with horror.
“It's my sketch.” Breanna wet her lips, struggled for composure. “At least it was. I drew everything in this picture except the women. And the blood.” She swallowed. “It was in my room, in a pile of unrelated drawings. That's why I didn't notice it was missing.”
“He must have taken it when he broke in,” Hibbert concluded. He took the sketch, frowned at the detail. “These gowns are identical to the one you were wearing yesterday,” he told Breanna. “The lemon color, the lace around the sleeves—he had to have seen it. He was either a guest at the party or nearby enough to study you at close range.”
“I'll open the smaller box,” Wells announced firmly. “Miss Breanna's been through enough.”
He walked to the table, removed the inner box and raised the lid.
A puzzled expression crossed his face. “A blanket?” he muttered, reaching inside and lifting out what appeared to be a child's quilt.
“There's something wrapped inside the blanket,” Hibbert informed him. He went over, carefully unfolding the layers until he revealed a miniature wicker basket, within which lay a tiny doll—an infant doll—its head smothered by the quilt, its eyes tightly closed.
Pinned to the basket was a note that read: Lady Anastasia's babe will never see the light of day. Mother and child will die. You, my dear, will watch. Then I'll have the pleasure of watching you die. It's almost time, Lady Breanna. Your bullet awaits.
From behind her, Breanna heard Stacie's harsh gasp of distress.
She turned, automatically striving to comfort her. “Stacie.” She gripped her hands, feeling ill at the sight of her normally dauntless cousin literally quaking with fear Stacie had gone sheet-white, and was staring at the note with a wild-eyed expression, her control on the verge of snapping.
“I'm all right,” Stacie managed, squeezing Breanna's hands in return, before gratefully leanin
g back into her husband's comforting embrace.
“He's not going to get near you,” Damen said fiercely.
“I know.” Stacie blinked back tears. “And when it's only me he threatens, I can handle it. But our child ...” Her voice quavered.
“We knew the threats would continue,'' Hibbert aid in a quiet, calming tone. “And that's all these re—threats. He's heightening your fear. But he's no loser to touching either of you than he was before, try to remember that.”
“Damen, I'm not feeling very well.” Stacie lay an unsteady palm on her stomach. “I'm going to lie down.”
“I'll go with you.” Damen shot Wells a we'll-talk-bout-this-later look.
Stacie paused to glance anxiously at Breanna. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” Breanna wondered where that composed voice was coming from. “Take Stacie to your room,” she instructed Damen.
Watching the two of them climb the staircase, seeing Stacie unconsciously caress her abdomen as if to protect her unborn child, Breanna couldn't help but eel a surge of guilt. Logically, she knew the emotion was irrational. She'd shot that assassin to save Stacie's life. Still, it was because of her that Stacie and the b abe were in danger.
And she felt helpless to eliminate it.
Her gaze flickered over the basket and the sketch, and she shuddered, turning away.
“Come, my lady,” “Hibbert urged, walking over to take her arm. “Let's have that tea we discussed. Wells,” he added, without a trace of the usual goading. “Join us.”
“Certainly.” Wells took Breanna's other arm, and the two men escorted her into the sitting room.
They'd barely poured the tea when a frantic banging began at the entranceway door.
“Now what?” Wells sprang up, rushed to his post.
Breanna clenched her hands in her lap, almost afraid to wonder who it was.
She heard the door swing open.
'Lord Royce.” Wells sounded as relieved as he did surprised. “You're back early. Thank heavens.”
“Is Breanna all right?” Royce's voice was closer, his heels echoing as he strode down the hall. “Where is she?”
“In the sitting room. A nd she's...”
Royce was through the sitting-room door before Wells could finish. His gaze found her immediately, and Breanna was stunned at the intensity of her relief. Thank God, she found herself thinking fervently. Thank God he's back.
“Has he been here?” Royce demanded, looking from Breanna's haunted expression to Hibbert's strained one.
“He sent another package,” Hibbert replied. “It arrived a few minutes ago.”
“But he himself didn't show up, strike directly in any way?”
Hibbert inclined his head in question. “No. What’s happened, my lord?”
“ A lot.” Without elaborating, Royce went directly to Breanna, sat down beside hen He took her hands in his, frowning at how icy cold her skin was. “Breanna?”
She met his gaze, determined to stay strong. She wouldn't fling herself into his arms as she longed to do. Nor would she give voice to the wealth of emotion churning inside her—the numbing terror, the crippling worry, the weak-kneed relief.
The surge of love.
“His gift was even more unnerving than the last,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “But I'm fine.”
Royce's stare delved deep, and she had the uncomfortable feeling he could see clear down to her heart.
“Come here,” he ordered softly. Without a word, he drew her against him, pressing her cheek to his coat and rubbing her back in slow, soothing strokes. “Still determined to take on the world alone, I see.”
Breanna said nothing. But she couldn't resist the need to lean on him. She sank into his strength, her hands balling into fists as she fought the urge to do something she rarely did—not even when her father beat her.
She fought the urge to break down and sob.
If Royce sensed her turmoil, he said nothing. He merely held her, met Hibbert's gaze over the top of her head. “Tell me about the package.”
Hibbert complied, describing the en t ire event from the moment Mahoney knocked on the door.
Royce scowled, rubbing his chin over the smooth crown of Breanna's hair. “Listen to me,” he told her quietly. “He's aiming for your vulnerabilities. He knows how much you care for Anastasia. That's why he sent the message about her babe. He wants you to feel twice the terror you would if it were only your own life at stake.”
“Then it worked, because I do.” She drew back, gazed up at Royce. “What if we can't find him? What if he never gives himself away?”
“We will. And so will he.” Royce gripped her shoulders very gently. “He's figured out I'm involved. And he's not happy about it. He's taking action to stop me. That means taking risks. Which makes it more likely he'll give himself away.”
She blinked. “How do you know all that?”
Royce hesitated, and Breanna could see him trying to assess her state of mind.
“Tell me,” she commanded. “What’s happened? Why did you come rushing back the way you did?”
“I was afraid he'd get here first. And I'm unsure of his state of mind right now. Although my guess is, he's gloating.”
“Get here? What makes you think he left?”
“Because he was in Berkshire and in London. He followed me to Pearson Manor. And after I left there last night, he killed Glynnis Martin and kidnapped Emma.”
For a minute, Breanna wondered if she'd heard right. “What?” She forced the room to right itself. “You'd better explain.”
Royce did, beginning with his interviews with the dowager and Glynnis and Emma Martin, moving to Emma's decision to go to her father, and then touching on the uneasiness that had besieged him upon leaving the manor that night. He culminated with what had happened this morning, when Bow Street gave him the shocking news of Glynnis's murder and Emma's disappearance.
“I don't understand,” Breanna replied, attempting to sort out all Royce had just said. “Why would you assume the assassin did this? It sounds more like the work of that killer Bow Street's looking for.”
“It is. They're one and the same.”
“Yes,” Hibbert murmured behind her. “It would seem they are.” He rose, pacing about for a minute before turning to face Royce thoughtfully. “All the noblemen died the same way?”
“Yes. A bullet to the heart”
“Just like the dolls, the chemise, and now the sketch,” Hibbert responded. “The blood on all of them is painted in the chest area.” He pursed his lips. “You think the murders were all part of a game?”
“More like target practice. Except Glynnis. That was a message to me.”
“He wants you to stay away.”
“Exactly.”
Breanna stared from one man to the other. “He killed people as practice?”
Royce didn't insult her by softening the truth. “Yes.”
“You didn't tell your theory to Bow Street, I presume,” Hibbert said, more a statement of fact than a question.
“No. I have no proof.”
One of Hibbert's brows rose. “Not to mention that you want to catch this blackguard yourself.”
“Not to mention that,” Royce concurred, a cold light guttering in his eyes. “There's a missing piece, though.”
“The kidnappings.”
“Right. That's the other thing Marks told me. The news hadn't gotten out yet, but apparently Hart's wife was kidnapped last night, too. So now all the victims have missing wives.”
“Except Ryder, who has a missing daughter.” Pensively, Hibbert stroked his chin. “Ransom makes no sense. Who would pay it?”
“That's what I want you to tell me. Cheek out all the victims. Find out everything you can: who'd inherit if their wives were gone, who drew up their wills, who had a grudge against them—anything that might give us some answers. This assassin doesn't do anything at random. Everything is planned with th
e utmost precision. He specifically chose his victims, just as he chose to kidnap their wives. There's got to be a reason why. Which means there's a common thread among the victims, besides the fact that they were all of noble birth.”
“Glynnis Martin wasn't of noble birth. But then, I notice you've omitted her from your reasoning.”
“Bow Street minks the killer came looking for Ryder and killed Glynnis when she spotted him.”
“And you mink he killed Glynnis to warn you away from Lady Breanna.”
“I know he did.”
“I agree. What’s more, he probably took her daughter to best you.”
“Or to divert me from Breanna.”
“Yes—or that.” Hibbert pondered his impending task. “I'll begin looking for the common link among the victims. All but Glynnis Martin. I’ll assume his motive there was to get at you.”
“A wise assumption.” Royce looked about restlessly, spied Wells hovering in the doorway, his expression stricken “Wells, I'll need to see the sketch. And the basket.” He hesitated, turned to Breanna. “Do you want to go upstairs and lie down? You don't have to go through this again.”
“No.” Breanna gave a hard shake of her head. She might be dazed, overwhelmed by all she had to process, but about this point she was adamant “I want to stay here. I need to help resolve my own fate, as well as Stacie's and her babe's.”
“All right” With a flicker of understanding, Royce signaled to Wells to get the package, then waited while he complied.
“The killer had to have been here,” Royce murmured, after carefully studying each item. “Not just outside the gate, or on the grounds, or even stealing in and out of Breanna's room. He had to have been in the manor for a substantial period of time. Enough time to see Breanna up close, memorize the details of what she was wearing. He also had to have been at the party to hear news of Anastasia's announcement. It's too soon for outsiders to know about her pregnancy. The party just ended last evening. The package was left on the messenger's doorstep before daybreak. And the killer spent the night rushing from Berkshire to London. So he didn't stop to eavesdrop on street corners.”
“Not to mention that he had to have been here if he followed you to Pearson Manor,” Breanna added. “How else would he have known you'd located Emma Martin, and that you intended to ride out to see her? You got that message during the ball. Only those present knew about it.”
