by Andrea Kane
“True.”
“So where do we begin looking?” Breanna demanded. “Do we go back to our plan to interrogate the guests?”
“We don’t do anything,” Royce replied pointedly. “Hibbert and I do. We didn’t have much of a chance to question anybody before Hart was killed. We’ll ‘ have to rectify that. Before that, we’ll eliminate any other possibilities, however small: workmen who still have access to the grounds, drivers who delivered provisions for the party, even Mahoney’s guards. Anyone who could gain entry to the estate.”
“You don’t really think any of those people is the killer, do you?”
“No. I think the killer is on your guest list.” Royce scanned the note. “This was penned by an educated man. It’s well-written, polished. I don’t know too many workmen with the kind of privileged lives that would afford them a formal education. That, combined with the effortless way he got into your room and onto the grounds to kill Hart, his knowledge of what went on at the party—I’d say it looks more and more likely that the killer was one of the guests. Still, I don’t want to overlook anything.”
Breanna sank back against the settee, bile rising in her throat. “The very thought of him chatting with my family, laughing with us, eating with us, maybe even dancing with—”
“Breanna, stop.” Royce pressed a silencing forefinger to her lips. “There’s no point in speculating. It saps strength and wastes time. The important thing is that we find him.” He rose, gave the box back to Hibbert. “Find out all you can about the victims,” he instructed. “Wells, before Hibbert leaves, give him a list of everyone, from delivery boys to final members of the construction crew, who had access to the grounds this week. Also, tell Mahoney I want to see him. I plan to interview each of his men separately.”
Hibbert nodded. “You’ll guard Lady Breanna’s door tonight, I presume?”
“Oh, yes.” Royce’s jaw tightened fractionally. “I’ll be there. I intend to use those hours to pore over the guest list and do some thinking. Between what you find out for me tomorrow and what I figure out on my own, I intend to come up with some answers.”
18
The brothel was posh, significantly more elegant than the clingy one outside Paris where she'd worked as a girl.
Then again, she'd been a child then, grateful for a place to sleep and a few francs in her pocket. She'd have done anything to keep from starving, even work in the Maison Fleur, offering her body to any soldier who could pay for it.
She'd come a long way since those dark days at Maison Fleur, when Napoleon's rise to power was at its peak. She'd clawed her way out of poverty, demonstrated herself to be a shrewd businesswoman. She'd taken a new name, bestowed it upon Le Joyau, the luxurious establishment of which she was now the proud proprietor.
She hadn't expected to see Ansel again.
Their affair had ended long before the war. They came not only from different countries, but from different worlds. It was one thing when he'd been merely a patron, hi bed, they'd been equals. He'd paid handsomely for her time; she'd provided the extravagant levels of sexual gratification he craved. But when feelings had intruded, complicating the relationship and transforming it from lust into passion into something even more—something strong enough to compel him to keep her in his life—everything had changed.
Suddenly they were no longer equals. Suddenly, he was demanding that she become an aristocrat's mistress—a role she found far more demeaning than that of whore. Being someone's “kept woman” would strip her of her independence, a condition she couldn't abide. After all, she was as proud and vital as he, his match in every way.
Which was what he found so fascinating about her.
She'd never said good-bye. It would have been too overwhelming. He would have been infuriated. His rages were difficult enough to control, although she knew just how to do so. In her own way, her fires burned as fiercely as his. But he would have misconstrued anything she said, taken it as rejection—and that would have pushed him too fan No, it was better to simply drop out of sight, allow him to conjure up whatever excuse his brilliant, arrogant mind chose to.
His finding her again, particularly now, had been a spectacular surprise. Because now her circumstances were different. Now, she could meet him on her own terms. She was financially independent, mistress of her fate, in the prime of life and in extraordinarily high demand.
Not only was their reunion exhilarating, but its timing was bonne chance.
Or, if not luck, an unexpected but welcome series of circumstances.
Either way, he was back in her life—a life that was already thriving and now promised to soar.
Draped across the sheets of the lush, oversized bed, Maurelle sighed, stretching her arms overhead and feeling that bone-weary contentment only Ansel could ensure.
Beside her, he exhaled sharply, releasing whatever lingering fragments of tension still plagued him.
“Better?” she murmured, tipping up her chin to study him.
He smiled, a rare gesture that reached up to his enigmatic eyes. “Much. Finally.”
She laughed, rubbing her thigh against his. “It did take more vigor than usual to quiet your rage. You've been in my bed for hours.”
“And I'll be here hours more.” He pulled her over him, his anger transformed once again into that bottomless lust that made their reunions so frenzied and so satisfying.
He drove into her with a violence she found thrilling, and her eyes slid shut, her body tightening as if to meet his violence with her own. He groaned, impaling her again, battering her with the force of his thrusts.
This climax was even more shattering than the last.
Afterward, she leaned up on her elbow, her hair a dark curtain sweeping his chest. “You really are edgy,” she murmured, when she was able to catch her breath. “Usually your job drains you. Not so this time. To whom do I owe my good fortune—or need I ask?”
He regarded her from beneath hooded lids. “I won't rest until she's dead. The torture is taking longer than expected. She's acquired a knight. He has to be diverted—or eliminated.”
“I see.” Maurelle nodded, leaned up to nibble on his chin. “So that explains the rapid delivery of this shipment—and the fact that you came with it?”
“Partly. The rest is simply because I missed you.” His good hand reached up, fingers combing her hair off her face. “It's been too long. And I don't intend to let you slip away again.”
Maurelle smiled, shifting to bring him more fully inside her. “I'm not going anywhere.” Seeing the familiar scowl, she added, “I told you why I left last time, darling. I felt unworthy. Things are different now. I won't be disappearing.”
“Soon I'll be here to stay,” he told her, the scowl fading as quickly as it had come. “We'll spend the winters where it's warm. And summers we'll spend anywhere you want—Paris, the Far East—anywhere.”
She trailed her finger down his chest. “Will I be enough excitement for you, I wonder.”
“I could ask you the same.”
“Oh, yes, quite enough.” A melting smile. “We're well-matched, you and I. In business and in bed.” Thoughtfully, she contemplated his promise for the future. “Until the day comes when you're here for good, I'll have to settle for these visits. How long can you stay in Paris this time?”
His hand stilled its motion. “Only a day. I must complete things.” A flicker of interest crossed his face. “It should be fascinating to see what Lady Breanna's protector has done during my absence. If he's half as clever as I suspect, he's probably looming over the desk of that Bow Street runner Marks, telling him the killer who shot Glynnis Martin is the same one who's hunting down Breanna Colby.”
Maurelle started. “If that's true, won't Bow Street be closer to finding you?”
“Not at all. Linking the two killers tells them nothing. Chadwick has to uncover my flawless plan—end my equally flawless aim. My guess is, he'll figure out the latter—eventually. He w
on't deduce the former.”
“In other words—?”
“In other words, you're quite safe, my love. Chadwick will make the connection between the precise method I used to murder those noblemen and the one I intend to use on Lady Breanna. My gifts alone should have shown him that. As to who I am, why I chose those particular men and, most particularly, my relationship with you, that he'll never pieee together. But, if he should, I'll either have finished my business in England and be here with you permanently, or hell be silenced, permanently. Either way, raising the stakes has made this a much more exciting chase. Don't you think?”
“It certainly sounds that way.” She inclined her head, more curious than worried. She knew Ansel and he was too brilliant to leave any stone unturned—most particularly any stones that might endanger her. “What about Bow Street?”
“Bow Street?” A scornful laugh. “They're less of a threat than Chadwick. By the time they've absorbed all the information bis lordship provides, decide what to do with it, you and I will be sailing the world.”
“Mmm. That sounds heavenly.” She gave him a quizzical look. “Chadwick—is that the name of Lady Breanna's knight?”
“Indeed it is. Lord Royce Chadwick. Eminent locator of missing people.” The hard edge had crept back into his voice.
“Really.” Maurelle kept her tone light. “Then I have more than Lady Breanna to thank for your fervor. It seems I have Lord Royce Chadwick to thank, too.”
A breeding stare. “Excitement comes with its price, Maurelle. So if you're probing to find out if my earlier rage extended to Chadwick, I'll save you the trouble. The answer is yes. The man might represent a challenge, but he's also an unwelcome intrusion. I look forward to either besting him or killing him— whichever comes first.”
Sensing it was time to change the subject, Maurelle settled herself closer. She could still feel the undercurrents of violence rippling through him, and she draped herself over him, cloaking him like a comforting blanket. “Obviously, some of that rage and excitement are still lingering. Give me an hour to regain my strength. Then, I'll burn away the rest.”
He didn't answer. He just lay silently beneath her, savoring her softness and continuing to twine his fingers in her hair.
The clock ticked on, and he felt her breathing even into slumber.
It was times like this when he realized just how much he needed her. He rarely let himself ponder that fact. It only served to remind him that she was his weakness—his only weakness. But he knew in his gut that's precisely what she was. What's more, she knew it, too.
She was far too smart to betray him. However, she was also far too smart not to perceive—and to use—her power over him. And oh what power it was.
He'd been vibrating with fury when he arrived in Paris. He'd been that way from the moment he saw
Chadwick's carriage leave Medford Manor—without Hibbert in it. Did they take him for a fool? They now knew otherwise. He'd beaten them at their own game.
Winning hadn't helped. He'd still felt that burning emotion churning in his stomach, pounding through his veins. Neither the murder at Pearson Manor nor the kidnapping of Emma Martin and Lady Hart had appeased it. He'd sailed from London immediately and, upon reaching Calais, he'd ridden for Paris like a wildman, his two pieces of cargo in tow.
It was only now, after hours in Maurelle's bed, that he felt the anger recede, the tension seeping from his body like the blood would soon seep from Lady Breanna's.
No one, nothing, did that for him but Maurelle.
He could hardly wait to have her forever.
Idly, he wondered how long it would take Chadwick to figure out the identical methods he'd used to kill all his victims. Probably not long. The bullet wounds were in the exact same spot on each body. One bullet. One clean shot, directly to the heart.
He never needed more than that.
Chadwick would become a permanent fixture at Bow Street, urging them to listen to his theory. They wouldn't, of course, not right away. Breanna Colby's hardships were not their problem, nor was the death of Glynnis Martin who, in their estimation, was nothing more than a servant. Their attention would be focused on investigating Hart's missing wife, tying together the four murders that mattered.
Pleading his case would keep Chadwick busy.
He'd have to stay in London, a substantial distance from Medford Manor.
Leaving only Hibbert to contend with.
The thought brought a tight smile to his lips. The old man didn't stand a chance of stopping him. Neither did that aged butler Wells. The same for Sheldrake. The marquess was a gifted banker, but an inept opponent.
Within the week, Sheldrake's wife and unborn child would be dead. And then... Lady Breanna.
Ah, that reminded him. He had a purchase to make while he was in Paris. Maurelle would do the honors. After which, the gift would accompany him back to England.
Where it would be delivered to Breanna Colby's door.
Something was nagging at Royce.
Sitting outside Breanna's door, he shifted his weight, stretched his legs out in front of him and resettled himself in the chair. Intently, he stared at his journal, poring over the details about the killer he'd listed.
Some of those notes applied to the assassin who'd killed four noblemen. Some applied to the assassin who intended to kill Breanna.
Being that those men were one and the same, there had to be a link.
But what?
He was convinced the killer had been a guest at Breanna's party.
That certainty had come after repeatedly reviewing the names of the workmen and delivery companies that Wells had provided, then speaking with Mahoney and each of the guards—and eliminating them all as suspects.
So the guest list was the key. Royce scanned it again, wishing some name would jump out at him as the logical choice. It didn't.
He leaned his head back against the wall, temporarily abandoning his notes to contemplate what he knew about the assassin.
He was educated. He was well-bred, a member of either the gentry or the ton.
Which meant that financial status factored heavily into his life. And that meant that, if his own financial status were threatened, and he could somehow gain access to all the victims' funds, it might provide a motive for murder.
That avenue, Royce had already explored. Farfetched or not, he'd pursued it throughout a good portion of the evening. He realized the question of access to the victims' funds would have to wait until Hibbert returned with whatever information he uncovered. But, in the interim, Royce had set out to learn who might be experiencing financial trouble.
He hadn't far to go for his answers. No one knew more about the status of people's finances than Damen. Not only was he at the heart of England's banking community, virtually every one of the guests had funds at the House of Lockewood.
Damen had spent two full hours reviewing all the names on the guest list. He'd compared them with his personal sources as well as his banking records.
Not one of the partygoers fit the bill.
Not that Royce was surprised. Instinct told him that greed had little to do with this. This was showmanship in its truest form. A show of power, superiority, and control, coupled with the vindictiveness and rage of a twisted mind.
He knew the type well. He'd dealt with it many times, and could spot it in a heartbeat.
But it had never been this brilliantly concealed.
Which brought him back to his notes.
He leaned over the page, staring at the words he'd jotted down.
A man paid to kill. Yet one who was willing, no eager, to kill for reasons other than money, at least in the case of Breanna.
If the assassin's nature was as Royce suspected, it wasn't money that drove him. It was power. Which explained why he'd killed four other victims to taunt Breanna and hone his skills for her demise. But the particular victims he'd chosen—now that was another matter.
&nbs
p; Why had he selected those specific noblemen? What the hell did they have in common?
Royce's eyes narrowed on the page. He had the distinct feeling he was overlooking something that was staring him right in the face.
Dammit.
He was just about to start poring over the facts anew when Breanna's door opened a crack. “Royce?”
He pivoted in his chair. Breanna hovered in the doorway, looking a trifle uncertain. She was still fully dressed despite the fact that it was nearly 3 A.M.
“I thought you were asleep.” Royce frowned, rising to his feet and taking an inadvertent step toward hen “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing's wrong.” She wet her lips with the hp of her tongue, then blurted out, “You told me to ask for help when I need it, not to take on the world alone. I'm having trouble settling down. My mind is racing. I'd like someone to talk to.” A dignified pause. “If you don't mind.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, reminding himself that this was the second night he hadn't slept, that his reserves and his self-restraint were severely worn. He had long hours of work ahead of him, and being alone with her was a terrible idea, especially in light of the fact that he was still grappling with his raw, unresolved feelings for her.
He was about to say no, to point out all the reasons why he couldn't do as she asked. Then, he met her gaze, saw how much this expression of need had cost her. To turn her away would be like a harsh slap in the face.
To her, and perhaps to himself.
“I don't mind,” he replied, garnering up his notes and stepping into the room. “I'm hitting my head against a brick wall right now anyway.”
Breanna nodded, smoothing her hair in that proper way she had—a way that belied the astonishing sensuality he knew hovered just beyond reach.
Beyond everyone's reach but his.
He squelched that particular line of thought, determined to give her whatever comfort she sought.
“I built up the fife,” she told him, shutting the door and rubbing her arms for warmth. She crossed over, indicating the two armchairs she'd pulled over to the hearth. “Is this all right?”
