The Silver Coin

by Andrea Kane

  “He'll die next,” Crompton vowed, hatred etched on his features, pervading his tone. “I'll relish that mo­ment. Then, I'll do away with Wells and Hibbert, and whoever else gets in my way, including Sheldrake.” He paused, the taste of victory on his tongue. “I won't have further need of the House of Lockewood anyway. You and I will be sailing away this very night.”

  Maurelle nodded eagerly. “Oui. I can hardly wait.”

  Inside the next room, Wells stood, taut and ready, his fingers gripping the door handle.

  He forced himself to wait, to follow Lord Royce 's instructions to the letter.

  He remained still, listening as Crompton exited with Maurelle, their footsteps moving toward the rear of the house, then fading into silence.

  Instantly, he rushed from his room and upstairs to the library.

  “He freed her, my lord,” he announced breathlessly to Royce. “They just left the house. Through the bad entrance, I think.”

  “Excellent.” Royce checked his pistol, a fierce light glinting in his eyes. “Let's give them a minute. I want Crompton a healthy distance from the manor, for Bre­anna and Anastasia's sake. Then, the rest is up to me.”

  “No.” Damen stood, snatching up his own gun “It's up to us. I want him dead as much as you do. Be­sides, it's you who's been goading him. If he sees you, he'll go after you with a vengeance. You'll need help.”

  Royce gave a terse nod.

  Breanna bit her hp, exchanging a quick, worried glance with Stacie.

  Before either woman could speak up, Hibbert announced, “Wells and I are coming, too.” He flourished his weapon.

  “Definitely.” Wells produced the pistol Hibbert had provided him. “This isn't a question of honor, my lord,” he advised Royce. “The viscount could be any­where. The grounds are vast. And I know them better than anyone.”

  “You're right,” Royce concurred. He went to Brean­na, gripped her shoulders. “You and Anastasia go upstairs to my chambers. Tell two of the guards to stand outside the door. Stay put. That's just to be on the safe side, since Crompton assumes you're in the library. But he's thinking of Maurelle right now, not you. So he'll be heading away from the manor, not to­ward it.”

  “Very well,” Breanna murmured.

  Stacie couldn't bear her passive role another in­stant. She jumped up from her chair. “But, Royce, I want to—”

  “Stacie.” Breanna's quiet admonishment silenced her. “ L et the men do what they have to. Otherwise, Crompton will escape.” She met her cousin's gaze, and a current of communication ran between them. “It's best this way.”

  “All right.” Stacie ceased her protests.

  Breanna rose up, kissed Royce gently. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Soberly, Breanna watched her future husband walk away, along with three men who meant the world to her.

  She waited only until she and Stacie were alone. Then, she whirled about to face her cousin. “What are you planning?” Stacie hissed.

  “I’m planning to stop Crompton and protect the men we love.” “How?”

  “By doing what we do best.” Breanna heard the front door shut, and she grasped Stacie's arm. “Come on. We must work quickly.”

  She hurried into the heft, snatching the two dark mantles that belonged to her and Stacie. “Put this on,” she instructed Stacie, tossing her one of the wraps and shrugging into the other. “After that well...'' Abruptly, she stopped, a self-depreciating expression darting across her face. “What was I thinking?” she murmured, her gaze falling to Stacie's abdomen. “Your babe. I won't endanger your child.” She gave an adamant shake of her head. “I'll manage this alone.” That done, she reached up, began tugging pins out of her hair, releasing the upswept knot and letting it tumble free.

  “No, you won't.” Stacie yanked on her own mantle, realization mingling with fierce determination. “We're switching places,” she said, a statement of fact more than conjecture.

  Breanna hesitated.

  “Breanna, you need me for whatever it is you're planning. Besides ...” Stacie laid a protective palm over her abdomen, “my going after Crompton won't mean endangering my babe. It will mean saving it Destroying that, man is the only true protection I can offer my child. Right now he—or she—is at risk. It's my responsibility to eliminate that risk. In short, you need me, and I need to do this. So, tell me, shall I put up my heft? We are switching places, right?”

  “Yes and no,” Breanna told her, relenting. “We're each being both of us.”

  Stacie paused in the midst of buttoning her mantle. “Y ou've lost me.”

  Breanna faced her, drew a slow breath. “Crompton will never leave Medford for good. Not as long as we're alive. So if he flees with Maurelle, well go right back to living in perpetual fear and uncertainty. I can't bear that thought. Nor can I bear the thought of what he'll do to Royce and Damen if he finds them before they find him. We have to eliminate that possibility.”

  “How?”

  Another pause. “Stacie, this plan borders on reck­less.”

  “Not as reckless as letting Crompton escape. That would be akin to a death sentence—for us and my babe.”

  “Y ou're sure you want to—?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Breanna nodded, knowing there was no changing Stacie's mind, equally sure that, were it she who was pregnant, she would make the same choice—for her child's sake. “We're going to lure him back. We're going to provide the viscount with exactly what he wants: us. The only problem is, he won't know which of us is which. And that will pose a major obstacle to that consummate plan of his. Remember, he means to kill you first. With one bullet. No mistakes.”

  “True,” Stacie concurred, understanding dawning on her face. “And he can't very well do that—not with utter certainty—unless he's sure it's me he's firing at. Why, he could be undermining his entire plan, killing you first. It would reverse his order and deny him the sick pleasure of torturing you further, making you watch me die. That would be unthinkable after all his meticulous planning.”

  “Exactly. To a man like Crompton, certainty is everything. And how can he be certain? He'll see two Anastasia's: you,” Breanna altered her voice, dropped her clipped accent in favor of Stacie's Americanized tones, “and me.” She finished shaking out her tresses, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, loose and unin­hibited like Stacie's. “It's risky, but it's the only way we can protect the men we love, and be sure Cromp­ton doesn't vanish, only to keep terrorizing us.”

  “I agree.” Stacie nodded, her mind racing. “We 'll have to stay far enough apart so Crompton believes we're each alone, yet nearby enough to appear at a moment's notice—so that whichever one of us Cromp­ton spots first can be quickly joined by the other.”

  “Right.” Breanna finished her preparations. “Once we've done that, we'll have to challenge his pride without pushing him over the edge. We'll simply re­mind him that if he were truly the master shot he claims to be, he'd know which of us was which. We 'll point out that to fulfill his plan, he has to shoot Ana­stasia first with Breanna watching—and that he has to kill us with only one bullet apiece.” She raised her chin. “We'll each take a pistol. The minute Crompton turns away from one of us and provides the other with a clear shot, that Anastasia will fire.” Breanna's gaze grew intense. “Stacie, I asked myself this ques­tion days ago, and answered it. Now I'm asking you—can you shoot to kill? Because I can.”

  Stacie's palm strayed back to her abdomen, ca­ressed her unborn child. “Oh, yes, Breanna. When it comes to the Viscount Crompton, I can shoot to kill.”

  29

  Breanna walked slowly through the thatch of trees on the south side of the estate.

  Her instincts told her that Crompton would use this avenue to escape. Stacie's had concurred.

  If anyone knew the grounds of Medford Manor bet­ter than Wells, it was they. They were the ones who had played here as children, found hiding spots, climbed trees. And they were the ones who kne
w the densest areas in which to conceal oneself.

  They'd intentionally left their hoods down. Their hair—a bright, burnished auburn—guttered in the moonlight, highly visible even in the darkness of night.

  Gripping the handle of her pistol, Breanna placed one foot before the other, her heart hammering as she surveyed the deserted grounds. Every shivering leaf, every whoosh of wind made her jump, her stomach dotting as she contemplated what she was walking

  Worse, what she'd talked Stacie into walking into.

  Her cousin was with child. What if this plan went wrong? What if Crompton was no longer exacting, in control? What if he went wild, shot them both? What if...?

  No. She clenched her teeth, forced herself to stop dunking that way. Stacie's babe was in danger whether or not they enacted this plan, and it would continue to be in danger as long as Crompton lived.

  They had to stop him.

  A twig snapped behind her, and everything inside Breanna went numb. A sort of sickening, fatalistic awareness came over her, and she knew.

  The moment of reckoning had arrived.

  As if in a dream, she turned, not the least surprised to find the Viscount Crompton leaning against a tree, eyeing her calmly.

  “You've made this far too easy,” he commented, adjusting his gloves and watching dispassionately as she raised her pistol with a trembling hand. “Don't be ab­surd. You can scarcely hold that weapon, much less fire it.” His arm snapped up, and the glint of his pistol flashed as he aimed it at her heart. “Whereas I...” A biting smile, and Breanna could see the madness in his eyes. “I'm a perfect shot.”

  He watched her frantically scrutinize the area be­side him, and easily read her thoughts. “You're searching for Maurelle. Did you propose to hold her at gunpoint in the hopes of bringing me to my knees? Don't bother. You'd be dead before you finished aim­ing. Besides, she's off the estate. I made sure she was safely ensconced in my carriage before I came back to get you and Lady Breanna.” His features hardened. “Now put down the pistol. Or I'll make your execu­tion so painful, so prolonged, you'll beg for death.”

  His middle finger hovered over the trigger. “You can die quickly. Or you can die with agonizing slowness. The choice is yours. Make it.”

  Breanna sized up her options, which were nil. She could try to shoot him, but it would be suicide. He could elude her bullet by simply stepping behind the tree, whereas she was utterly exposed, and standing before an expert marksman. Her only hope was to throw down her gun and keep him talking until Sta­cie arrived.

  “Very well.” She tossed her pistol to the grass.

  “A wise choice,” Crompton informed her dryly. “You would have failed, and died a horrible death doing it. Whereas I never fail.”

  “You did last August,” Breanna reminded him, careful to use Stacie's voice. “My uncle hired you to shoot me, and you didn't.”

  Hatred twisted Crompton's features. “That was be­cause of your wretched cousin. By the way, where is she?” he added, his middle finger pressing closer to the trigger. “Wherever you are, she can't be far be­hind. And I'm determined she should watch this.”

  As if in answer to his own question, his head jerked around, and he stepped backward, shifting to aim his pistol to the left, while keeping Breanna in his sight. “Come out, Lady Breanna,” he invited icily, angling his head to survey the area from which Stacie was ob­viously approaching. “I can hear you. Ah, now I can see you,” he determined with great satisfaction. “Therefore, I'll coax you out in a more convincing manner.” With that, he fired—one shot—and Breanna jumped, stifling her shriek. Dear God—Stacie.

  What had he done?

  A cry of surprise and a thud followed the shot, and Crompton smiled cruelly, beckoning Stacie forward. “See?” he taunted with a vicious glare. “I can do it without mutilating your finger the way you did mine.” His jaw clenched. “Now get out here and join your cousin.”

  Anastasia stepped out, her eyes wide with stunned apprehension, her hands unscathed, but devoid of a weapon.

  Crompton's shot had sent it hurtling to the ground.

  Which left both women unarmed.

  Despite that fact, Breanna nearly collapsed with re­lief when she saw that Stacie was unharmed. T hey were in trouble. But they were alive.

  Someone had to have heard that shot, she told her­self. Wherever the men were, they would rush to Sta­cie's and her aid.

  Crompton was too obsessed with lolling them to consider that fact. So, it was up to them to keep him occupied until help arrived.

  “Get over there where I can see you,” Crompton was ordering Stacie. “Next to Lady Anastasia.”

  Breanna saw Stacie regain control, saw the flicker in her eyes as she reached the same realization Breanna had. She did as Crompton asked, walking slowly, her chin held high. “Next to Lady Anastasia? I am Lady Anastasia.”

  “Unless I am Breanna challenged, boldly meeting his gaze.

  For the first time, Crompton became aware of their identical appearances and voice inflections, and he hesitated, looking quickly from one of them to the other. “What kind of childish game are you playing?”

  “No game, my lord.” Breanna didn't know where she found the strength to confront him. But she did— just as she'd confronted her father last summer.

  “It's reality,” she continued, hearing her own voice—no, Stacie's voice, but coming from her mouth. “We're just pointing out that either of us could be Anastasia. Or Breanna. And that presents you with a problem. You did boast you could kill each of us with one bullet—and that the first bullet was meant for Anastasia. Well, how do you intend to manage that without knowing which of us is she?”

  Crompton's eyes narrowed. “I've been an expert marksman for more years than you've been alive. I've never been bested, not in or out of battle. Do you hon­estly believe you—two insignificant little chits—can outwit me?”

  “We're not trying to outwit you,” Breanna assured him, curtaining all signs of arrogance. “We're just curi­ous. You've sent us note after note declaring your superiority, vowing your intentions and your capabilities. We're just curious how you would carry out your plan given this particular counterattack. Even if it is being launched by two insignificant chits.”

  A muscle pulsed in Crompton's cheek, and he turned his furious gaze on Breanna. “You've given yourself away. Breanna is a mouse. Medford made sure of it. Clearly, you're Anastasia.” He paused, gauging her reaction.

  “Maybe I am,” Breanna agreed.

  “On the other hand, maybe not,” Stacie posed. “After all, my uncle has been in prison for months now. Breanna has come into her own during that time. So how can you be sure I'm not Anastasia? You disappoint us, my lord. You've never relied upon infe­rior tactics such as badgering people into providing you with answers. You've always found your own an­swers. Anyone can make a lucky guess. But you've al­ways been so certain.”

  “You have us at your mercy” Breanna admitted with a sad shrug. “We know that. We realize we're both going to die. We only want to know how you're going to kill us without risking your entire reputa­tion.”

  There was a wild light in Crompton's eyes now. “Damn you both. I won't forfeit my rank and posi­tion. I'm the ultimate marksman. I can outmaneuver anyone.”

  He broke off, sweat beading on his brow, the ten­sion in his arm easing a bit as his deranged but bril­liant mind raced for answers.

  For an instant, Breanna thought they had won, that he was actually going to crumple before their eyes.

  She was truly considering lunging for his gun, when he snapped back to attention. A sudden tri­umphant smile curved his lips, and his self-control re­asserted itself, the wildness in his eyes dimming. His arm stiffened, his fingers gripping the pistol even more firmly than before.

  “Very well,” he said silkily. “Let's have it your way. I won't waste a bullet. I'll just designate a third—one per person. After all, there is a third person here to consider.” He lowered his pistol a n
otch, aiming for Breanna's abdomen. “My first bullet will go to your child. Your unborn child.” He jerked his wrist side­ways, shifting to aim at Stacie's abdomen. “It will die before its mother. So bid it farewell.” His arm lurched back and forth, alternating between the two women.

  It was Stacie who acted, instinctively leaning over to shield her unborn babe, covering her abdomen with both hands.

  Crompton inclined his head in mock tribute. “A touching show of maternal protectiveness, Lady Shel­drake. And an ingenious approach on my part. Now I am certain.” He turned his gun on her, gestured for her to straighten. “Now that we've established my su­periority and resolved this amusing deception, I can finish my business and be gone.”

  He raised his arm a notch, aiming for her heart.

  Without thinking, Breanna lurched to the left, plant­ed herself in front of Stacie. “The only way you're going to kill my cousin is through me,” she an­nounced in a murderous tone that was totally foreign to her. She reached around behind her, held Stacie's arm so she remained firmly in place. “I can't stop you from killing us. But I won't give you the satisfaction of doing it the way you planned. You're going to fail, Lord Crompton. At least on some level. I'm going to die first. You won't rectify last summer's mistake be­forehand. Nor will I watch Stacie die. So, once again, you'll be bested.”

  With a vile oath, Crompton strode over, grabbed Breanna by the throat, his fingers biting into her as he flung her aside. “No, you little bitch, I won't.” He moved quickly, before she had an opportunity to catch her breath much less rise. He lowered his boot­ed foot to her chest and pressed, pinning her painfully to the ground. “Say good-bye to your cousin,” he commanded, raising his pistol and pointing it at Anastasia. “She's about to die. And then I'll finally, fi nally have the ultimate pleasure of blasting away your life.”

  “Think again, Crompton.”

  Royce's voice rumbled out of nowhere, and Crompton whipped around, pistol raised.

  He was still in motion when Royce's shot rang out.

  The bullet pierced Crompton's chest, sent him jerking backwards from the impact.

  A look of utter disbelief crossed his face.