The Silver Coin (2 page)

Breanna’s eyes sparkled, and she laughed aloud. “Not yet. But any day now. That’s why I was in such a hurry. Do you remember that house party Stacie and I toyed with having when she returned? What would you think aboutplanning it now,andmakingit a homecoming, holiday, and birthday celebration all rolled into one? I know, I know,” she rushed on, as Wells opened his mouth to reply. “It’s not enough notice to give our guests. I should have done this sooner. But it completely slipped my mind. Perhaps if I hand-delivered the invitations myself, it would soothe enough feathers to make the party possible?” She shot Wells a hopeful look.

“I doubt it,” he replied.

Her entire face fell. “Very well then. We’ll host the party after the holidays.”

“We’ll do no such thing.” Wells readjusted his spectacles. “Not after all the work we’ve done.”

Breanna’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “Pardon me?”

“Mrs. Charles and I. We waited until half of November was gone. When you didn’t begin planning the party, we did. The guest list was completed by the first of December, and invitations went out last week. Mrs. Rhodes is hard at work on the menu, and I believe she and Mrs. Charles have hired the musicians as well. The day after Miss Stacie arrives home, you and she can pick out the fabrics for your gowns. They’ll be ready within a week. Of course, anything I’ve forgotten, including any last-minute touches, will be left to the two of you.”

Disbelief flashed across Breanna’s face, and laughter bubbled up in her throat. “Would you care to tell me when this party will take place?”

“The twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth of December. That will give Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake plenty of time to arrive and settle in, and all of us a chance to enjoy a quiet holiday as a family before our guests descend upon us. It will also give you a chance to breathe before your stream of callers arrive on New Year’s Day.” Wells’s lips twitched. “The same stream of callers that filled those rare hours when you weren’t overseeing the building of Miss Stacie’s new home. Why, it’s no wonder you were too busy to remember your wish to hold this party—and to plan it.”

Breanna stopped laughing only long enough to toss Wells a sheepish look. “You’re right. And I’m sorry.” She stood on tiptoe, kissed Wells’s lined cheek. “You, my friend, have rescued me more times than I care to count. You’re a constant source of amazement.”

A coiner of his mouth lifted as he took her mantle, hung it away. “You and Miss Stacie keep me young. Exhausted, but young.” He turned back to her, growing sober. “However, there is one difference. Miss Stacie has found the future your grandfather prayed she’d find. She’s happy, whole. But you—I worry about you, Miss Breanna. You’re still searching. You rarely consider your own happiness. So it’s up to me to do it for you.”

“By happiness I assume you mean properly wed,” Breanna noted dryly. She gave Wells’s arm a squeeze. “Well, stop worrying. I barely give marriage a second thought”

“I know. That’s why I worry.”

She chewed her lip to keep from chuckling at his forlorn tone. “I hate to shatter your dreams, Wells, but if you’ve planned this party in the hopes that I’ll meet my future husband there, you’re bound for disappointment I’m doubtless acquainted with all the guests you’ve chosen to invite. And, as I conjure up a memory of each one of them…” She wrinkled her nose. “Let’s just say it’s unlikely I’ll be making any wedding plans this coming year.” A sudden notion struck, and she arched a suspicious brow in Wells’s direction. “Idoknow all our guests, don’t I, Wells? You haven’t arranged any chance encounters with potential suitors?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, no. Although not for want of trying. It’s just that all the eligible gentlemen I had in mind are unavailable; either because they’re away or because they have the poor judgment to be involved with other women—women who are unquestionably less remarkable than you. However, I’m hoping that Lord Sheldrake will be able to suggest—”

“No,” Breanna “interrupted. “I don’t want Damen playing Cupid.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not.” She gave a vehement shake of her head. The gesture loosened one of her smoothly coiffed auburn tresses enough to send it toppling to her neck—a condition she promptly rectified by tucking the tress back beneath its pin. “I’ll leave my future to fate. And sowill you,” she added meaningfully.

Before Wells could further his argument, a knock sounded at the front door.

Breanna pivoted about, eyeing the door quizzically. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Perhaps fate,” Wells suggested wryly.

A grin. “Then by all means, let her in.”

Wells complied, turning the handle and swinging the door wide.

A uniformed messenger stood on the step, turning up his collar against the winter chill. “I have a package for Lady Breanna Colby,” he announced to Wells, gripping a box in both hands.

“I am she.” Breanna stepped forward, accepting the package and examining it curiously.”Iwonder whoit’sfrom,” she murmured, waiting until the messenger had received his shillings and gone before investigating further.

“One of your suitors, perhaps?”

“I don’t have any suitors, Wells,” she corrected, wriggling the top off the box. “I merely have…” Her voice trailed off as she peeled back the paper, looked inside. “What in the name of…” She placed the box on a low table in the hallway, and lifted out two small dolls, both with red hair and green eyes. The dolls wore identical pale-blue day dresses. Each frock was torn in the same spot—on the left side of the chest— and was marred by a bright spot of what appeared to be red paint.

Red paint that looked for all the world like blood.

“Who sent these?” Wells demanded, scowling at the dolls.

A cold knot of dread was beginning to form in Breanna’s stomach—a knot she couldn’t explain but that tightened more with each passing second.

Her heart thudding faster, she reached back into the box, snatching up the small square note that had been propped against the dolls’ heads so as not to go unnoticed.

She unfolded it, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue as she steeled herself.

The words leapt out at her, and she read them twice, icy fear slashing through her in ruthless talons. “Oh my God.” She dropped the note, all the color draining from her face as she backed away.

“Miss Breanna?” Wells was visibly alarmed. “What is it?” He picked up the card. Adjusting his spectacles, he read aloud, “Did you think I’d forget you? Never. It’s retribution time. I’m back to even the score. One bullet. That’s all I need. One for each of you. First your cousin, then you. Soon. So tremble, Lady Breanna. Tremble and wait.’”

” Tell me the entire story again. As calmly as possible.”

Cecil Marks leaned against the desk, tugging at his scarlet waistcoat and trying to ignore the din taking place behind him as a group of thieves were dragged into the Bow Street office, struggling and swearing. He’d been a Bow Street runner for three years now, and he still preferred combing the streets for criminals to actually bringing them in and having to contend with the chaos. But given the recent murders that had occurred here in London and the investigation that had ensued—well, he had no choice but to stick close to the home office.

He glanced down at his writing tablet, then back at the white-faced young woman who stood before him, wringing her hands as her elderly butter tried to comfort her. This was the last thing he needed after the kind of day he’d had. He’d questioned a half-dozen suspects, pored over pages of facts—and he wasn’t in any mood to soothe the fears of an overwrought woman.

Then again, Lady Breanna Colby wasn’t just any woman.

A lady in the true sense of the word, she was. Marks remembered that from last time. And a real beauty, to boot. Hair like burnished copper and eyes like chips of jade. Delicate and, at the same time, almost regal. Marks recalled the way she’d watched him lead her father away, her head held high, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed, grief and shame she refused to display. It was rare to meet a woman who possessed that much restraint, much less one who was emotionally strong as well as beautiful.

Yes, she was a survivor, all right. Except that right now Lady Breanna looked ready to come apart at the seams.

Marks could well understand why. Hell, he’d be unnerved, too, if he was in her place. The problem was, he had no time or resources to devote to her situation. Not when the whole matter boiled down to a mere threat.

“My lady,” he replied, after listening to her second recounting of the story. “I know you’re upset. But unless someone’s actually tried to hurt you, my hands are tied. Unless, of course, there’s something you haven’t mentioned? Something more substantial this man’s done? If so, tell me and I’ll get right on it.”

Breanna drew an unsteady breath. “That’s just it. He hasn’t actuallydoneanything—yet. But it’s clear he intends to.”

“You say he sent you this package.” Marks jerked his thumb toward his desk, where the opened box lay. “Those two dolls and a note.”

“Not just two dolls,” Breanna corrected. “Two disfigured dolls. And it’s not just a note, sir. It’s a threat. Surely you can see that.”

Marks twisted around, examined each doll for the third time, then scanned the note. “I admit, whoever sent this is warped, even unbalanced. But as for proof that he’s going to kill you—”

“Mr. Marks, please don’t patronize me. You of all people remember what happened the night my father was arrested—or rather,after he was arrested.”

Marks cleared his throat. “You’re talking about that shooter.”

“He wasn’t just an arbitrary shooter. He was paid to kill Anastasia, hired by my father—through his informant—to do so. When I shot him in the hand before he could shoot Stacie, he bolted. Obviously, he realized he might be exposed, so he killed Mr. Cunnings—the one person who could identify him—then vanished.”

“Webelieve he killed Cunnings,” Marks amended, scratching his head. “The killer was never found, nor was any proof of his identity.” Seeing the anguish on Breanna’s face, he felt a pang of guilt. “But, yes,” he conceded, “we’re pretty sure Cunnings’s murderer was the same man who took a shot at your cousin.”

“And I maimed him.”

Marks’s lips thinned into a grim line. “I understand why you’d think this message was from him. Maybe it was. Fine, it probably was. The question is, what can we do about it? We couldn’t find him three months ago. What makes you think it’ll be any easier to find him now?”

“The fact that he’s surfaced.” Breanna gripped the folds of her gown between her fingers, an earnest pucker forming between her brows. “Sir, I don’t work for Bow Street. I’m not presuming to tell you how to do your job. But isn’t it possible this man dropped out of sight long enough, not only to wait for your investigation to die down, but to give his wound time to heal? That he’s only now able to resume his work? His note certainly makes it sound that way.”

“I agree. It does sound as if he was waiting to be up to snuff before he contacted you. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be any easier to catch than he was before. Think about it, my lady. Paid killers don’t operate out in the open. Nor do they advertise in newspapers to find clients.” Marks flipped his notepad shut. “What’s more, they don’t take jobs without monetary compensation— majormonetary compensation. With your father in Newgate, no one’s interested in paying this assassin to kill you or your cousin. So why would he take the risk? Why would he chance getting caught in exchange for nothing? He wouldn’t.”

“My instincts tell me otherwise.”

“No rudeness intended, my lady, but I’m in the middle of some pretty ugly murder investigations. I can’t abandon those cases in favor of yourinstincts.”

Breanna made a frustrated sound. “I realize that. I’m not asking you to abandon anything. I read the newspapers. I’m aware of how busy you are. All I’m asking is that you probe this matter a bit—perhaps after hours.” She pressed her lips together, squaring her shoulders in that regal way she had. “I’m sorry if that sounds presumptuous. But remember, mine isn’t the only life that’s at stake. My cousin’s is, too. I’m sure her husband, Lord Sheldrake, would appreciate any assistance you could provide in eliminating a potential threat to his wife.”

Lady Breanna’s pointed comment wasn’t lost on Marks. He knew damned well who the Marquess of Sheldrake was, how prominent he was in London business and society. He also knew he was the “Lockewood” of the House of Lockewood—the most influential merchant bankers in England, maybe even in the whole damned world. Not to mention that the House of Lockewood was the very place where Cunnings, Sheldrake’s right-hand man, had been murdered. Murdered because he’d been instrumental in an ugly plot that sacrificed lives and undermined the marquess himself.

Yes, if the assassin truly had resurfaced, Sheldrake would definitely want him found, want all the loose ends of the nightmare tied up. Most especially because the assassin’s target had been Lady Anastasia Colby, now the Marchioness of Sheldrake. And everyone knew how much Damen Lockewood adored his new bride…

Hell, Marks thought, eyeing Lady Breanna with a kind of grudging respect. This woman wasn’t only resilient and beautiful. She was smart, too.

“All right.”Hegave a terse nod. “I’ll do some checking—as much as I can given what’s going on here. I’ll start with the messenger service that delivered the package to your home. After that, I’ll review the details of Cunnings’s murder. Maybe I can turn something up.”

His tone said otherwise.

“Perhaps if you speak to Mr. Cunnings’s colleagues,” Breanna suggested. “I know you did that right after he was killed. But that was three months ago. Maybe someone can provide you with new information Who knows? It’s possible one of Mr. Cunnings’s less reputable associates—male or female—saw him with this man but didn’t think anything of it at the time. Until now, when you mention that the suspect you’re searching for dropped out of sight for the past several months and has only now resurfaced.”

Marks arched a brow. “That’s a bit far-fetched, wouldn’t you say?” He averted Breanna’s protest by holding up his palm. “I said I’ll try. And I will. But I’m not promising anything.” He shifted impatiently, eager to resume work on his current murder investigations. “Give me a few days, maybe a week. When I’m finished poking around, I’ll ride to Kent, tell you what I’ve found out.”