The Silver Coin (37 page)

Finally, it did—without incident.

She thanked the footman, climbed into the seat, then took up the reins and led the horses toward the front gates.

Whatever she said had to be believable—not only to Mr. Mahoney, but to the killer.

One thing she’d learned from surviving two decades with her father, dodging his anger and avoiding being beaten, was that the most convincing lies, the ones you desperately needed to work, were the ones that stuck closest to the truth. The further from the truth you strayed, the more nervous you became and the more likely you were to slip up.

So be it.

She braced herself as she neared the gates, slowing down as Mahoney stepped in her path, holding up his palm and barring her exit.

He approached the phaeton, a stunned expression on his face. “My lady, what in heaven’s name …” He broke off, inclining his head and staring at her, obviously trying to ascertain if she’d lost her mind—the only logical explanation he could come up with for her to attempt this insane antic.

“I’m not mad, Mr. Mahoney,” she supplied, making no attempt to hide her apprehension. Not only was it genuine, it was necessary that she convey it to the assassin. Her gaze darted about, in a very real attempt to ensure her safety and, at the same time, to let the assassin see her sense of urgency. “I must ride out,” she announced to Mahoney. “That last correspondence you delivered said there was a second letter— an important one—that should have been delivered along with it. I’ve got to go after that messenger, catch him right away.”

Mahoney’s stunned expression didn’t change. “With all due respect, my lady, you’re hardly the one who should be going after—”

“Mr. Mahoney—please!” Breanna interrupted, her voice and hands shaking. “I realize I should be in the house. But I don’t want to take the time to awaken the men. By then, the messenger will be gone. And I certainly can’t send Stacie—the initial threats are on her life. It’s got to be me.” She tightened her grip on the reins. “We’re wasting time arguing. If you let me go now, I’ll be back in minutes. The longer we wait, the longer it will take to return.”

“My men will go.” Mahoney turned, raising his arm to issue the order.

“No!” Breanna reached forward, grabbed his sleeve. “That would mean fewer guards to protect Stacie. And if anything happened to her…” She sucked in her breath, assuming a tone she rarely used. “Mr. Mahoney, I don’t want to put it this way, but I am mistress of this house. If I have to, I’ll order you to let me pass. Now, open those gates, before the messenger rides all the way back to London.”

Mahoney hesitated another moment. Then, he complied, waving his arm and ordering the guards to open the gates. “I’ll give you a half hour,” he informed her. “Then, I’m alerting Lord Royce.”

She didn’t pause to argue. She simply nodded, then slapped her reins and led the horses on.

She sped down the road, then veered west toward Maidstone.

The assassin watched her go with some interest and an unforeseen tinge of respect.

He hadn’t expected her to be so brazen. Nor so clever. She’d correctly assessed his determination to adhere to the order in which he meant to carry out his plan. In an odd way, she was baiting him. Well, he wouldn’t let her win by giving in to the temptation to shoot her down now, when she was alone and unguarded. Her cousin had to die first—first, and right in front of Lady Breanna’s horrified eyes.

He’d made that clean. Nonetheless, she was taking a risk, lest he change his mind.

And all to go after a messenger, to get her hands on that second letter.

Then again, if the information in the letter wasthatimportant, it would warrant such prompt attention, risk or not. Her reason was sound.

It was also a lie.

From the thick branches of the tree he’d just scaled, he could see her phaeton, heading southwest. London was northwest.

And, based upon the fact that she’d just intercepted one of Chadwick’s messages—a message that probably provided answers to a piece of the puzzle he’d fully expected a worthy opponent like Chadwick to investigate—he had a fairly good idea where she was riding.

And to whom. Pity. He’d hoped Wilkens could have remained a mystery for a while longer—long enough to speed this process to its natural conclusion while sparing the poor fellow his life. Now, it would set things back a few hours, not to mention forcing him to find another gunsmith, one with as great a flair for the creative as Wilkens had.

It couldn’t be helped. Lady Breanna was too fetching, Wilkens too susceptible to beauty, too easily duped, to be relied upon to keep his mouth shut

Swinging lightly to the ground, the assassin eased through the trees, making his way to the road, then the hidden brush beyond, where his own carriage was concealed.

A sudden, pleasurable thought struck, made his eyes glitter with anticipation.

He knew a back route to Maidstone. He’d beat Lady Breanna there by twenty minutes, take care of his task, and get back to Medford Manor ahead of her— andChadwick, who’d undoubtedly go rushing after her the minute that guard gave him the news of her departure. As for the guards, they’d be frantically searching for her ladyship, cursing themselves for ever allowing her to go.

Leaving the manor vulnerable to attack.

“You let her do what?”

Royce nearly struck Mahoney, visibly controlling himself as the head guard delivered word of Breanna’s departure.

Mahoney mopped his brow. “I had no choice, sir. She ordered me—”

“I don’t care if she held you at gunpoint.” Royce drew a slow breath, biting back his anger in lieu of reason. “Where did she go?”

“After the messenger.”

“Whatmessenger?”

“The one who sent you that last piece of correspondence, the one I brought to the door right before Lady Breanna left.” Mahoney swallowed. “She took it from me herself, said she’d give it to you when you woke up.”

“She didn’t. And I wasn’t sleeping.” Royce scanned the hallway, and spied the letter on the end table. He snatched it up, read through it quickly. “This says nothing about another message. It says …” He came to the word Maidstone, and his jaw snapped shut. “God, no.”

He nearly knocked Mahoney down in his haste to leave. “Go inside. Tell Lord Sheldrake that I think Breanna’s ridden to Maidstone. Post a few guards outside Anastasia’s chambers. Then get the rest of the guards to begin a search, just in case I’m wrong and Breanna’s gone elsewhere. We’ve got to find her.”

The cottage was quiet.

Breanna brought her phaeton to a halt, taking a minute to compose herself and review her story before approaching Mr. Wilkens.

She had to seem pathetic, to weep real tears as she told him her fabricated story of the tragic accident that had churned her father’s trigger finger. She’d scatter in as many facts as possible, confess that her father had been involved with unsavory types. She’d say that out of desperation, she’d used those contacts, taken unorthodox steps to find out who the most qualified gunsmith was to craft a new pistol for her father, who was confined to Newgate, and desperate to escape.

An ironic smile touched her lips. Who’d ever have thought her father’s unscrupulous dealings would serve her so well?

She climbed down, gathered up her skirts, and marched to the door.

Her first knock went unanswered.

So did the repeated ones that followed.

Oh, God, he has to be home,she thought fervently.He has to be.

Resorting to something she never would have considered, Breanna turned the door handle and entered.

The door swung open. “Mr. Wilkens?” she called. No response.

Breanna stepped into the small, cluttered house, praying the gunsmith was either asleep or hard of hearing. Just so long as he was home. She made her way down the hall, calling out his name as she did. She paused at each room, stepping inside and checking to see if he was there.

The door to the sitting room was shut.

“Mr. Wilkens?” she tried hopefully, twisting the handle and giving it a push.

The door wasn’t locked. But it wouldn’t budge.

Frowning, Breanna shoved at the wood, only to be met with the same resistance. Finally, she threw her weight against it, jarring the door until it shifted enough to let her squeeze through.

A blast of cold air accosted her from the open window in the far corner of the room.

She shivered, drew her mantle more tightly around herself as she stepped inside.

A scream froze in her throat.

Wilkens’s body lay on the floor, a stream of blood trickling from his chest, pooling on the floor beneath him.

He was dead.     

“Dear God,” she whispered, pressing her fist to her mouth. “Oh, dear God.” She backed away, unable to stop staring at the man’s lifeless form as she inched toward the hall.

Powerful hands grabbed her from behind.

This time her scream broke free, and she began struggling violently against whoever held her captive.

“Breanna, if s me.” Royce swung her around, seized her shoulders in his hands. His eyes were nearly black with anger, his features taut with worry. “Are you all right?”

“Royce.” She sagged toward him, happier to see him than she’d ever been to see anyone in her life.

“Reckless little fool,” he muttered, dragging her against him and holding her with arms that shook. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She gripped the lapels of Royce’s coat. “He’s dead,” she managed, gesturing toward the sitting room. “Shot like the others.”

Keeping one arm snaked tightly around Breanna’s waist, Royce leaned past her, peered inside. Frowning, he released Breanna long enough to check Wilkens, verify he was dead.

“That son of a bitch beat us here,” he pronounced, rising to his feet, noting the open window. “And not by much. Wilkens couldn’t have been shot more than a half hour ago, judging from the body. Somehow that bastard knew where you were headed. He used the window to escape.”

Breanna was trying to steady her breathing, to clear her head. “How could he know my destination? He didn’t read Rogers’s letter. It was sealed when Mahoney delivered it. He must have seen through my story about pursuing the messenger.” Her voice quavered. “It’s my fault this man is dead.”

“No.” Royce drew her against him, stroked her hair. “Wilkens was doomed the minute Rogers’s note was delivered to Medford. Had I received it first, I would have done precisely what you did—ridden to Maidstone to question Wilkens. The assassin is smart. He knew I was checking into the gunsmith who crafted his pistol. He’d have seen where I was headed, and put two and two together. He’d have dashed on ahead of me, killed Wilkens before I had the chance to talk to him. Just as he did with you. The only difference is,Iwould have been the one in danger. Which is low it should have been.”

Royce buried his lips in her hair. “Dammit, Breanna, don’t do that to me ever again. I was terrified.” He paused, realized she was trembling. “Let’s go home. Anastasia is probably frantic by now.”

That had the desired effect.

“Stacie knows where I’ve gone?” Breanna asked, worry supplanting shock.

“By now, yes. I told Mahoney. The whole household is probably in turmoil. And the guards must be scouring Kent looking for you.”

Breanna’s grip on his coat tightened. “If so, they won’t be guarding Stacie.”

“Yes they will.” Royce eased her worry, his knuckles gently stroking her cheek. “Damen and Wells are with her. They’re both armed. I had Mahoney post guards outside her room, as well. No one will get by them.”

“We’ve got to go.” Breanna was already heading for the door.

Royce escorted her to the phaeton, stopping only to harness his mount to the front, alongside the horse who’d guided her here. “I rode here on horseback. It’s the only way I could gain the time I needed. We’ll ride back together. I’ll hail a local constable along the way, tell him about Wilkens’s body.”

Breanna nodded mutely, sitting in a numbed state as Royce turned the phaeton around, headed for home.

An icy premonition began forming deep in her gut

It spread, crawling up her spine, intensifying as their carriage neared Medford Manor.

She’d known that premonition before. It had struck last August, an instant before the assassin stepped out of the shadows, took a shot at Stacie.

He was closing in, nearing the moment when he’d complete his unfinished execution.

Abruptly, Breanna seized Royce’s arm. “Royce, I’ve got to get home. Now.”

Royce studied her terrified expression, instantly slapping the reins to comply. “What is it?”

“It’s the killer. He’s getting close to Stacie.”

Lady Anastasia would wait.

The assassin’s lips curled in a mocking smile as he peered around the corner of the hall, watched the two guards standing rigidly in front of the marchioness’s door.

Putting them there had no doubt been Chadwick’s doing. He was making sure Lady Anastasia stayed safe while he dashed off after her cousin. Well, Chadwick needn’t have worried. It wasn’t time for her ladyship to die—not yet. Not without her wretched cousin there to watch the life drain out of her. That would defeat his whole purpose, take the satisfaction out of his revenge.

No, this visit would serve a different purpose. This visit would be to deliver his ultimate gift to Lady Breanna.

Getting inside the manor had been pathetically easy.

The guards were dashing about like frantic mice, leaving gaping holes in security. He’d made his way across the grounds, then lipped inside via the servants’ quarters. He’d waited in the shadows, assessing the area to ensure it was lean Not surprisingly, it had been Lady Breanna’s loyal staff was undoubtedly combing the house, room by room, looking for a sign of where their mistress had gone.

He’d scaled the stairs, then hovered in the alcove off the landing before easing his way down the hall toscrutinize Lord and Lady Sheldrake’s chambers.

Scornfully, he turned away, wondering if the guards actually thought him stupid enough, amateur enough, to lunge for the door with them standing outside it. Perhaps they were novices. He was not.

He moved furtively toward Lady Breanna’s chambers.