The Silver Coin (43 page)

Breanna raised her chin another notch, studied Royce’s face. “It had to come down to this, didn’t it?” she asked softly. “From the very beginning. It was going to end in a final battle between you and him. You’d have it no other way.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” Royce met her gaze. “From the very beginning? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. But from the day I fell in love with you? Definitely. So if you’re asking if I’m arranging things this way so I can meet him face to face, personally pull the trigger to end his wretched life, the answer is yes. I wanted to wait until the odds were with me. They finally are. And Crompton is a dead man.”

“I understand,” Breanna said in a tremulous voice. “But, Royce, I love you.” She lay her palm against his jaw. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” He turned his lips to kiss her finger-tips. “Sweetheart, I’m not doing this out of arrogance.” His tone gentled as he gave voice to that which they already knew. “The truth is that you and Anastasia will never be safe as long as Crompton’s alive.”

“I know.” Breanna wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, weighing her next words carefully. “Your letter has to be convincing. Maurelle’s chemise, evendoused in her scent, won’t be enough. Remember, he sent me a bottle of that same perfume. We could be using that to fake Maurelle’s capture.”

“True.” Royce nodded, eying Breanna speculatively as he realized she was leading him somewhere in particular. “I intended to include a lock of her hair. I’d parade her across the front lawn so he could see her for himself, if it weren’t so risky. Given the frenzy he’ll likely be in, he might go off like a loose cannon, firing blindly at everyone in sight. I won’t take that chance.”

“You don’t need to.” Breanna spoke calmly, her decision made. “Send the chemise and the lock of hair. Make the letter as provoking as you can. And when you do, mention the birthmark on her right breast. It’s in a spot only a lover would know about.” She flushed. “I’ll describe the exact location to you when you write the letter. But that should get you the response you’re looking for.”

Royce stared at Breanna in amazement. “How did you have the presence of mind to—?”

“I didn’t. It just so happens that Maurelle used undressing as a means to conceal the fact that she’d been looking through the files. She changed into a nightrobe while I was in the room. The birthmark is very conspicuous.”

“And you call me brilliant.” Royce kissed her triumphantly, unbothered by their audience. “This is almost over,” he said, raising his head to include Anastasia in his assessment. “Hold on a little longer.”

Royce strode into Maurelle’s chambers and shut the door behind him. She smiled inwardly, seeing the victorious gleam in his eye. Her ruse had worked. Chadwick now believed that Arthur Landow was her noble assassin. Excellent.

“MayI help you, monsieur?” she inquired, folding back the bedcovers. “I was just about to retire for the night.”

Royce glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s not even dinnertime.”

“I’m fatigued.” Maurelle smoothed her hand over the sheets. “Your friend Lady Breanna exhausted me.”

His jaw tightened fractionally.” I heard that Lady Breanna had been in to see you. And whileI wish she hasn’t subjected herself to that, I can’t deny I’m pleased by the results.”

“I thought you would be.”

“Funny, you didn’t seem to me to be the type one could reach through compassion.”

“People aren’t always as they seem.”

“No, they’re not.” Royce paused, rubbed his palms together. “In any case, I’m glad you relented. It will be easier on everyone.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Maurelle inquired, gripping the bedpost. “To ease my fears?”

“No. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about your fears.”

She smiled. “I appreciate your honesty, monsieur. So tell me, what can I do for you?”

“You can answer a few questions. I want as much evidence against Landow as I can get before I send Bow Street over to arrest him.”

Warning bells sounded in her head, and her gaze turned wary. “What kind of evidence?”

“His relationship with Cunnings—what do you know of it?”

Ah, that. Inwardly, she relaxed. Cunnings was dead. He couldn’t deny Landow’s guilt. Therefore, the closer she stuck to the truth, the better.

“Arthur knew John Cunnings for quite some time,” she replied.

“So Lady Breanna overheard Cunnings tell herfa ther. He said he’d seen the assassin’s… Landow’s,” Royce corrected himself, “accomplishments for years.”

“That’s true. From what Arthur explained, he needed a contact to arrange the jobs he took on.”

“The executions, you mean.”

“Yes. Cunnings was perfect. He knew scores of people through his position at the House of Lockewood. You’d be surprised to learn how eager some supposedly honorable men and women are to rid themselves of family members that stand between themselves and their fortunes.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“The bank itself made an ideal meeting place. No one suspected anything unscrupulous was going on during their meetings. After all, Arthur was a client—a good one.” Her lips curved. “And a smart one. He eavesdropped on Cunnings’s conversations enough times to realize he was willing to compromise himself for money. He confirmed that fact by keeping an ear to the ground and learning Cunnings was spending more than he had, courting women with expensive jewelry, buying homes he couldn’t afford. In short, John Cunnings was willing to do anything to support his expensive habits. Arthur offered him that opportunity.’’

“Hmm.” Royce stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “In other words, Cunnings got a percentage of Landow’s fee on the clients he referred?”

“Exactly.” Maurelle sighed. Tm sorry Monsieur Cunnings had to die. I have a soft spot in my heart for him. After all, it was through him that Arthur came back into my life.”

“So Landow did find you again through Cunnings’s notes.”

” Oui .”Maurelle lowered her lashes, reminding herself that she was supposed to be feeling guilty, torn by her own betrayal. “Arthur didn’t come directly to Paris. First, he went to Germany, to visit that brilliant Dr. Helmett. Wilkens, the gunsmith, met them there. Arthur had surgery.” A thought struck her, and she eliminated the quickest and most logical way for Landow to prove his innocence. She had to buy Ansel time—time to finish his mission and vanish. “The surgery was so successful, his finger is as good as new.”

“Is it?” Royce looked surprised. “Then why is he so eager for revenge?”

“Because it took some time to regain his muscle control. And being in control is more important to Arthur than anything else. He was at a disadvantage for months. He had to master the new weapon Wilkens crafted in order to shoot. Also, he can’t bear the thought of being bested, especially by a woman.”

“I see.” Royce nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Where is Helmett now?”

Maurelle swallowed. “Arthur killed him. He had no choice. He didn’t expect Dr. Helmett to react so strongly when he heard Arthur boast of his plans to do away with Lady Breanna.”

“Ah. The good physician threatened to alert the au t horities?”

“Yes.”

Royce inclined his head. “By the way Wilkens is dead, too. Did you know that? Your lover killed him a few days ago.”

“No, I didn’t. But I’m not surprised.”

“I didn’t expect you would be. He seems very adept at eliminating anyone who might give him away.”

“He is.” She bit her lip. “That’s why I’m so frightened. If he should learn I’ve betrayed him—

“Oh, he win,” Royce assured her cheerfully. He glanced at his timepiece again. “This very night, as a matter of fact.” He stepped aside, yanked open the door. “Hibbert, I could use your help.”

“My pleasure.” Hibbert strolled in, walking over to jerk Maurelle’s arms behind her back. “Go ahead, my lord.”

Maurelle’s eyes widened as she saw the razor appear in Royce’s hand. “Are you mad? I’ve told you everything you want to know, and in return you’re going to slit my throat?”

“No. You’re not worth it.” Royce crossed over, quickly shearing off a lock of her heft Wrapping it in his handkerchief, he glanced about the room, spying the pile of clothing Maurelle had left on the chair near the wardrobe. He went over, rifled through it until he found her chemise. “This will do.” He crumpled it up, tucked it beneath his arm. “Let her go, Hibbert.”

Hibbert complied, shoving Maurelle away from him as if she were an odious insect. He headed to the door, Royce directly behind him.

“Oh, Maurelle.” Royce paused on the threshold, arching a brow in her direction. “In case you’re wondering, I’ll be sending off your chemise and your strand of heft, together with a very provocative letter.” His teeth gleamed. “Crompton should have it before midnight. That’s Ansel Crompton, by the way, not Arthur Landow. Then again, you already know that. Your attempt to save him was valiant. Speaking of which, Lady Breanna asked me to thank you. She appreciated your switching those drawings. You played right into her hands and helped ensure Crompton’s downfall.”

If Royce needed any further proof, the look of sheer panic on Maurelle’s face provided it.

Her anguished cry, “Ansel,” echoed through the halls as Royce and Hibbert walked away.

Crompton was applying the final touches of red paint to the last porcelain figure when the messenger galloped up his drive.

He frowned, wondering who could be contacting him this late at night.

Ah, Maurelle, he thought, his frown vanishing. No doubt she was summoning him, eager to have him back in her arms, her bed.

Well, she hasn’t long to wait. By tomorrow at this time, Lady Anastasia and Lady Breanna would be dead, and he’d be on his way to Paris.

He held the statue away from him, admired his own handiwork. The two women were leaning over a book, clutching it as they read together. And they were smiling—placid smiles that seemed incredibly out of place when one considered their fatal injuries and mutilated hands.

Satisfaction glinted in his eyes. He’d severed both women’s right index fingers, trickled bloodlike paint over their hands and the book’s binding and added a final red splotch over their hearts.

His final gift to Lady Breanna. It would arrive in the dead of night.

Tomorrow morning, it would be time.

He’d planned it all very carefully. The guards changed shifts at6a.m . A salways, that stout, uncouth sentry posted on the far side of the estate would have been drinking his secret cache of ale from sometime after midnight, and would have nodded off no later than half past5a.m . That left thirty minutes—more than enough time to climb the sturdy oak he’d been using for his comings and goings, and slip onto the premises. From there, he’d creep toward the manor, hide in the thick brush, and eventually ease his way around the house until he had a clear view of the sit ting room.

Then, he’d wait.

Sometime between 10 and 10:20a.m.,both Lady Breanna and Lady Anastasia would appear—heavily guarded by Chadwick, Sheldrake, and those two old codgers, Hibbert and Wells.

Did any of them actually believe they could scare him off or—an even more ludicrous thought—block his shot?

If so, they were bigger fools than he’d realized. They weren’t what had kept him from striking before now. His battle plan was. He’d devised it. He meant to carry it out.

The first step had been to terrorize Lady Breanna. That step was complete.

Now, it was time for the second step. Lady Anastasia had to die—right at her cousin’s feet. For that, he needed no more than fifteen seconds. And he’d get those seconds, the instant Sheldrake stepped away from his wife.

Lady Anastasia would be dead by ten thirty.

Then came the tricky part—step three.

He had to isolate Lady Breanna. It wasn’t enough to kill her. If it was, he’d simply shoot her right after he did away with her cousin. No, he had to first ensure that she knew precisely who he was, what he intended to do to her. He had to close in on her like a tiger stalking its prey, see the stark terror in her eyes as she realized her life was about to end.

He needed to see her crawl, to hear her plead for her life, sob for mercy.

Then, he’d blast away her life with one long-awaited shot.

It wouldn’t be that difficult to get her alone. The house would be in an uproar once Lady Anastasia fell down dead. People would scatter. Chadwick would rush outside, determined to find the killer.

Taking Lady Breanna with him to ensure her safety.

That’swhen he’d make his move. He’d grab her the instant Chadwick turned his back.

No, this wouldn’t be difficult at all.

A knock on the front door broke into his thoughts, reminded him of the messenger’s arrival.

Carefully, he lined his desk drawer with a handkerchief, then placed the statue upon it, sliding the drawer shut to conceal it. He’d write the note later. For now, he wanted to read Maurelle’s words of love.

He left his study, made his way to the entranceway.

His butler had just accepted a small package from the messenger and was shutting the door. He looked up, saw the viscount approaching.

“For you, sir,” he announced.

“Excellent. Thank you.” Crompton took the parcel, glancing at it as he retreated to the privacy of his study. He’d expected a letter. Had Maurelle sent him a gift?

He locked his study door, lowered himself to the settee, and unwrapped the package. A carnal smile touched his lips as Maurelle’s fragrance greeted his nostrils. He lifted out the perfume-scented chemise, amused by Maurelle’s uncharacteristically girlish gesture. Evidently, she missed him as much as he missed her. But she needn’t have gone to such extremes to tell him so. She, of all people, knew he needed no enticement. Not when it came to her. His desire for her was compulsive, a gnawing in his belly that seemedneverto fade.

He brought the chemise to his face, inhaled deeply, and felt his body throb to life. Another day. That’s all it would be. Then he’d be with her. And not just for a brief interlude. For the rest of their lives.

He lowered the garment, intending to restore it to the box.

A look of heft tumbled out of the folds.

His brows arched in surprise. Maurelle’s hair? Why on earth… ?