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On that thought, she left the house, shut the door quietly behind her.
She held her breath the entire time she waited for the phaeton to be brought around. It was eerie standing outside in the open, knowing she was being watched, praying she'd accurately assessed the killer's intentions.
Her heartbeat accelerated, and she tensed, half-expecting a shot to zing out, to cut her down where she stood. At the same time, she listened for noises sounding behind her—noises that would indicate
Royce had discovered her absence and come storming from the house to drag her back inside.
She prayed that wouldn't happen. Because if the assassin saw Royce rush to her rescue, exhibiting the emotion she knew he would, Lord knew how he'd react. He might just decide to further torture her by lolling the man she loved—the very thing she'd been trying to prevent.
Never had a phaeton taken so long to arrive.
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 ti
nge 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 was that important, 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.
