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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— and Chadwick, 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.
24
“ 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.”
“What messenger?”
“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.
