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He'd selected a different battlefield for her death.
25
Royce made Breanna drink an entire glass Madeira, then ordered dinner for two to be served his chambers.
Instructing two guards to remain outside his door, he left Breanna only long enough to tell Anastasia, Damen, and Wells what had happened, as well as what provisions he'd made.
He'd dealt with their distress as expediently as possible, answered their questions with terse directness. Then, he informed them they'd discuss this tomorrow, after Breanna had gotten some sleep.
“Royce, is she all right?” Anastasia had asked anxiously.
“She's badly shaken. But you know how bloody strong she is.” Royce had frowned. “How strong she insists on being. I'd let you see her, but I want you to stay put. I'm going to go over those letters the killer sent. Maybe there's something there that will point me in the right direction. We'll discuss it at breakfast.
With that, he'd left them. Wells, as he'd suspected, was more relieved than shocked to learn where Breanna would be sleeping. The safety of his beloved charges was more important than his adherence to protocol. After quietly thanking Royce for caring for Miss Breanna, he'd summoned two footmen, ordered them to clean up the violated bedchamber immediately; removing all traces of the break-in, but saving the defaced items for Lord Royce's later inspection.
Royce had returned to his room, expecting to find Breanna huddled by the fire. Instead, she was sitting at the desk, scrutinizing the assassin's notes.
She looked up when he entered, her composure fully restored, her brows knit speculatively. “I was paralyzed when I first read tonight's message,” she murmured “But now that I examine it with a clear head, one of the killer's phrases triggered a memory—a memory of something Mr. Cunnings said to my father at their meeting in the tavern.”
“The meeting you eavesdropped on.”
“Yes. The one at which they made arrangements for the assassin to execute Stacie.”
“Go on,” Royce urged.
“I remember Father asking about the assassin's credentials, and Mr. Cunnings assuring him there was no one better at tracking people down and killing them—no matter where they were hiding. Cunnings's exact words were that the assassin was an expert tracker and an even better shot”
“'An expert tracker'—the very words the assassin uses here.” Royce walked over, reexamined the notes with that in mind. “Interesting. And maybe not as straightforward as I originally thought”
“What do you mean?”
“I realized from the start that every one of these messages sounded like a battle call. But I just assumed it was this arrogant bastard's way of making you feel like he was the hunter, and you the prey. But looking at it in light of what Cunnings said—maybe there's more to it than that.”
Breanna twisted around to gaze up at him. “Like what?”
Royce's eyes narrowed, a flash of insight illuminating their midnight blue color. “Maybe that's what's been bothering me. These notes are all full of military jargon: retreat, flank, reconnaissance, strategy; and phrases like 'evasive tactics' and 'the invasion is about to commence.'“
“True,” Breanna concurred. “I wouldn't have recognized the ones you just mentioned, having never served in the military, as you did. But even I know that words like battle, warrior and ranks are combat terms.”
“So maybe we're overlooking the obvious,” Royce concluded. “Maybe this isn't just an arbitrary choice of analogies. Maybe it's based on the killer's personal experience.”
Breanna rose slowly. “He had to get his training somewhere. What better place than the army?”
Royce was already yanking out the guest list, grabbing a quill. “I'll make a list of these twenty-two remaining names. “First thing tomorrow, my contacts will check into every one of their backgrounds, see who's served.” He frowned. “Offhand, I see three or four names this could apply to. Obviously, Crompton was a general. He tells that to anyone who will listen. Radebrook was an officer in the infantry. Landow spent a few years in the horse artillery, if I'm not mistaken. The Duke of Maywood served, too—I believe in the cavalry. His enlisting was a big scandal, since he was heir to his father's dukedom. He only served a few months before his father won out and he returned.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Fifteen or more years ago. I was young, away at school. All I recall is the gossip surrounding the event. I have no idea how adept any of these men are at shooting, or if there are others on this list who are equally competent. I want every name looked into, every military man found. I want to know where they were stationed, what branch they served in, details of their service records. We'll line up the information, compare it to the traits I've established for this killer, and see if we come up with some plausible matches. Then, I'll pay visits to all those matches. I'll accuse each man of being a murderer, if need be, tell them I have evidence of their crimes, just to gauge their reactions. All of them will call me out. Only one will follow me back to kill me. I don't care how damned risky it is. Not anymore. It's the only way I'm going to get at the truth in time.”
Breanna was about to protest, when a commotion from downstairs met their ears.
Voices. Slamming doors. Treading feet.
Breanna went sheet white.
Royce whipped out his pistol, moved slowly toward the hallway. “Stay put,” he ordered Breanna. “Don't go near the door or the windows. I'll find out what this is about.”
He was halfway to the door when the knock sounded. “Lord Royce?” one of the guards called. “Mr. Hibbert's back. He needs to see you immediately.”
