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Instantly, Royce abandoned his plan to take the harshest, most correct avenue possible, to go in for the kill simply because they were running out of time.
A different approach was in order with this woman—one she wasn't used to. The direct approach No tricks, no casually asked questions she was too smart to answer, and definitely no browbeating.
He'd learn far more about her this way.
And in the process, figure out where he'd met her.
“Hello, mademoiselle,” he greeted, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it. “My name is Royce Chadwick.”
A glint of interest. “Ah, so you're the infamous Lord Chadwick.” She inclined her head, appraising him thoughtfully. “You're not what I expected.”
“Really?” Royce purposely abandoned his sentry-like stance, strolling over to pull up a chair directly across from her. “What did you expect?”
“An older man. One with more wrath and less charm.”
Royce leaned back in his seat, crossed one long leg over the other. “How did you form this opinion? From what Hibbert told you?”
An arrogant smile, one that confirmed Royce's belief that she was far too shrewd to fall into a trap “No. Mr. Hibbert and I didn't discuss you at all. Au contraire, my lord you need no discussion. Your reputation precedes you. It travels all the way to the Continent—even to establishments like Le Joyau.”
“I'm flattered.” Royce tried to place her voice. He'd heard it before—briefly. But mostly what he recognized was her face. Where had he been when he'd seen it?
“Maurelle—may I call you Maurelle?” he inquired politely.
“Mais oui.” She gave a careless shrug. “Suit yourself. You're in charge here.”
“As you were at Le Joyau.”
“Certainement.”
Royce drummed his fingers lightly on his leg. “I don't enjoy playing cat and mouse, Maurelle. I suspect you don't either. So why don't I refrain from insulting you? I want the name of the noble assassin. And you're going to give it to me.”
Maurelle didn't bat a lash. “You're insane if you believe that.”
“Why?” Royce demanded. “Are we engaged in some sort of contest? A battle of wills? Are you determined to best me, just as your friend is?”
“You flatter yourself, my lord. You mean as little to me as you do to rum. You're just an obstacle, nothing more. So, no, I'm not trying to best you. As for him— let's s
ay our motives are quite different. He has his, and I mine.”
“And what are yours?”
“To protect him. Which I will do, no matter what you do to me.” Maurelle rose, shook out the folds of her gown, and braced herself before him, as if preparing for a vicious beating. “I'm sure you require proof. So go ahead. Do your worst. You'll find out I'm true to my word.”
Royce feigned shock, letting his jaw drop a notch. “You'd endure physical abuse just to protect a lover?”
Anger flashed in her eyes. “He's not just a lover. In fact, the word 'just' never applies to him. He's not 'just' anything. He's extraordinary.”
“You're in love with him.”
A brittle stare. “Did you think women like me didn't fall in love? That because we've been with hundreds of men over the years that there could never be one that actually meant something? If so, you're a fool.”
“I'm no fool, Maurelle.” Royce stood, steadily meeting her gaze. “I was just making a statement, not a judgment. You're in love with this man.”
“Oui —now more than ever.”
Now more than ever? An interesting choice of phrases.
How long had these two known each other?
