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Royce pursued the question from a non-threatening angle. “As for your bedding hundreds of men, I was under the impression that you're the proprietor of Le Joyau. Do you entertain customers, as well?”
“Only him. That part of my life is over.”
Just the answer he wanted.
So, Maurelle Le Joyau had been a prostitute before graduating to her more lucrative role. Had it been at the establishment now known as Le Joyau, or had it been elsewhere? And when had she met the assassin—before or after she changed roles?
Royce had to tread carefully to get his answers.
“Tell me, Maurelle, how would your noble assassin feel if he knew you were once a common whore?”
A throaty laugh. “I assure you, I was never common—no matter how shabby my surroundings. I was always a treasure.” A coveted treasure—worth everything a man had and more. There's no one like me. Not then, not now, not ever. No one understood that better than he.”
She'd given Royce both his answers. Her days as a prostitute had been spent somewhere else. Some where shabby. And the assassin had already known her there.
“So he's familiar with who you are,” Royce acknowledged, diverting her attention from the fact that she'd just supplied him with vital information. “What about you, Maurelle? Do you know what he does? How he gets you the women he delivers?”
That scornful look returned. “Ah, you're hoping to deliver a crushing blow. To shock me into revealing his name. Don't bother. Yes, Lord Chadwick, I know what he does. I know how he rids the women I sell of their family ties. And I know what he intends for your friend Lady Breanna. Death—one bullet to the heart.” Her brows arched in sardonic question. “He's a superb marksman, wouldn't you say?”
Royce forced his features to remain impassive, fully aware she was trying to goad him into an emotional reaction. “Indeed he is. A filthy animal, but a superb marksman.”
“Now you're trying to provoke me, monsieur. That won't work on me any more than it just did on you.”
“I'm impressed. You're a formidable adversary.” Royce studied her closely, focusing on her face. What was it about her? Her features, her mannerisms. The utter self-confidence of her stance.
No matter how shabby my surroundings ... I was always a treasure. A coveted treasure...
Abruptly, an image flashed through Royce's mind—a younger, less sophisticated Maurelle, but Maurelle nonetheless.
The pieces slammed into place, the scene replaying from start to finish.
He had his answer.
It was time to do something with it.
Unaware of the direction Royce's thoughts had taken, Maurelle played right into his hands, assuming she was taunting him.
She stretched her arms high over her head, then covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. “If you're not going to beat or brutalize me in any way, I'd like to get some sleep.” A mocking smile. “May we continue this interrogation tomorrow?”
Royce nearly laughed aloud. Maurelle was waiting for him to fly into a tirade. While, in truth, he was delighted to comply with her request. He was impatient to get out of that room, itching to put his new realization to work.
Still, he couldn't arouse her suspicions.
Feigning irritation, he gave a curt nod. “As you wish. But tomorrow begins quite early here. Don't expect to get much sleep.”
Maurelle looked amused. “I can do with very little sleep, my lord. It's a necessary talent in my business Bonne nuit.”
No, Maurelle, Royce countered silently, making his way from the servants' quarters. Not bonne nuit.
Fini.
His first stop was Damen and Anastasia's room.
There, he explained the situation in a few terse sentences, then requested Damen's help. Damen offered it instantly.
The message was written and, ten minutes later, was in the hands of a footman who was rushing it to Damen's swiftest courier. The attached note from Damen instructed his envoy to dispatch Royce's message to the Continent within the hour.
It would be in Paris by morning.
