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“That leaves eight,” Royce announced, looking around the sitting room, where Breanna, Anastasia, and Damen were seated, with Hibbert manning the doorway. “All with lean bodies, graying temples, and around forty-five or fifty years of age.”
Damen nodded, taking Stacie's hand in his. “Let's analyze each one of them, see if we can make an educated guess as to which one is the killer.”
“No.” Royce gave an adamant shake of his head. “I've purposely avoided doing that. Our views on all these men are subjective. Whoever this killer is, he's a master at deception. He's managed to fool us, and the rest of the ton for Lord knows how long. Let's get all the facts. Then, we'll analyze.”
Restlessly, Damen nodded. “You're right. I'm just losing my mind.”
“I have a feeling we're on the verge of something,” Anastasia murmured. “I'm not sure why, but I do.”
“So do I,” Breanna concurred. “So it must be true.”
Ten minutes later, Wells rushed into the sitting room, waving an envelope.
“Lord Royce,” he said, proffering the letter. “This just arrived from the Continent. Lord Sheldr ake 's envoy delivered it. It's from your colleague, Mr. G i rard.”
“Good.” Royce went taut, snatching the envelope and tearing it open.
His eyes widened as he read, first with surprise, then with realization. “Damn,” he said, rising slowly with a sharp exhalation of breath. “This is unbelievable.”
“What?” Damen bolted to his feet, too. “What did Girard find out about Maurelle Le Joyau?”
“Did he confirm that she worked in that brothel-Maison Fleur?” Anastasia questioned eagerly.
“Indeed he did.” Royce skimmed the letter again, then lowered it to meet the five expectant stares glued to him. “She worked at Maison Fleur for over a decade, until about four years ago. She began her career there, as a young girl in her teens. She formed quite a reputation among Wellington's men. Over the next eleven years, she made a bloody fortune servicing them in bed. Enough to buy the townhouse that's now Le Joyau and redecorate it from top to bottom, rum it into a plush abode. She hired some girls who were almost as much in demand as she was, and opened the doors to Paris's most elegant brothel.”
“And?” Breanna prompted, recognizing the look on Royce's face, impatient to hear the rest.
“And it's no wonder Girard was finding it so bloody hard to uncover anything about her past before my message arrived. Without knowing she worked at Maison Fleur, it was virtually impossible to dig up a single detail on her history. Maurelle covered her tracks like a seasoned criminal. It's as if she appeared out of nowhere four years ago.” Royce paused, filled in the most essential piece. “Because at the same time that she acquired Le Joyau, she acquired the name she christened it with.”
“Her real name isn't Maurelle Le Joyau?” Breanna demanded.
“No.” Royce shook his head, his midnight gaze glittering with sparks. “Her real name is Maurelle Rouge.”
A heartbeat of silence followed Royce's revelation. Then, the impact sank in, and everyone began talking at once.
“Maurelle Rouge ... M. Rouge,” Breanna breathed. “My God, it was her all along
.”
“No wonder my men couldn't find George's Paris contact,” Damen realized grimly. “It never occurred to any of us he was a she.”
“Right.” Royce's lips thinned into a pensive line. “Apparently, Maurelle renounced the name Rouge when she left Maison Fleur. She only uses it for buying and setting women. The rest of the world knows her as Maurelle Le Joyau.”
“Wait.” Anastasia held up her palm. “If this is true, if Maurelle is Rouge, and if the assassin was intimately involved with her when she was using her real name, then his establishing a business relationship with her at this particular time makes sense. The night he shot John Cunnings, Cunnings was searching for a woman to ship to M. Rouge—even if he didn't know who M. Rouge was.”
“But the assassin did know who she was,” Breanna finished for her. “He would have recognized the name when he saw it. He would have seized Cunnings's notes. And he would have planned to pursue things with Maurelle when he got to the Continent.”
Stacie frowned. “The only problem with that t heory is that Royce believes the relationship between the killer and Maurelle is longstanding, not sporadic. So why would he need Cunnings's notes to figure out what she was up to? Why wouldn't she just have told him? She seems to be aware of all his sinister activities. Why wouldn't he know of hers?”
“Unless ...” Royce pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maurelle keeps making references to her feelings for the assassin being more powerful than they've been before. She emphasizes that she loves him now more than ever—almost as if she's had time apart from him to realize the depth of her feelings. Maybe, at some point, they severed ties. I don't know when, or for how long but maybe they lost touch. Maybe he never knew her as Maurelle Le Joyau—until he found Cunnings's notes and went in search of M. Rouge. Maybe they only recently rediscovered each other.”
“But if they're so deeply involved, what would make them sever ties?” Breanna wondered aloud. “Could he have frightened her off?”
“No.” Royce shook his head. “Maurelle is as cold-blooded as they come. She doesn’t frighten easily. If they ended things, even for a while, it wasn't because she was afraid of him. Maybe it was he who had his reasons. I don't know. But it certainly gives me another angle to pursue. I'll see what I can find out.” A hard smile curved Royce's lips. “I have a great many more facts now, and some strong leads to pursue. Not only Maurelle's tie to the killer, but her tie to Viscount Medford. Maybe I can learn the fate of all those poor women she did sell.”
Maurelle was thumbing through a novel when Royce walked in.
She glanced up indifferently, noting his arrival, then tucking her legs beneath her on the chair and resuming her reading.
