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“But that's not what happened. Instead, your lover showed up and helped you resurrect the role, and the business of selling women. Only now the quality of women was elevated to a higher standard—and the means of acquiring them, murder.”
“Oui. Exciting, wouldn't you say?”
“Depraved, I'd say.”
A purposeful knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” Royce called.
Hibbert stepped into the room. “The confirming documents you've been awaiting just arrived, my lord. I thought you'd want to know.”
“I do.” Royce was already heading for the door. He turned, shot Maurelle a glittering, triumphant look. “We'll continue this shortly, Mademoiselle De Rouge.”
Royce's lips curved as they rounded the corridor of the servants' quarters, strode toward the sitting room. “That bluff worked nicely. It's the first time I've seen Maurelle look worried since she arrived.”
“I'm hoping it won't be a bluff, sir. If these reports tell us what we expect, we'll have our answer. Then we'll need Miss Le Joyau only to verify it.” He frowned. “She won't do that willingly. We'll have to be very convincing.”
“We will be.” Royce bore down on the sitting room. “And she'll tell us exactly what we need to know. Her loyalty to her lover will ensure it.”
The reports were comprehensive.
Eight of the remaining twelve men had served in the military. However, three of those had done so either during the wrong years or in the wrong places, and were stationed too far from Paris to be viable choices.
Which left five men who could be the assassin.
Damen stood beside Royce, poring over the five names as Wells and Hibbert stood on either side of the settee, flanking Anastasia and Breanna, who sat upon it, eagerly awaiting some answers.
“Maywood? He's afraid of his own shadow,” Damen muttered. “His father browbeat him until the day he died. He balks at the slightest risk of losing money, much less lives. No. I don't see it. And Crompton's one hell of a shot, but he's also eccentric as hell. He talks so much about his days as a general, we can all recite them by memory. If he'd been involved with a woman like Maurelle, she'd have been the high point of his tales. A cold-blooded killer? I can't imagine it. Radebrook, I'm not sure of. He's quiet. He doesn't talk much about himself. It says here his afro is exceptional. Maybe—”
“He's married,” Royce interrupted. “Happily married. And the father of three, two of whom are still young enough to live at home. That makes him the least likely candidate of the bunch. Our killer is a loner. He's not a family man. Nor is Maurelle the type to share. I'd strike Radebrook before I struck anyone else.”
“Fine. That leaves Arthur Landow, who's uneasy about squashing a bug, and James Fairwood, who I didn't expect to be listed here. He always talks of himself as a naval officer.”
“He was a naval officer.” Royce was rereading the pages. “After Napoleon crushed our navy, he switched to the army. Apparently, he's an expert marksman.”
Damen slammed his fist against the mantle. “So where do we go from here? How do we figure out which one it is?”
“We don't.” Royce began organizing the reports into five separate, carefully-labeled folders. “We let Maurelle act as our bloodhound.”
A startled look. “Royce, you've spent the past two days telling us how staunch Maurelle is when it comes to refusing to betray her lover. Do you honestly believe that by waving five files beneath her nose you're going to goad her into blurting out his name?”
“No.” Royce carefully lay the most damning pages atop each report, before closing the files. “I believe that by leaving five files beneath her nose I'm going to goad her into acting to protect him.”
Breanna's chin came up. “You're using her love for him to trap her into giving him away. You're going to leave her alone in the room with those files. Instinctively she'll go over and read the report on her lover. She won't be able to help herself. She'll want to see what facts you've compiled, how close you are to finding the man she loves.”
“Exactly.” Royce shot Breanna an admiring look. “You've become quite the sleuth, my love.”
“You've trained me well. Too well.” Breanna rose, walked over to him. “Royce, ifs a mistake. Not the idea, the execution. If you casually leave those files lying about in Maurelle's room, she'll know you're up to something. She won't go near the reports. And what will you do? Kneel outside her door all night, peeking through the keyhole, hoping she'll relent?”
Royce's brows rose in surprise. “You have another way?”
“Yes.” Breanna nodded, lifting her chin in a gesture that was becoming more and more natural for her to make. “Let me go in there and get the results we need.”
“No.” Royce was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not. You're not going anywhere near that bitch.”
Gently, Breanna lay her hand on his forearm. “We only have one chance. If she figures out we're uncertain she'll never give anything away. I can throw her off-guard. You can't. Her defenses go up whenever you walk into that room. You're a man—and a brilliant one, at that. I'm a woman—a gentle, delicate, weak-minded woman.” Breanna's lips twitched at her own description. “Maurelle will have no regard for me. She'll assume I'm faltering, on the verge of collapse. I'll use that to my advantage.”
Anastasia had perked up and was nodding her agreement. “Breanna has a point. Maurelle is used to battling wits with men, not women. I doubt she believes any woman is as strong as she, much less a soft-spoken, composed woman such as Breanna. If anyone can prove Maurelle wrong, if s my cousin.”
“Royce,” Breanna pressed, her jade gaze holding his midnight one. “I'll get what we need.”
