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“Lord Royce said the same thing—a dozen times. But, as I told him, my father kept me isolated. I never attended a full London Season. So, I wasn't formally introduced to anyone. The gentlemen are all a jumble of faces.”
“I see.” Maurelle's mind was racing, trying to find a way to use that to her advantage.
Slowly, she began backing toward the wardrobe.
Lost in her own pain, Breanna buried her face in her hands, weeping softly as she spoke. “I'm begging you, Maurelle. Read these letters. Tell us his name. Don't make me go through any more than I already have. Please ... spare me. Spare my cousin. And most of all, spare her unborn child, who's innocent and deserves a chance at life. Please.”
Maurelle halted beside the files. “Read me the letters,” she ordered. “Let me hear this firsthand. I can't believe the man I love would kill an unborn child.”
Eagerly, Breanna complied, drying her eyes with a handkerchief, and composing herself enough to pick up the first note, read its contents aloud.
By the time she'd reached the final, dooming letter, Maurelle had completed her perusal, and her work-silently, rapidly, and as thoroughly as time would permit.
The information she had the chance to skim was equally damning to all five men. Any of them could be her noble assassin.
The drawings were another matter entirely.
Fear had prickled up her spine as she realized how accurate the visual depictions were, how easy it would be for Lady Breanna to identify her stalker by looking at his likeness.
Destroying the drawing was unthinkable. So was defacing it enough to disguise his features. Either of those steps would alert Chadwick to the fact that she'd tampered with the file, not to mention leading him to precisely the man she was determined to protect.
So how could she save him, buy him enough time to kill this interfering bitch and vanish?
There was only one way. It was risky, but it was a chance she had to take. After all, the chit had said she wouldn't know one man from the other.
In one swift motion, Maurelle had opened his file, plucked out his picture, and slipped it into the file behind it. Then, she'd stepped away from the reports.
Lady Breanna was reading the final phrase of the last letter. That alerted Maurelle to the fact that she hadn't time to get back over to the desk, where she was supposedly still standing, without calling attention to herself. Even an overwrought fool like Lady Breanna might become suspicious if she saw her enemy standing so close to a report that would condemn her lover. And the last thing Maurelle wanted was to arouse her ladyship's suspicions.
She acted on impulse.
Reaching for the wardrobe, she grabbed at the first item of clothing she could find. A night robe. Fine. She'd feign distress, make it look as if what she'd just heard had upset her so greatly, she couldn't stay still and bear it. She had to busy herself to keep from breaking down.
And what more logical outlet for her anguish than donning her nightclothes, retiring to bed to bury her pain?
Breanna was staring at the page in her hands, her breathing unsteady as she fought back tears. When she finally looked up, Maurelle was unbuttoning her gown in dazed, jerky motions, watching her with a shocked expression.
“Now do you understand?” Breanna beseeched her.
“Oui.” Maurelle kept her voice low, shaken. “How could I not?” She stepped out of her gown, untied the ribbons of her chemise “I never imagined. ..” She finished undressing, then, with trembling hands, shrugged on the absurdly pristine night robe that had been left for her. “I don't know what to do,” she confessed. “To betray him... It's not only love. I'm afraid.”
“We'll protect you,” Breanna assured her quickly “We'll keep you safe until he's caught. Please, help me. If not for my sake, for the sake of Anastasia's babe.”
That, ostensibly, clinched it.
Maurelle nodded, pain twisting her lovely features “I will.” She pressed her palms together, summoning up all her courage. “No unborn child should be killed without ever tasting life.” A heartbeat of a pause. “ His name is Arthur,” she whispered, forcing out the words. “Arthur Landow.”
She watched relief sweep Breanna's face.
Slowly, she counted to ten.
It was time for her seemingly virtuous move.
“Lord Royce will want your verification,” she informed Breanna, dabbing at her eyes. “He's a man, and will never understand your qualms about viewing the drawings. But I'm a woman. I do. So, while I know you must confirm what I've told you, I don't think you should subject yourself to doing so—not alone.” She crossed over, picked up Landow's file, holding it so Breanna could see his name penned in bold letters across the front. “Here. Do it now. With another woman beside you for comfort. Then, you’ll never have to do it again.” She tugged out the sketch she'd placed atop Landow's, flourished it before Breanna's horrified eyes. “Is this not he?”
Breanna stared at the drawing. Her gaze shifted to Maurelle's compassionate expression, and she shuddered, biting her up to stifle a sob. “Yes. It's he.” She turned away from the sketch. “Put it away. I never want to see him again.”
“Mais oui. I understand.” Maurelle hurried back to the stack of files, slipping her noble assassin's sketch back in its proper place before laying Landow's file atop it.
