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His brows arched in surprise. Maurelle's hair? Why on earth... ?
The note caught his eye. It was neatly penned, but not in Maurelle's hand.
A warning bell sounded in his head, and he tensed, snatched up the page.
Crompton, it read. Your maneuvers were good. Mine were better. To the victor go the spoils. In this case, the spoils are the prisoner I've taken. And I do mean taken. Not once, but repeatedly. Her body is too lush to resist—especially that erotic birthmark just under her right nipple. I salute you for your taste in women. Maurelle Rouge is one woman I'd never sell. She's extraordinary. Insatiable, but extraordinary. She keeps begging for more, insisting that my charms exceed yours. Yet another victory, wouldn't you say?
Crompton's skull was hammering so loud he could scarcely think, his body shaking with a rage like none he had ever known.
Chadwick had Maurelle. His intimate description left no room for doubt. That filthy bastard was bedding his Maurelle.
Damn him. Damn him to hell.
Crompton dragged his sleeve across his forehead, sweat tricking down the side of his face as he forced himself to read on.
Did you think I'd summon Bow Street? Think again. I want no intermediary. It's just you and me, Crompton. Except the roles have now reversed. You're the mouse and I'm the cat. I've hunted you down. Now I can torment you as you tormented Lady Breanna. I've already stripped you of everything—your anonymity, your unblemished success record, even your woman. Concede defeat. Or die by my hand. The war is over. The best man has won. — Chadwick
A roar of denial exploded from Crompton's chest. He bolted to his feet, crumpling the note into a ball and hurling it and the box across the room.
He raked both hands through his hair, pacing about in an effort to comprehend what had happened, how it had happened.
Chadwick knew who he was. He knew who Maurelle was. He'd called her Maurelle Rouge. Worse, he'd kidnapped her, forced her to act as his whore. She'd never have gone willingly. He had to have brutalized her.
Had he also brutalized her into revealing her lover's name?
No. Maurelle would never betray him. Not even if she were tortured.
Then how had Chadwick figured it out? How had he gotten his hands on Maurelle to begin with?
Hibbert.
That wretched old fool had been in Paris. He must have found Le Joyau, seized her there.
Which meant he'd found the women. All the women.
Emma Martin. That's who'd given him away. She was the only one who'd seen his face.
He'd kill her later. After he took care of the others.
He stopped pacing, forced air into his lungs. He had to think, to come up with a plan. Chadwick wasn't sending Bow Street here. He was too pompous, too cocky.
Too smart.
He knew bloody well that if Bow Street showed up here, the man they sought would find a way to elude them, to drop out of sight and, as a result, be back in a position of control. Instead, Chadwick was trying to lure him out, to goad him into showing himself.
Oh, he'd show h
imself, all right. But not in the reckless way Chadwick expected.
He'd rethink his strategy. He'd get into that house. He'd rescue Maurelle.
And then he'd kill every last one of them.
28
He arrived at Medford as originally planned, at half past 5 a.m.
It had taken all his self-control to wait out the night, to restrain himself from rushing right over there and breaking down the front door, firing at everyone until he found Maurelle.
