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7
The guard held up a commanding hand.
Royce reined his horses to a stop, waiting patiently at the gates of Medford Manor for the expected interrogation.
Two uniformed sentries approached his phaeton slowly, carefully, each of them keeping one hand inside his pocket, doubtless clutching his pistol lest it be needed. The first guard held up a lantern, using its light to better make out Royce's features in the growing darkness of the evening.
“Can I help you, sir?” he inquired, reaching Royce and staring him down with a hard, no-nonsense look.
Who could blame him, given that one of his men had been killed that very day?
“My name is Royce Chadwick. The Marquess of Sheldrake is expecting me.”
The guard studied Royce for another moment-presumably matching his physical appearance to the description Damen had provided. Clearly satisfied with what he saw, he relaxed. “Yes, my lord, he is. Go right through.” He gestured for the other guard to open the gates.
A minute later, the gates made a grating sound, and swung wide to admit Royce's phaeton.
Nodding politely, Royce led his horses on, guiding them down the long drive leading to the manor. He took the opportunity to look around, taking in as much of the scenery as twilight would permit.
He could make out the construction site, a broad area that would soon house what appeared to be an imposing dwelling. That would be Damen's new home, Royce reflected. Hibbert had reported to him that the marquess planned to move to his wife's family estate once their new manor had been completed. Evidently, the construction was corning along nicely. But it was far from finished.
Which meant that workmen would be coming and going from the grounds at an alarming rate. And that, in turn, meant the assassin could more easily find his way onto the estate, lose himself in a crowd of people.
The most logical thing for Royce to do was to shut down the construction—at least for now. On the other hand, he might be able to use that accessibility to Medford Manor to his advantage. He wasn't sure yet. But he wasn't ready to close any doors—not until he had every shred of information in his possession and the time to evaluate it.
Rounding the drive, Royce brought his phaeton to a stop, and swung down to his feet. He'd reviewed the details of the case with Hibbert before leaving London. Then, he'd mulled them over during his two-hour ride to Kent. The package Lady Breanna had received, the too-coincidental murder of the guard— the whole situation had a very unpleasant taste to it.
Instinct told Royce that Damen's worries were well-founded. The question was, could they find this animal, stop him in time?
Mounting the front steps, he knocked.
A distinguished older man with spectacles answered the door, and a look of consummate relief swept across his face as he scrutinized their visitor, determined who he was. “Lord Royce,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“Come in.” The butler stepped aside. “My name is Wells. Lord Sheldrake's been expecting you. According to him ... that is, I'm praying... truthfully, we're all praying that you can help keep Miss Breanna and Miss Stacie safe.” Wells cleared his throat, abruptly remembering his place—and his composure. “ Your room is already made up. I'll have a footman carry in your bags.” He extended his hand to take Royce 's topcoat.
“Thank you.” Royce shrugged out of the thick wool coat, handing it over. He assessed the butler quickly although little insight was needed to see that this man was loyal to the core, and deeply attached to the two grown women he still considered to be his young charges.
That would be an asset and a liability.
It meant that Wells could be counted upon for any and every form of assistance. He could also, however, be counted upon to let his feelings interfere with his objectivity.
And that could be a problem.
Then again, Damen suffered from the same affli c tion. He was so bloody in love with his wife, not to mention doubly protective of her now that she was pregnant, that it was dubious whether or not he could be counted upon to act with his customary pragmatism.
Which left the women.
Royce frowned. Lord help him if Damen's wife wasn't every bit as bold and strong-willed as he'd described her. And as for Lady Breanna, well, she'd better be more than remarkable. She'd better have the internal strength of a soldier about to march into battle.
“I'll show you to the sitting room,” Wells was saying. “The family is gathered there. Lord Sheldrake thought you'd want to speak with them before you freshened up for dinner.”
“He's right. I would.”
Royce followed Wells down the hall, glancing about as he did.
Medford Manor was spacious and warm, an appealing combination of aged beauty and modern freshness. Twin staircases with curving, mahogany banisters, divided by a rich Oriental carpet, were accented with low tables filled with vases of holly sprigs and snowdrops and, hanging on the walls, intricate needlepoints depicting sunsets, children playing in the snow, and colorful gardens.
