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But it hadn't been.
His anticipation faded, transformed to the anger that had been boiling inside him all week long, intensifying more with each passing day. He gritted his teeth, pondering the unexpected response—or rather, lack of response— L ady Breanna had displayed to last week's events. That maddening little bitch. Rather than quaking with fear, she'd spent her days strolling the grounds with her cousin and Sheldrake, toughing and chatting as if all was right with the world. Despite the fact that that guard was killed at the portals of her home, she still hadn't panicked, hadn't canceled her holiday gathering and looked herself in her house.
There was only one explanation that made sense, he reminded himself, resorting to the same logic he'd used all week to bring himself under control.
She hadn't made the connection.
It was more than plausible. After all, he had done an exceptional job of making the murder look like the work of a highwayman. She'd obviously believed his ruse, dismissed the incident as being unrelated to the package she'd received. Yes. That's what had happened. It made sense, not only in comprehending Lady Breanna's behavior, but Sheldrake's, as well. The marquess's mind was far too sharp not to have considered the possibility that the two incidents were related. And, given his romantic attachment to his wife, it was unthinkable he'd subject her to danger. Therefore, he must have examined the evidence and determined that whoever sent those dolls to Lady Breanna had not been the same person who killed the guard outside her estate.
The assassin's lips curved, his good humor restored
How delightful. He'd outwitted the entire family. More fools they.
Actually, he was wasting his time feeling angry. Because, disappointed though he was that Lady Breanna wasn't yet shivering with terror, he was equally pleased at what that meant for him. Now he could accomplish this next part of his plan with great ease. He wouldn't have to sneak into Medford Manor, or resort to forcible entry. He'd simply stroll through the front door, right along with the other guests, choose the appropriate moment to leave the gift he'd brought for her ladyship.
After discovering this memento, she wouldn't be lau
ghing.
No, on the contrary, she'd be overcome with honor, gripped with fear. Any hopes she'd entertained that the dolls were an isolated incident, that the guard's death was a coincidence, that she was safe in her own home, would be dashed.
He could hardly wait to see the terror in her eyes.
A gust of wind struck him and he winced, fitting his gloves more snugly into place, then shoving his hands in his pockets. Damn, how he loathed the cold.
Almost as much as he loathed her.
It was fitting the two would come together; that she'd die during winter.
A twig snapped and, reflexively, he turned up his collar, pulled the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face from view.
An instant later, two people—a young man and an even younger woman—darted by, sparing him not even a second glance. Giggling, they darted into one of the warehouses, the heated look in the young man's eye revealing precisely what was going to occur inside that wooden shed. The lad paused, assessed the area—deserted but for the assassin's retreating figure—and, having ensured their privacy, shut the warehouse door.
The assassin kept walking, head lowered, feeling a pang of envy. Ah, the pleasures that young couple were about to enjoy.
It was times like these he missed Maurelle. Just thinking of her made his pulse quicken in a way no other woman could begin to equal. Even after all these years.
He could still remember the first time he saw her. It was a sultry summer evening more than fifteen years ago, and she'd been coming down the stairs of that dilapidated brothel right outside Paris. He'd been pacing back and forth just across the street— whether by chance or by fate—driven there by the internal demons that pumped through his blood. Restless, consumed by a lethal hunger only he understood, he'd been eyeing the brothel, trying to decide if sex would ease the yearnings pounding inside him.
That's when she'd emerged.
She was easily the most striking woman he'd ever seen—thick black hair, huge dark eyes, offset by the palest of skin, all crowning the most lush, desirable body any woman could boast. The instant he glimpsed her, all his inner turmoil had converged, slamming forcibly from his brain to his loins.
He'd paid for a full night. He'd used every minute of it. But when morning came, he was no more ready to say good-bye than he'd been twelve hours earlier. He wanted her again—and not only for a night. There was something insa t iably exciting about Maurelle, something rich and dark and exhilarating that aroused him beyond bearing. Something that clawed inside him and drew him back to her side, night after night, week after week.
Perhaps it was because, even then, he recognized her as his equal.
She was his equal still.
A slow smile curved the assassin's lips. Life had an ironic way of working out.
Royce couldn't hide his relief when the time finally came to leave his brother's estate. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy spending Christmas with Edmund and Jane. They were good, decent people—if somewhat dull—who tried their best to make him feel welcome. The highlight of the visit was romping about with their three sons: Thomas, William, and little Christopher. Thomas—actually Edmund Thomas, heir apparent to his father's title—was five years old, and far more interested in climbing trees than he was in acquiring the skills necessary toward being the Earl of Searby. William, four years old and no less energetic than his brother, kept dragging Royce off to play in the snow, pelting his uncle with snowballs. And Christopher, at just shy of two, was a virtual whirlwind of activity, toddling from room to room on his stubby little legs, sending vases and crystal crashing to the floor in his wake.
The hours spent with his nephews were a welcome reprieve for Royce. Frolicking about kept his mind off the two cases he was now working on—the one involving Viscount Ryder's missing illegitimate daughter, and the more recent one involving Lady Breanna Colby.
Both cases centered around women, and both were frustrating as hell.
Ryder was old, in broken spirits, and searching for an unacknowledged bastard daughter who had unexpectedly become his sole living heir. One short month ago, Ryder's son Nathaniel had succumbed to a severe bout of influenza, dying suddenly, unmarried and childless, leaving Ryder with no one to inherit the family name and tide. The problem was that the aged viscount knew less than nothing about his legitimate daughter, other than the fact that she'd been conceived in his home—the product of a torrid liaison with a fetching chamber maid who'd been discharged the moment she became with child—and born in the back room of a London workhouse. Glynnis Martin, the chamber maid in question, had sent word to him of the babe's arrival, adding that she'd named their daughter Emma, after her grandmother. Ryder had destroyed the note and never responded. As of now, he could remember no additional details surrounding me child's birth.
