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A scowl. “No. I didn't.”
Hibbert arched a brow. “Are you sure it's Lord Sheldrake you're uncomfortable facing? Or is it Lady Breanna?”
Royce's scowl deepened. “I don't appreciate having my mind read, Hibbert. Not even by you. But if you must know, no, I don't like telling a twenty-one-year-old woman that a professional killer—one with a brilliant mind and a burning desire to terrorize and kill her—is closing in and I've done nothing to outmaneuver him or find out who he is.” Staring broodingly at his portfolio, Royce added, “I've been unusually slow at turning up answers to young women's dilemmas these days.”
Hibbert sniffed. “Ryder's daughter is like the proverbial needle in a haystack. We're not only searching for an eighteen-year-old girl who could be anywhere, we're searching for one whose father has never laid eyes on her. We have no description, no point at which to begin. The viscount hasn't so much as contacted Glynnis Martin since he impregnated her and discharged her nineteen years ago. He even destroyed the letter she sent him announcing their daughter's birth. Why, for all we know, Emma Martin doesn't even know her father's name, much less that he's alive and searching for her.”
“That's irrelevant. It's we who are searching for her, not the other way around. We know her name and that her mother dropped out of sight immediately after having her.”
“Glynnis Martin could have left England.”
“With what money?”
“Fine. Then, she could have moved to another shire, changed her name.”
“That shouldn't stop us from finding her— or he; daughter.”
“It won't stop us. But it might slow us down. Our men are exploring all the avenues you defined. We're waiting to hear back from them. We're also waiting for word on whatever death records they can get their hands on. Not that I hold out much hope. We have almost two decades and an entire country to cover, with only a name and a description of Glynnis Martin to go on. She's had eighteen years in which to die. So, for that matter, has her daughter.”
“Damn.” Royce pressed his fist into the seat cushion, leaving a deep imprint in the soft cloth. “I don't like being thwarted—not even for a few weeks. I don't intend to allow it. By New Year's Day we're going to have information leading us to Ryder's daughter.”
“I see.” Hibbert leaned back in his seat, eyeing his employer speculatively “And Lady Breanna? Are your plans for our progress on her situation equally ambitious?”
“Yes.” Royce's jaw set, his tone as unyielding as his claim “We're going to find that bastard who's after her, Hibbert. We're going to find him soon.”
“For Lord Sheldrake's sake,” Hibbert supplied helpfully
“Don't bait me. Yes, for Damen's sake. Also for his wife's sake, and Lady Breanna's sake. Hell, for my sake. I'm not going to lose. Not this time.”
“This time?” A wry grin twisted Hibbert's lips. “As I recall, you haven't lost at any time.”
“No,” Royce concurred, staring out the window as the iron gates of Medford Manor sprang into view. “I haven't.”
9
From the sitting-room window, Breanna watched Lord Royce's carriage round the drive, feeling a surprising sense of relief and an even more surprising sense of excitement at the realization that he was back.
But then, why should she be surprised at the relief that seeing him evoked? Royce Chadwick represented her only hope of finding and eliminating the assassin who was hell-bent on inflicting his vengeance on her and Stacie.
She'd been living a walking nightmare ever since that package had arrived, her entire body taut with fear every time she and Stacie left the house. Even with Damen perpetually by their sides, it was terrifying to know that- somewhere—doubtless within scrutinizing distance—a brilliant marksman waited, gauging the right time to end their lives.
Yet he didn't strike—just as Lord Royce had predicted.
Damen's friend certainly knew what he was talking about.
True, his methods were risky, leaving both her and Stacie susceptible to attack. Still, the tactics he'd outlined were unarguably logical—the result of an astute mind that understood its adversary.
Perhaps that was the part she found exciting. Dangerous or not, Lord Royce's reasoning was fascinating and listening to him detail his strategy had strengthened her conviction that he was the right person for the job. He possessed all the awareness and creativity Bow Street lacked—and the courage to see it all through-She was curious to hear what he'd found out during his absence.
Letting the curtain fall back into place, she gathered up her skirts and made her way across the sitting room. She was halfway down the hall when Wells opened the front door, and Lord Royce and an elderly, silver-haired man walked in.
Damen's footsteps echoed from the second floor landing, and he strode down the stairs, reached the main level, and cut across Breanna's path, never even noticing her as he headed toward the doorway.
“Royce. Hibbert.” He greeted both men tersely. “What did you find out?”
“We spoke to numerous shopkeepers,” Hibbert began. “And Lord Royce paid a visit to Bow Street. After our initial inquiries—”
“Nothing,” Royce interrupted with an adamant sweep of his arm. “We found out nothing.” His chin came up and he met Damen's anguished gaze. “But we will.” He handed Wells his overcoat with a nod of thanks. “Have there been further incidents?”
