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It seemed Chadwick's intentions were innocuous, at least so far as he was concerned.
But tonight, watching the way he hovered around Breanna Colby...
Could Chadwick be here for another reason?
Could he be here to keep an eye out for him—the killer threatening Anastasia and Breanna's lives?
No, he silently concluded, reaching Lady Breanna's room. Royce Chadwick hunted down missing people; he didn't investigate murders. Besides, after seeing the heated way he stared at Lady Breanna at tonight's ball, it was obvious that if Chadwick had any other motive for being here, it was to get Lady Breanna into his bed.
As for the lady in question, she seemed interested enough. Maybe that explained her damnably good spirits.
The familiar anger knotted his gut.
He loathed her for her laughter, for her vitality, for her well-being. He loathed her for still being alive. But that wouldn't last long.
He would kill her now if his hatred had its way. Fortunately, his brilliant mind and iron discipline kept him in check. The stage hadn't been properly set. Unfinished business remained—namely, Anastasia Lockewood. More important, Breanna hadn't suffered nearly enough. Not nearly enough. Tonight had demonstrated that. She was so infernally happy— greeting her guests, drinking her punch, strolling outside with Chadwick.
All that gaiety would vanish the instant she walked into her room tonight.
With that, he focused on the business at hand.
Pausing outside her bedchamber door, he scanned the hallway. Deserted. The guests were at the ball. Ladies Breanna and Anastasia were otherwise occupied. The guards were safeguarding the estate from intruders.
But he had no need to intrude.
On that ironic thought, he turned the door handle and crossed the threshold. Shutting the door behind him, he reached swiftly into his pocket to extract his little surprises.
The room carried her scent—sweet, floral—the lingering fragrance of her customary perfume.
He could picture her, cheeks flushed with excitement as she'd readied herself for her ball. Lighthearted, enthused.
She'd be neither when she went to bed tonight.
If she went to bed. She wouldn't be able to sleep. She'd feel violated, numb with shock, quaking with terror.
The image was exhilarating.
He crossed over to her nightstand, having decided it was the best place to leave his tokens. Not as intimate as the dressing table, perhaps, but far closer to the bed, and more visible from the doorway. Illuminated by a single lamp, his gifts would render their full impact the moment she walked in. They would make her feel all the more vulnerable—draped across her nightstand, just brushing her bedcovers.
With a bitter smile, he went to work, arranging the reminders just so.
Five minutes later, he let himself out of Lady Breanna's bedchamber and retraced his steps to the ball.
He was just about to enter the ballroom when he heard the argument.
Not an argument exactly, but a heated debate. Quiet but intense. Fervent enough to capture one's attention—if one was listening. And he was listening, especially given the repeated use of the name “Lord Royce.”
The dispute was taking place in the front hallway. And the men involved were Wells, the efficient Colby butler, and Hibbert, Royce Chadwick's trusted manservant.
Whatever this discussion pertained to, it was worth eavesdropping.
He meandered toward the entranceway, threading his way through the tangle of guests moving in the opposite direction. Alone, he hovered near the stair-case, an inconspicuous guest enjoying a bit of solitary time at a crowded party. Then, in one thoroughly unobtrusive motion, he slipped into an alcove behind he staircase. He pressed close to the wall so as to see but not be seen.
“I run this household,” Wells was stating flatly. “When a message arrives, I deliver it.”
“And J work for Lord Royce,” Hibbert retaliated icily. “When a message arrives addressed to him, I deliver it.”
“Deliver it, or read it?”
