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“Miss Breanna?” Wells was visibly alarmed. “What is it?” He picked up the card. Adjusting his spectacles, he read aloud, “Did you think I'd forget you? Never. It's retribution time. I'm back to even the score. One bullet. That's all I need. One for each of you. First your cousin, then you. Soon. So tremble, Lady Breanna. Tremble and wait.'“
3
“ Tell me the entire story again. As calmly as possible.”
Cecil Marks leaned against the desk, tugging at his scarlet waistcoat and trying to ignore the din taking place behind him as a group of thieves were dragged into the Bow Street office, struggling and swearing. He'd been a Bow Street runner for three years now, and he still preferred combing the streets for criminals to actually bringing them in and having to contend with the chaos. But given the recent murders that had occurred here in London and the investigation that had ensued—well, he had no choice but to stick close to the home office.
He glanced down at his writing tablet, then back at the white-faced young woman who stood before him, wringing her hands as her elderly butter tried to comfort her. This was the last thing he needed after the kind of day he'd had. He'd questioned a half-dozen suspects, pored over pages of facts—and he wasn't in any mood to soothe the fears of an overwrought woman.
Then again, Lady Breanna Colby wasn't just any woman.
A lady in the true sense of the word, she was. Marks remembered that from last time. And a real beauty, to boot. Hair like burnished copper and eyes like chips of jade. Delicate and, at the same time, almost regal. Marks recalled the way she'd watched him lead her father away, her head held high, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed, grief and shame she refused to display. It was rare to meet a woman who possessed that much restraint, much less one who was emotionally strong as well as beautiful.
Yes, she was a survivor, all right. Except that right now Lady Breanna looked ready to come apart at the seams.
Marks could well understand why. Hell, he'd be unnerved, too, if he was in her place. The problem was, he had no time or resources to devote to her situation. Not when the whole matter boiled down to a mere threat.
“My lady,” he replied, after listening to her second recounting of the story. “I know you're upset. But unless someone's actually tried to hurt you, my hands are tied. Unless, of course, there's something you haven't mentioned? Something more substantial this man's done? If so, tell me and I'll get right on it.”
Breanna drew an unsteady breath. “That's just it. He hasn't actually done anything—yet. But it's clear he intends to.”
“You say he sent you this package.” Marks jerked his thumb toward his desk, where the opened box lay. “Those two dolls and a note.”
“Not just two dolls,” Breanna corrected. “Two disfigured dolls. And it's not just a note, sir. It's a threat. Surely you can see that.”
Marks twisted around, examined each doll for the third time, then scanned the note. “I admit, whoever sent this is warped, even unbalanced. But as for proof that he's going to kill you—”
“Mr. Marks, please don't patronize me. You of all people remember what happened the night my father was arrested—or rather, after he was arrested.”
Marks cleared his throat. “You're talking about that shooter.”
“He wasn't just an arbitrary shooter. He was paid to kill Anastasia, hired by my father—through his informant—to do so. When I shot him in the hand before he could shoot Stacie, he bolted. Obviously, he realized he might be exposed, so he killed Mr. Cunnings—the one person who could identify him—then vanished.”
“We believe he killed Cunnings,” Marks amended, scratching his head. “The killer was never found, nor was any proof of his identity.” Seeing the anguish on Breanna's face, he felt a pang of guilt. “But, yes,” he conceded, “we're pretty sure Cunnings's murderer was the same man who took a shot at your cousin.”
“And I maimed him.”
Marks's lips thinned into a grim line. “I understand why you'd think this message was from him. Maybe it was. Fine, it probably was. The question is, what can we do about it? We couldn't find him three months ago. What makes you think it'll be any easier to find him now?”
“The fact that he's surfaced.” Breanna gripped the folds of her gown between her fingers, an earnest pucker forming between her brows. “Sir, I don't work for Bow Street. I'm not presuming to tell you how to do your job. But isn't it possible this man dropped out of sight long enough, not only to wait for your investigation to die down, but to give his wound time to heal? That he's only now able to resume his work? His note certainly makes it sound that way.”
“I agree. It does sound as if he was waiting to be up to snuff before he contacted you. But that doesn't mean he'll be any easier to catch than he was before. Think about it, my lady. Paid killers don't operate out in the open. Nor do they advertise in newspapers to find clients.” Marks flipped his notepad shut. “What's more, they don't take jobs without monetary compensation— major monetary compensation. With your father in Newgate, no one's interested in paying this assassin to kill you or your cousin. So why would he take the risk? Why would he chance getting caught in exchange for nothing? He wouldn't.”
“My instincts tell me otherwise.”
“No rudeness intended, my lady, but I'm in the middle of some pretty ugly murder investigations. I can't abandon those cases in favor of your instincts.”
Breanna made a frustrated sound. “I realize that. I'm not asking you to abandon anything. I read the newspapers. I'm aware of how busy you are
. All I'm asking is that you probe this matter a bit—perhaps after hours.” She pressed her lips together, squaring her shoulders in that regal way she had. “I'm sorry if that sounds presumptuous. But remember, mine isn't the only life that's at stake. My cousin's is, too. I'm sure her husband, Lord Sheldrake, would appreciate any assistance you could provide in eliminating a potential threat to his wife.”
Lady Breanna's pointed comment wasn't lost on Marks. He knew damned well who the Marquess of Sheldrake was, how prominent he was in London business and society. He also knew he was the “Lockewood” of the House of Lockewood—the most influential merchant bankers in England, maybe even in the whole damned world. Not to mention that the House of Lockewood was the very place where Cunnings, Sheldrake's right-hand man, had been murdered. Murdered because he'd been instrumental in an ugly plot that sacrificed lives and undermined the marquess himself.
Yes, if the assassin truly had resurfaced, Sheldrake would definitely want him found, want all the loose ends of the nightmare tied up. Most especially because the assassin's target had been Lady Anastasia Colby, now the Marchioness of Sheldrake. And everyone knew how much Damen Lockewood adored his new bride...
Hell, Marks thought, eyeing Lady Breanna with a kind of grudging respect. This woman wasn't only resilient and beautiful. She was smart, too.
“All right.” He gave a terse nod. “I'll do some checking—as much as I can given what's going on here. I'll start with the messenger service that delivered the package to your home. After that, I'll review the details of Cunnings's murder. Maybe I can turn something up.”
