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Because mat killer and the assassin tormenting Breanna were one and the same man
The bastard was toying with the authorities while he honed his skill for the ultimate prize. And that prize was Breanna.
As for Glynnis Martin's death, that had been retaliation, a taanting reminder of who was the master.
That reminder was aimed, not at Breanna, but at him.
Obviously, the assassin had guessed what he was about. Having overheard what Royce intended him to overhear—that he was riding to Pearson Manor to bring Emma Martin to her father—the killer had somehow deduced the rest: that Royce would be returning to Medford Manor, that he'd taken on the role of Breanna's protector.
He knew. The son of a bitch knew everything.
And he was warning Royce to stay the hell out of this—or else.
“Chadwick?” Marks pressed, his eyes narrowed on Royce's face. “Have you come up with something we missed?”
Royce schooled his features, resisted the urge to blurt out his suspicions. To do so would be a mistake. Bow Street couldn't help Breanna any more now than they could before. They needed proof. He had none to offer. All he had was gut instinct. And, however certain that instinct was, it still wasn't proof.
Plus, there was another reason for his silence.
He wanted to get that son of a bitch himself.
“Chadwick, what's on your mind?” Marks demanded.
“I was thinking of Ryder,” Royce replied, turning their attentions toward a different concern. “If he is this killer's next intended victim, he'd better be warned.”
Marks nodded. “We'll ride straight to Sussex from here.”
“Ryder's expecting Emma, not you,” Royce said grimly. “I sent him a missive late last night, explaining that I'd found her and that I'd be bringing her to his estate this afternoon. Now, instead of meeting his daughter, he'll be confronted with news of her kidnapping. Not to mention the remorse he'll feel over Glynnis's murder.”
“We'll handle Ryder.” Marks shot Royce a pointed look. “Leave him and his safety to us. That's our job. Yours was finding the girl—which you did.”
“Only to lose her again—and this time not to the safe haven provided by her mother.” Royce frowned. “I'll leave Ryder to you. But as for Emma, I'm starting a new search. I intend to find her. That's what I'm being paid to do.”
“After we find the killer.”
“Agreed. The killer comes first.” Royce chose his words with care, deliberately avoiding a blatant refusal to leave the detective work to them. Not because he agreed with Marks's assessment. Nor because he intended to stay out of Bow Street's way. But because he knew in his gut that the assassin wasn't after Ryder.
No, the son of a bitch had made his point, right here at Pearson Manor today. Now, Royce would be willing to bet that he'd be returning to circle his true quarry like the vicious predator he was.
Royce's gut clenched tighter.
Let Bow Street guard Ryder.
He was speeding back to Breanna as fast as his phaeton could travel.
17
Breanna had been on edge all day.
She'd tried doing her needlepoint, then abandoned it after pricking herself three times. She'd then turned to her sketches, but couldn't seem to get the colors right. Finally, she picked up the novel she'd been reading, and found herself staring blankly at the words.
The tension was beginning to get to her.
She tossed down the book, smoothing her hair and glancing at the clock.
Just after four—ten minutes later than the last time she'd checked.
Sighing, she left the bedchamber for the third time since lunch.
