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“Something about John Cunnings, sir. Apparently, the authorities are speaking to all his associates again. I have no idea why.”
Ah, but he did know why. He knew precisely why.
Or, more specifically, who.
Breanna Colby.
“I see,” he replied, his mind racing.
Marks's visit had to tie in to the trip Lady Breanna had made to Bow Street three days ago. The miserable bitch. She'd obviously accomplished more than he'd realized, done a better job of convincing the police to help her than he'd anticipated.
Still, this conversation had to be strictly routine. Bow Street had no evidence to link him to Cunnings—not then or now—and certainly none to link him to their current murder investigation. They were searching for runaway wives, for heaven's sake, not reputable gentlemen.
He'd do nothing to sway their way of thinking. Nor would he antagonize them. To the contrary, he'd be warm, gracious, utterly cooperative.
And Marks would leave no wiser than when he arrived.
Lady Breanna was another matter entirely. She had to be punished for her brazen act.
The very notion made excitement surge through his blood. He'd find a means of punishment that would intensify her fear beyond measure.
And, as a result, heighten his exhilaration even more.
“Sir?” the butler prompted. “What shall I tell Mr. Marks?”
“By all means, show him in,” he replied graciously, clasping his hands behind his back. “I'll answer any questions he has.”
And then I'll deal with the lovely Breanna Colby.
Four days later, Bow Street delivered its report.
Marks arrived at Medford just before lunch. He propped himself against the sitting-room door frame—a blatant indication that this wasn't going to be a lengthy visit—and relayed his findings to Brean na and Wells.
Thoroughly, meticulously, he read through the entire list of interviews he'd conducted, and their outcomes. He'd spoken with every conceivable one of John Cunnings's associates, from the women he'd squandered his illegally acquired money on, to the men he did business with, to his neighbors, to those few friends he had. No one knew anything about an assassin, nor did they know of anyone who'd want to kill Cunnings. In fact, they knew nothing more about Cunnings's illegal dealings than they had three months ago—which was nil, other than whatever they'd read in the newspapers.
Having concluded his report, Marks straightened and smoothed his scarlet waistcoat. “That's all I have, my lady.” He shut his notebook. “Have you received any more threats?”
Breanna shook her head. “No.”
“Then I'd say you're in no immediate danger. Nor is your cousin, Lady Sheldrake. Besides, the point is moot. We have nothing more to go on.”
“But Mr. Marks—”
“I've done everything I can, my lady.” His mouth set in grim lines. “I can't justify spending another hour on this—not with the current murder investigation I'm involved in. My suggestion is: be careful. Don't go out alone. Tell your cousin the same when she returns from her wedding trip. I noticed you hired some guards. Good idea. The more security you have the better. That'll scare this lunatic off— if he plans to carry out his threats. Which I don't think he will.” With that, Marks tipped his hat. “Good day, my lady.”
He crouched down in the bushes by the roadside, watching as Marks drove through the iron gates and curved onto the road leading away from Medford Manor.
Good. Bow Street's finished. She's on her own now. Which means I can strike whenever I wish. I won't rush it. The time has to be right...
It was two days later when the carriage bearing the Lockewood family crest turned off the road, heading toward Medford.
Inside the carriage, Anastasia frowned as the iron gates loomed into view—along with two burly men posted on either side.
“Who are they?” she demanded, scooting to the edge of her seat and eyeing them. “And why are they standing so rigidly at the gates—as if they're sentries?”
“I don't know.” Even Damen looked perplexed, his brows knitting as one of the two men gestured for their driver to stop.
The driver complied, and the man approached the carriage.
