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“Yes—or that.” Hibbert pondered his impending task. “I'll begin looking for the common link among the victims. All but Glynnis Martin. I’ll assume his motive there was to get at you.”
“A wise assumption.” Royce looked about restlessly, spied Wells hovering in the doorway, his expression stricken “Wells, I'll need to see the sketch. And the basket.” He hesitated, turned to Breanna. “Do you want to go upstairs and lie down? You don't have to go through this again.”
“No.” Breanna gave a hard shake of her head. She might be dazed, overwhelmed by all she had to process, but about this point she was adamant “I want to stay here. I need to help resolve my own fate, as well as Stacie's and her babe's.”
“All right” With a flicker of understanding, Royce signaled to Wells to get the package, then waited while he complied.
“The killer had to have been here,” Royce murmured, after carefully studying each item. “Not just outside the gate, or on the grounds, or even stealing in and out of Breanna's room. He had to have been in the manor for a substantial period of time. Enough time to see Breanna up close, memorize the details of what she was wearing. He also had to have been at the party to hear news of Anastasia's announcement. It's too soon for outsiders to know about her pregnancy. The party just ended last evening. The package was left on the messenger's doorstep before daybreak. And the killer spent the night rushing from Berkshire to London. So he didn't stop to eavesdrop on street corners.”
“Not to mention that he had to have been here if he followed you to Pearson Manor,” Breanna added. “How else would he have known you'd located Emma Martin, and that you intended to ride out to see her? You got that message during the ball. Only those present knew about it.”
“True.”
“So where do we begin looking?” Breanna demanded. “Do we go back to our plan to interrogate the guests?”
“We don’t do anything,” Royce replied pointedly. “Hibbert and I do. We didn’t have much of a chance to question anybody before Hart was killed. We’ll ‘ have to rectify that. Before that, we’ll eliminate any other possibilities, however small: workmen who still have access to the grounds, drivers who delivered provisions for the party, even Mahoney’s guards. Anyone who could gain entry to the estate.”
“You don’t really think any of those people is the killer, do you?”
“No. I think the killer is on your guest list.” Royce scanned the note. “This was penned by an educated man. It’s well-written, polished. I don’t know too many workmen with the kind of privileged lives that would afford them a formal education. That, combined with the effortless way he got into your room and onto the grounds to kill Hart, his knowledge of what went on at the party—I’d say it looks more and more likely that the killer was one of the guests. Still, I don’t want to overlook anything.”
Breanna sank back against the settee, bile rising in her throat. “The very thought of him chatting with my family, laughing with us, eating with us, maybe even dancing with—”
“Breanna, stop.” Royce pressed a silencing forefinger to her lips. “There’s no point in speculating. It saps strength and wastes time. The important thing is that we find him.” He rose, gave the box back to Hibbert. “Find out all you can about the victims,” he instructed. “Wells, before Hibbert leaves, give him a list of everyone, from delivery boys to final members of the construction crew, who had access to the grounds this week. Also, tell Mahoney I want to see him. I plan to interview each of his men separately.”
Hibbert nodded. “You’ll guard Lady Breanna’s door tonight, I presume?”
“Oh, yes.” Royce’s jaw tightened fractionally. “I’ll be there. I intend to use those hours to pore over the guest list and do some thinking. Between what you find out for me tomorrow and what I figure out on my own, I intend to come up with some answers.”
18
The brothel was posh, significantly more elegant than the clingy one outside Paris where she'd worked as a girl.
Then again, she'd been a child then, grateful for a place to sleep and a few francs in her pocket. She'd have done anything to keep from starving, even work in the Maison Fleur, offering her body to any soldier who could pay for it.
She'd come a long way since those dark days at Maison Fleur, when Napoleon's rise to power was at its peak. She'd clawed her way out of poverty, demonstrated herself to be a shrewd businesswoman. She'd taken a new name, bestowed it upon Le Joyau, the luxurious establishment of which she was now the proud proprietor.
She hadn't expected to see Ansel again.
Their affair had ended long before the war. They came not only from different countries, but from different worlds. It was one thing when he'd been merely a patron, hi bed, they'd been equals. He'd paid handsomely for her time; she'd provided the extravagant levels of sexual gratification he craved. But when feelings had intruded, complicating the relationship and transforming it from lust into passion into something even more—something strong enough to compel him to keep her in his life—everything had changed.
Suddenly they were no longer equals. Suddenly, he was demanding that she become an aristocrat's mistress—a role she found far more demeaning than that of whore. Being someone's “kept woman” would strip her of her independence, a condition she couldn't abide. After all, she was as proud and vital as he, his match in every way.
Which was what he found so fascinating about her.
She'd never said good-bye. It would have been too overwhelming. He would have been infuriated. His rages were difficult enough to control, although she knew just how to do so. In her own way, her fires burned as fiercely as his. But he would have misconstrued anything she said, taken it as rejection—and that would have pushed him too fan No, it was better to simply drop out of sight, allow him to conjure up whatever excuse his brilliant, arrogant mind chose to.
His finding her again, particularly now, had been a spectacular surprise. Because now her circumstances were different. Now, she could meet him on her own terms. She was financially independent, mistress of her fate, in the prime of life and in extraordinarily high demand.
Not only was their reunion exhilarating, but its timing was bonne chance.
Or, if not luck, an unexpected but welcome series of circumstances.
Either way, he was back in her life—a life that was already thriving and now promised to soar.
Draped across the sheets of the lush, oversized bed, Maurelle sighed, stretching her arms overhead and feeling that bone-weary contentment only Ansel could ensure.
Beside her, he exhaled sharply, releasing whatever lingering fragments of tension still plagued him.
