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Nodding tersely, Royce waited only until Mahoney had backed away. Then, he slapped the reins and sent his carriage racing down the drive.
He mounted the front steps two at a time.
“I'm glad you're back,” Wells greeted Royce, flinging open the door at once.
“Mahoney told me about the package,” Royce replied, his gaze darting about, searching for Breanna. “Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, my lord.” Wells didn't pretend to misunderstand. “Lady Breanna and Lady Anastasia are in the library playing cards with Hibbert and Lord Sheldrake. I felt more comfortable guarding the door. But now that you're back ...” He made a sweep with his arm. “I'll join you.”
Royce strode down the hall, veered sharply into the library, Wells only three paces behind him.
Breanna looked up, and Royce nearly sagged with relief at the sight of her, unharmed, outwardly composed as she played her game of whist.
“Did you learn anything?” she asked softly, laying down her cards.
“Nothing concrete. I'd rather discuss the package first.”
“As would I.” Hibbert rose, abandoning the game to cross over, hand Royce the box they'd received hours ago. “I'd like your opinion.”
Royce read the note through twice, his frown deepening as he did. Then, he turned to the bottle, looking it over quickly before opening the stopper, sniffing the fragrance. Replacing the stopper, he studied the bottle more closely.
“This will narrow down the search,” he muttered. “The women are not only in France, they're in Paris. Or not far from it.”
“So you agree that's where you'll find the jeweler who designed this bottle.”
“No. That's where you'll find the jeweler who designed this bottle.” Royce's stare bore into Hibbert’s. “I need you to do this for me. I'm not leaving—not now. The situation here is far more immediate, and more dangerous, than the one at the receiving end.”
Damen jumped to his feet before Hibbert could reply. “You're saying he's about to—”
“Damen, stay calm,” Royce interrupted quietly. “I don't think it's a matter of hours, although he wants us to believe it is. But I do think he's losing patience.”
“Then what’s stopping him from shooting?”
“I am.” Royce lowered his head, reread the note. “Not actively, but by what I represent—the ultimate contradiction. On the one hand, my involvement is plaguing the hell out of him. He wants me to get scared, back away. On the other hand, he wants me to figure out what he's about, and to confront him. That way, he gets to enjoy the challenge—and to win. Without that, I'm just another obstacle to eliminate, which would be a great disappointment. So he'll wait a bit longer, see what I do.”
Royce looked up, his mind racing. “In the meantime, he has no idea we've linked him to Medford's selling of women. If he sees me leave the country, hell assume I succumbed to his threats. He'll feel momentary triumph, then great disappointment. That will lead to restlessness and then rage. All his anger will focus on the one person he blames for everything: Breanna. That 's when he'll act. That 's when Anastasia's— and then Breanna's—lives will be at greatest risk.” A pause. “And that 's why I'm staying right here.”
Anastasia took Damen's hand in hers, interlaced their fingers. “That makes sense,” she said, addressing Royce but speaking to her husband. “And it makes me feel much more secure.”
Royce was studying the package wrapping. “This was dispatched from here in England?” he asked Hibbert.
“Yes.” Clearly, Hibbert realized his employer was thinking along the exact same lines as he had. “And it's the first package Lady Breanna's received since the doll and the sketch came, two days ago.”
“He went to Paris. He bought the perfume there.”
“Yes, and now he's back in England.” Hibbert rubbed his palms together, making swift plans. “I'd intended to wait for your return, after which I was going to ride down to Dover, glance over the manifests of this morning's arriving ships. I'll follow through on that. After which, I'll take the first packet to Calais, then ride on to Paris. I'll find out everything I can.”
“I have a strategy to help you do that.” Royce's gaze drifted back to Breanna. “Hibbert, go pack a bag,” he instructed his friend. “Include some formal clothing. I'll explain the details later.”
“Fine.” Hibbert looked distinctly unsurprised by Royce's abrupt dismissal. Rather, he glanced about, leveling a pointed gaze, first at Wells, then at Anastasia and Damen, before delicately clearing his throat and heading for the door.
“A subtle hint,” Stacie noted, coming to her feet. “I think my cousin and her betrothed,” she emphasized the word, “would like a moment alone. Come, gentlemen,” she told Damen and Wells. “You may both escort me to the sitting room. We have wedding plans to continue making.” She paused as she walked by Royce, rose up to kiss his cheek. “You, my lord, are a very lucky man. You're also perfect for Breanna, just the man I prayed she'd find. I wish you every happiness.” A tremor crept into Stacie's voice, the only indication of her persisting fear “May your brilliant tactics prevail, so you can share a long and happy future.”
“Thank you, Anastasia.” Royce squeezed her shoulder gently. “And I agree—my luck is incredible. As for the future, it will be long and happy for us all. You have my word.” He turned to Damen. “As do you.”
Damen shook his friend's hand. “I echo Stacie's sentiments—with one additional comment. Perhaps now you'll begin to understand why I'm irrational when it comes to my wife.”
A corner of Royce's mouth lifted. “I've already begun.”
