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e was distraught when he went to fetch you at Pearson Manor and learned what had happened.
She gulped. “That monster—he killed my mother.”
“Who?” Hibbert couldn't help himself, not when it came to this. “Who killed your mother, Emma? Did you see him?”
“Yes.” An unsteady nod. “I saw him. I'm the only one who did. The other women—the ones who were locked in that room with me, whose husbands were killed—they never saw his face. But I did.”
“Those other women, they're all at Le Joyau?”
Another nod. “We weren't all shipped at the same time, but, yes, we were all there. They still are.”
“Locked in a room together?”
“Yes. They're not with Maurelle's women. That’s because they're for sale. Not for a night—forever. Like I was. Maurelle said I'd bring the highest price because I was so young and because I was untouched. But she was expecting a fortune for them, too. They're noblewomen and not much older than I am.” Emma buried her face in her hands. “She's selling them like chattel.”
“We'll get them out.” Hibbert squatted down beside the chair. “Emma, I know you're still in shock. But I need your help. That man who shot your mother has killed many times. He's threatening to kill again. We've got to stop him. So, please, tell me everything you remember about him, everything you can.”
“I only saw him for a minute,” she said, raising her head, a haunted look on her face. “But I'll never forget his eyes. They were like chips of ice. Empty and unfeeling.”
“What did he look like? Describe him.”
A horrified shudder. “He was tall. And very fit. Not stout or pudgy like most men his age. More like you, only not thin—muscular. I could feel his strength when he dragged me around.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don't remember anything else. Except that his hair was dark, and graying at the temples. He was wearing all black.” She drew a quivering breath. “He shot Mama through a blanket. Then he hit me. The next thing I knew, I was in a canvas bag in the cargo hold of a ship. I was unloaded in Calais, then taken here by carriage. He let me out a few times, but I was blindfolded. So I never actually saw him again.”
“What about his voice—can you describe it?”
A nother tremor ran through her. “Cold. Clipped. I'd recognize it if I heard it again. I think we all would.”
A ll. That brought Hibbert back to the matter at hand. He needed to get those other woman out of that brothel.
A nd he needed to get Maurelle under lock and key. “Did he deliver you to Le Joyau personally?”
“Yes. The women who work there said he and Maurelle were friends.”
“Friends?”
“More than friends.”
“I see. A nd did they refer to him by name?”
“No. Even Maurelle never said his name. She just called him 'my noble assassin. She seemed to find that amusing.”
“Did she?” Hibbert replied thoughtfully. That told him a great deal about Maurelle. It told him she was aware of how her lover was providing her with saleable noblewomen.
Maurelle L e Joyau was a bitch, and even harder than he'd realized.
It was time to consider his options. The sooner he acted, the better. Maurelle needed to be stopped before she could sell any of the other women. She also needed to be escorted to England, where Royce could pry information out of her—information that would lead him right to the “noble assassin.”
On the other hand, none of this could be done hastily. Hibbert knew better. He couldn't risk alerting Maurelle before he'd freed those women. It was too dangerous. If she had any idea what he was planning, she'd either move the women, or silence them. The timing had to be right. He needed the element of surprise.
And he needed help.
He glanced at Emma, sew her teeth chattering, tears still flowing down her cheeks, and he knew she couldn't be left alone. Not only for compassionate reasons, but for practical ones. He couldn't be sure she was coherent enough to understand that she wasn't to leave this room under any circumstances.
He'd summon Girard.
Quickly, he went to the nightstand, picked up the paper and quill. He only prayed he was in.
Girard arrived at Hibbert's room at the inn just before midnight.
