The Silver Coin (24 page)

Halfway through the description, Barker’s entire demeanor changed, and he became wary, slurring uneasily from one foot to the other. “I might have seen the statue you’re talking about. Why are you asking?”

“Why areyouunnerved by my asking?” Royce challenged, realizing the man knew something and using the most aggressive tactics possible to scare the information out of him. “Is there some reason you don’t want to discuss that particular statue—some reason that might get you into trouble?”

“Yes. No. Not in the way you mean.” The man blanched, taking in Royce’spowerfulbuild and gauging the distance between him and the door.

“I wouldn’t bolt. It’s a bad idea.” Royce tapped his pocket, made it clear he was armed. “If you’d prefer we could continue this conversation at Bow Street.” It was a bluff, but he suspected it would yield the desired results— ifB arker’s fear was the honest kind.

It was.

“Are you a constable or something?” Barker asked hopefully, visibly heartened by the mention of Bow Street.

“Or something.” Royce’s stare bored through him. The man wasn’t a criminal. But hewasscared. The question was, why? Had he been threatened by whomever bought that statue?

“You’re not under suspicion,” he continued, offering just enough information to assure Barker’s cooperation. “Quite the opposite. It’s possible you could help me find someone who’s, shall we say, shady. What can you tell me?”

By now, Barker looked more than convinced. “I know the porcelain figure you mean. There’s actually a whole group of them similar to the one you described. They’re all of two women who look like sisters doing different things together—gardening, sewing, picking flowers. The entire set was on display and for sale. But not in my shop, in my cousin’s. His store is in Canterbury.”

“You said the figureswere in your cousin’s shop,” Royce repeated, furious with himself for missing the obvious. The arrogant son of a bitch bought the statue in Kent. Right out from under their noses. He’d assumed they’d never cheek the local shops, since they’d already cheeked there once, for the dolls.

He’d been right. They hadn’t.

“So your cousin sold the statues,” Royce probed, determined to get some facts, however limited. “I’ll need the name and address of his shop. How recent were the purchases made? How many of the porcelain figures sold? Will he havearecord of the sales?”

The shopkeeper waved away Royce’s questions. “I can give you Henry’s address. But it won’t help. He doesn’t have any record of the sales. Normally, he would. He keeps fine records. But the statue you’re asking about, along with the other half-dozen from that collection, was stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes. That’s why I got nervous when you asked about the statue. I thought you might be a friend of the thief’s.”

“Hardly.” Royce’s mind was racing. “When were the statues taken?”

A thoughtful look. “About ten days ago, I’d say. Henry went home, locked up as usual first. When he opened up the next morning, the statues were gone. Whoever stole them went to a lot of trouble. Cut a pane of glass from the door and let himself in. Perfectly neat pane, too. You’d think he’d smash the glass, climb in and grab all he could, then run before he got caught. No. This thief, whoever he is, cutasquare just small enough to fit his hand through. He took nothing but the statues—not even the money Henry keeps in the front drawer.” A-shrug. “Makes no sense to me. Not to the local constables either. They’ve been at Henry’s shop already. They found nothing.”

It makes perfect sense to me,Royce thought silently.This bastard needs to be superior at everything he does.

Aloud all he said was, “Thank you for your help Mr. Barker. I’ll still need your cousin’s name and the address of his shop, just so I can talk to him and have a look around.”

“Sure.” The shopkeeper scribbled down the information. “You never said who you were,” he commented, eyeing Royce curiously as he handed over the slip of paper.

“An investigator,” Royce replied tersely. “And if I find out anything about your cousin’s property, I’ll let you know. I’ll also let Bow Street know how cooperative you were.”

The man stood up a little straighter. “Happy to oblige, sir. I hope you catch the man.”

Royce’s jaw clenched. “Don’t worry. I intend to.”

Royce’s day went from bad to worse.

He arrived at Pearson Manor on schedule, only to see the scarlet coats of two Bow Street runners in the entranceway. The men’s backs were to him as they spoke with the dowager’s butter. They were nodding, scribbling notes in a pad as the butler mopped at his brow with a handkerchief.

An ominous knot coiled in Royce’s gut.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, taking the front steps two at a time.

The men turned. Royce recognized Marks right away, as well as Carson, a younger lad who’d been with Bow Street a little more than a year.

“Chadwick. I’m glad you’re here,” Marks greeted him tersely. “We sent a messenger to the inn to find you, but you’d already left. I understand you were scheduled to take Emma Martin to the Viscount Ryder’s home today.”

“That’s right”

Marks glanced swiftly at the butler, who looked as if he were about to swoon. “You can go now. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man practically bolted.

“Marks, what the hell is going on here?” Royce repeated.

“Emma Martin is gone.”

“Gone? Are you saying she’s run off?”

“I’m saying she’s gone. I don’t know under what circumstances. She’s gone, and her mother is dead. Shot to death in her daughter’s room. Sometime last night, it looks like. No one here saw or heard anything. Except, I suspect, the girl. And she’s missing.”

Royce tasted bile. “What about the dowager?”

“She wasn’t hurt—at least not by the shooter. But the news of Glynnis Martin’s death was too much for her. Her Grace died a half hour ago.”

“Dammit,” Royce muttered, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Goddammit.”

Marks scratched his head, studying Royce’s reaction. “As you know, Berkshire’s not exactly our territory. But when we heard who Emma Martin really was, where you were taking her today—”

“It occurred to you that this murder might be tied to the others you’re investigating. The ones involving the London noblemen.”

“Exactly.”

“Except why would the killer shoot Ryder’s mistress?” Carson interjected to ask. “That doesn’t fit into his pattern. Why kill the woman?”

“Damned if I know.” Marks’s answer was candid, his shrug as uncertain as his words. “None of us has any idea what’s inciting this lunatic. He’s killed four men and kidnapped their wives. Maybe Ryder’s next on his list and he came here looking for him. News is all over Town about Chadwick figuring out who the viscount’s daughter is. Maybe the killer thought Ryder would come here to claim her, rather than the other way around.”

“You’re thinking that when the killer broke in, he went straight to Emma’s room to find Ryder. And that Glynnis Martin was there and saw him, so he shot her.” Carson nodded. “Makes sense.”

“It doesn’t explain Emma’s diseppearance,” Royce pointed out, although he was already forming his own theory—and it bore no similarity to anything Marks was going to come up with.

“She is Ryder’s blood relation,” Marks tried. “A mistress isn’t bound by blood or marriage. A daughter is. Maybe he grabbed her for ransom.”

“But who’d pay that ransom if Ryder was dead?” Royce countered. “For that matter, who’s paying the ransom for the other women who were kidnapped? Their husbands’ beneficiaries?”

Marks shrugged again. “I don’t know any more than you do, my lord. We haven’t seen a single ransom note yet—not in any of the four cases.”

“Four?” The number finally sank in, and Royce’s head came up. “Why are you including Hart in your coant? He was killed at Medford Manor, which is in Kent, not London. And his wife wasn’t touched.”

“Lord Hart was shot in Kent, but his home’s in London,” Marks corrected. “Everything else about the crime fit the pattern exactly. The target was a nobleman; the method, a gunshot to the chest. As for Lady Hart…” A slight hesitation, and Marks exchanged glances with Carson. “This isn’t public knowledge yet, Chadwick. We’re trying to keep it quiet as long as possible, to avoid mass hysteria. But under the circumstances, you should know. At the same time we got word about what happened here, we got word that Harfs widow disappeared from her London Town house last night. Both crimes happened sometime between elevenp.m . and dawn.”

Royce sucked in his breath. “The kidnapper got past Harfs guards?”

“Yes. Just as he did here. Just as he always does. If s like he’s a mind-reader or a genius of some kind. He times it perfectly, so he gets by the guards and goes unseen by the staff.”

A genius of some kind. Gets by the guards. Goes unseen by the staff. The same method—a gunshot to the chest.

Realization exploded inside Royce’s skull.

Of course. It all tied together. It didn’t explain the kidnappings, but it sure as hell explained the murders, and the precision with which all the crimes were committed.

He’d assumed Marks and Carson were exploring the wrong path. They weren’t. What they were doing was exploring onlyone of the right paths.

He knew the omen

Royce’s brain began pounding with details, one after the other, as pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The murders—whin they’d begun ltappening, the deliberation with which they were committed—it all fit All but the missing women. That motive was yet to be revealed. But the rest?

The rest spoke volumes.

All the killings, with the exeeption of GlynnisMartin,were target practice for the killer.

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.

“Iwas 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.”

“Afterwe 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.

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.

Hibbert jumped up from his chair the instant she emerged. “My lady?”

“I’m fine, Hibbert,” she assured him, touched by the concern she heard in his voice. “Losing my mind, but fine.” She rubbed the folds of her gown between her fingers. “You haven’t received word from Royce, nave you?”

The barest hint of a smile touched Hibbert’s carefully schooled features. “No. Nor do I expect to. Hell finish his business and ride back here as quickly as possible. If not tonight, then tomorrow.”

“I suppose.” Breanna nodded. “He’s probably reuniting Lord Ryder and his daughter as we speak.”

“That could very well be.” Hibbert gestured down the hall “Your cousin and her husband went down for tea a few minutes ago. Lady Sheldrake said you should feel free to join them.”

“Thank you. I will.” Breanna paused. “And so will you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, come now, Hibbert.” This time it was Breanna who smiled. “Certainly a man irreverent enough to join his employer for a drink in the middle of a ballroom isn’t shocked by the notion of joining my family for tea.”