The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Damn, he hoped he was overreacting. Maybe it real­ly had been a thief who'd killed Knox. Maybe it wasn 't that demented assassin. Maybe the incident was total­ly unrelated to the package Breanna had received. Maybe neither she nor Anastasia were in danger.

Then again, maybe they were.

“Hibbert's right! You aren't yourself.”

Damen turned, grateful as hell to see Royce Chad­wick lounging in the doorway. “No, I'm not.”

“Welcome home.” The tall, broad-shouldered man straightened, folding his arms across his chest and studying Damen through penetrating midnight blue eyes that were so dark people often mistook them for black. “Congratulations, albeit belatedly, on your marriage. I'm sorry I missed the wedding. It couldn't be helped. I was halfway back from India.” Royce ran a hand over his square jaw, missing nothing of his col­league's distress. “For a man who just returned from his wedding trip, you look wretched. Marriage too much for you?”

“Hardly.” Damen wasn't in a lighthearted mood. “In fact, I'm beginning to wish that Stacie and I had never come home. She was finally safe. The biggest worry I had was seeing how weak she became after perpetually kneeling over the chamber pot—”

Dark brows shot up. “Kneeling over the chamber pot? Does that mean you have another announcement to make?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

A low whistle. “I'm impressed. After only three months of marriage. No wonder you enjoyed your trip so much.” Royce gave Damen a mock salute be­fore moving into the room, crossing over toward the inner office and gesturing for Damen to follow. “Dou­ble my congratulations, then.”

“Royce, we need to talk.” Damen entered the room, shut the door behind him.

“So I gathered. Hibbert said it was urgent.” All humor having vanished, Royce perched against the mahogany desk, turned his watchful gaze back on Damen. “He also said that it concerned your wife. Judging from your agitation, it must be serious.”

“It is. At least I think it is.” Damen paused, drew a slow breath to compose himself.

“Sit down. I'll get you a drink.” Royce indicated the armchair by his desk, then went to the sideboard, poured two glasses of Madeira. “Here. Drink this. You obviously need it. Then, tell me what's wrong. I've never seen you so unnerved.”

“I've never felt so unnerved.” Damen tossed off the contents of the glass. “Then again, I've never cared as deeply about anyone as I do about Stacie. And now, with the babe on the way...” His head came up. “Royce, I want you to find someone for me.”

Royce's eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“That's the problem. I don't know. I don't know his name, where he lives, or what he looks like. I'm not even sure he's in England—although my instincts scream out that he is. All I know is that I need him found. Found and locked up.”

Slowly, Royce sipped at his Madeira. If he was taken aback by Damen's request, he kept his surprise carefully hidden. “Start at the beginning. Not with what you don't know, but with what you do know. The circumstances that brought you here, the basis for your apprehension.”

A terse nod. “I'm sure Hibbert told you who I had him checking into for me while you were in India.”

“The Viscount Medford. Yes, he told me. He also told me that Medford owed money everywhere, to everyone. And that he was recouping it by involving himself in some pretty shady business dealings-shadier, as it turned out, than any of us realized. But Medford's in prison now. So he's hardly a threat.” A heartbeat of a pause. “Does this have to do with what happened right after his arrest? That assassin Med­ford hired through Cunnings—the one who showed up at the docks to do away with your wife?”

“You heard about that, then.”

“The minute I set foot on English soil. Does that surprise you?”

Damen shrugged. “Not really. Some things can't be ke pt quiet. Do you know all the details?”

“I asked a few questions at Bow Street. They filled me in. This paid killer aimed at your wife, but before he could shoot, he was maimed by her cousin. He fled the scene, stopped off at the bank to silence Cun­nings—permanently—then vanished. Is that close enough?”

“All but the last. He didn't vanish—at least not for good.”

Royce's glass paused midway to his lips. “He's back.”

“It damned well looks that way.” With that, Damen told Royce about the note and package Breanna had received, her subsequent trip to Bow Street, and the precautionary security Wells had hired. He concluded by relaying the news that a guard had been killed ear­lier today, describing where Knox had been when the alleged thief came upon him.

Royce listened intently, swirling the contents of his drink, his brow furrowed in thought. When Damen finished, he took a deep swallow of Madeira, then placed the glass on his desk. “I can see why you're worried,” he said. “As for Bow Street, I wouldn't ex­pect much help from them. They're up to their necks investigating the murders that are throwing the ton into a frenzy. Not to mention that you've given them no real proof to go on. Which doesn't mean the threat to your wife and her cousin isn't real, only that you can't count on Bow Street to hunt this assassin down.”

Damen leaned forward. “I agree. The question is, can we count on you to hunt him down?”

Pensively, Royce rubbed the back of his neck. “This is an ugly situation, Damen.”

“Since when has that deterred you? Usually, the greater the challenge, the more determined you are to go after it. Hell, this should really intrigue you—an unknown assailant, a crime that could happen any­where, anytime. It's just the kind of danger you thrive on. So whaf s stopping you?”