The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“This crime involves lives. Lives of people you care about.”

“That should motivate you, not frighten you off.”

“I'm not frightened. I'm realistic. Locating a face­less, nameless assassin is not exactly my specialty.”

“An assassin is nothing more than an exceedingly violent criminal. And understanding criminals' minds is precisely how you manage to track them down.”

“The criminals I track have names and faces,” Royce reminded him. “You're talking about some ­ thing entirely different.”

“Surely you've met men who enjoy killing. All those years in the military—there must have been some sol­diers who actually enjoyed pulling the trigger.”

In response, Royce's jaw set, his dark eyes guttering harshly. “I've met men who enjoy killing others and men who thrive on destroying others without actually killing them. And not just in the military. So, do I un­derstand a mind-Eke this assassin's? Yes. But you know the way I work, Damen. My tactics involve taking risks—big risks. I won't jeopardize your wife's life.”

“Stacie's life is already in jeopardy.”

Silence.

Damen slammed his glass to the desk. “Does this mean you refuse to help me?” Royce studied the naked pain on his friend's face, swore quietly under his breath—and relented. “No. I'll help you. I'll do as much as I can. As much as you'll let me,” he amended. “You might not like my ideas, or my methods. Not when it comes to a matter this close to your heart.” “I'll take that chance.”

Nodding, Royce rifled through some pages on his desk. “The other problem I have is that I'm in the middle of another case—one I took on weeks ago. I can't walk away from that.”

“I wouldn't ask you to. Handle both cases at once. Set up an office at Medford if you need to. Bring Hib­bert. I don't care. Just find this lunatic before he...” Damen bit off the rest of his sentence, too sickened to utter it.

“He's not a lunatic,” Royce countered quietly. “Let's begin with that. At least not in the way you mean. He's unbalanced, yes, but he's very controlled, very methodical, very intelligen

t. He couldn't be a professional assassin unless he was. He's got to be thorough, well-organized, and have excellent timing. Which means his mind is quick, maybe even as quick as his pistol. To relegate him to the role of madman would be a grave error in judgment—one that could cost you dearly.” Royce's lips pursed in thought. “I want to see that letter. And the dolls. I also want to talk to Lady Breanna, hear everything she remembers about the night her father was arrested, or rather, after he was arrested and the assassin showed up.” A wary stare. “Tell me about her.”

“Who? Breanna?”

“Yes. Is she fragile? Will I have an hysterical female on my hands? Is she a swooner, one who'll collapse each time I ask a question that triggers a memory? Or is she a wailer, one who will drench three handker­chiefs before I find out everything I need to?”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Damen couldn't stifle a smile. “You don't have a very high opinion of women, do you? Odd, considering, from what I've seen over the years, they have a very high opinion of you. They gravitate to you like flies to honey—until you tire of them and move on.”

“On the contrary, I have a very high opinion of women. They're ideal companions—both in bed and out—splendid conversationalists and, before you be­rate me for not giving your wife the credit she's due, occasionally fine business partners. In fact, I often suspect that women are smarter than men—smart enough to know that it's best to hide that fact from our easily shattered self-esteem. But when it comes to emotions, all that wisdom goes straight to hell. They whine, they weep, they cajole, they pout. When that happens, I become exasperated and walk away I'm not the comforting type. Nor the type who's easily moved or manipulated. So I'm asking you, what is Lady Breanna like? Particularly now, when she's under duress?”

“She's a remarkable young woman,” Damen replied honestly. “She's been through a lot, particular­ly these past few months. Finding out what her father was capable of, weathering the scandal that followed his arrest—she's been astonishingly strong. I don't think you have to worry about her weeping or swooning. She's not inclined to do either.”

“Good.” That determined, Royce rose to his feet in one fluid motion. “I'll ride to Kent with you, attempt to make some sense out of this—at least enough to keep your wife and Lady Breanna safe while we fig­ure out who this killer is and when he's going to strike.” “How long can you stay?”

“Just overnight. I've got to get back here by tomor­row, tie up some loose ends. I promised Edmund I'd spend Christmas with him and his family. Then, if necessary, I'll return to Lady Breanna's estate. I take it you're staying there rather than here in Town?”

“Yes.” A terse nod. “Christmas. I'd almost forgotten about it.” Damen frowned, speaking half to himself. “Breanna wants to cancel her party.”

“What party?”

“She and Anastasia both just turned twenty-one. They planned a party to celebrate that and the holi­days.”

Royce grew thoughtful. “Canceling it might be un­wise.” “Why?”

“Let me read that note. Then I'll answer your ques­tion.” Royce inclined his head. “When is this party scheduled to be held?”

“On the twenty-eighth and the twenty-ninth of De­cember. But now, with Jamie Knox being murdered—”

“As I said, let me read the note. After that, we'll make a decision about the party.” Royce gestured to­ward the door. “Go home to your wife. I'll fill Hibbert in, then follow in my own carriage.”

“Fine.” Damen stood as well, giving Royce a grate­ful look. “Thank you. I'm in your debt.”

“Not yet you're not. If we figure out who this killer is, stop him from hurting anyone else— then you'll be in my debt.”