The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

A pathetic lack of information, indeed.

As a result, Royce had nothing to go on—not a de­scription or an address where he might find either mother or daughter. He'd gone straight to the work­house where Emma had been born, knowing even as he did that it was an exercise in futility. Sure enough, the institution provided as few clues as he'd anticipat­ed. The attendants there had seen dozens of bastard children brought into the world in just such a fashion and, as a result, kept no records of their whereabouts. One of the established matrons who'd been at the workhouse for more than two decades thought she re­membered someone matching Glynnis Martin's de­scription. If her memory served her correctly, the young woman in question had arrived at their doors some eighteen years ago, hugely pregnant, and given birth to an infant daughter. She'd sent a note off to the child's father and waited to hear from him. When she didn't hear, she became despondent. One night about a week later, she took the infant and disappeared.

Vanishing into anonymity.

Just like the assassin threatening Lady Breanna.

This new case bothered Royce even more than Ryder's did, no doubt because of the longstanding friendship and respect that existed between him and Damen. Royce felt doubly compelled to find a solu­tion, to protect Damen's wife.

And to protect her cousin.

Both investigations were plaguing him, beating relentlessly at his brain.

Dashing about in the snow with three energetic nephews did wonders toward alleviating that.

It didn't, however, make being at Searby any easier.

Then again, that house held nothing but dark mem­ories for him—memories that no amount of revelry could erase.

So, it was with a great deal of relief that, on the day after Christmas, he bid Edmund and his family good­bye and took his leave.

He and Hibbert—who traveled with him to Sear­by—stopped in London overnight; long enough to gather up the Ryder file and cheek out the few re­maining shops in Town he had yet to investigate that stocked dolls as part of their merchandise and might or might not have sold two red-haired ones in the past fortnight.

None of them had.

The following morning found the two men packed, settled in Royce's carriage, and on their way to Kent—first to check out a half-dozen shops in that shire, then to proceed on to Medford Manor.

The final lap of the journey was silent, as Royce contemplated his unsuccessful attempts to learn who'd sold the killer those dolls, much less the identity of the man who'd bought them. He'd gotten nowhere fast. And his initial time had run out, as the Colby party was scheduled to begin tomorrow.

Unbidden, he found himself wondering how Lady Breanna had fared during his absence. Not bodily, for he felt confident she was safe—for the time being. In­stinct told rum her assailant had more emotional torment in store for her before he acted. But mental­ly—had her nerve held out? And physically—had her stamina held out?

He had a staunch feeling the answer to both ques­tions was yes. Lady Breanna was a remarkably strong young woman.

He'd seen that strength mirrored in those carefully guarded jade-green eyes when she'd stood beside Damen and Anastasia last week, on the morning he'd left her estate, and officially asked him to take on her case. Quietly, graciously, she'd voiced her under­standing that this meant she agreed to adhere to his tactics, that she'd follow the procedure he'd outlined for her between then and the day of the party. She'd concluded by expressing her appreciation for his time and effort, then wished him a joyous holiday and sent him on his way.

Royce had listened to her formal speech, watched her self-contained expression as she spoke. Once again, he'd been struck by the sure knowledge that there was far more to Breanna Colby than met the eye, far more that hovered beneath that exquisite, genteel veneer.

He was more determined than ever to help her. Yet, so far, he'd accomplished next to nothing. After first leaving Medford Manor for London— prior to his visit to Searby—he'd not only called on

numerous local shops in Town to ask about the dolls, but he'd dropped in at Bow Street, spoken to Marks about whatever information had been amassed on Cunnings's murderer, his potential link to the Vis­count Medford, and now his link to the threats being sent to Lady Breanna.

As Royce suspected, Marks was more than willing to turn over his file, which contained details on the conversations he'd had with all those he'd questioned about Cunnings—both then and now. The Bow Street runner looked conscience-stricken and at the same time relieved to learn that Lady Breanna had hired Royce to follow up on the matter.

Royce understood both reactions.

Marks's relief was because he was being pressured to devote all his energies toward solving the murders of the local noblemen. And his attack of conscience was because he'd been unable to help Lady Breanna , unable to find out the name of the predator who was stalking her.

How could Royce fault him, either for his priorities or his regrets? He well understood that rueful expres­sion on Marks's face. He had the uncomfortable feel­ing he'd be wearing a similar one himself when he told Lady Breanna he'd uncovered nothing of impor­tance as of yet. She seemed to have the same effect on everyone, inspiring a surge of respect and a rush of protectiveness that made people want to slay dragons for her. And if that reaction was unusual for Marks, it was unprecedented for Royce.

That fact notwithstanding, Royce had left Bow Street armed with Marks's reports—reports that were nothing more than routine chats with all Cunnings's friends and colleagues. Fine. He'd pored over them during his evenings at Searby, then kept them close by for reference. And now, after having spoken with shopkeepers throughout London, he and Hibbert had covered six or seven shops in Kent. Those visits had, as he'd suspected, yielded no information on the pur­chase of the dolls. Wherever the killer had bought them, it hadn't been in Town or in Kent.

The bastard was too clever for that.

“We'll be arriving at Medford Manor in about ten minutes,” Hibbert announced, shooting Royce a side­ways glance. “Would you care to discuss your somber mood?”

Royce shifted in his seat, crossed one long leg over the other. “The truth? I'm not looking forward to looking Damen in the eye and telling him I've got no news on who's trying to kill his wife.”

“Did you think you would have news—after doing only a few days of preliminary digging?”