“Fine? Wells, you know Breanna. Her hair is never fine. It's perfect. Except now. Even from this distance, I can distinctly see a few curls sagging at her nape.” Stacie arched a brow, first at Wells, then at Damen. “What shall we attribute it to?” She paused for effect, then snapped her fingers in mock deduction. “I know—the wind!”
Damen's lips twitched, as much at Wells's vigilant lower as at Stacie's observation. “You made your point. Fine, maybe there is something going on between those two. But whatever it is, you're not going to find out about it until you've eaten and drunk very drop of that.” He gestured toward her plate and glass.
“Whatever you say, my lord.” She gave him a beatific smile and returned to her refreshment. “Stop glaring, Wells,” she berated gently, sipping at her punch. “Breanna's a grown woman. She's entitled to share a chaste embrace with an enigmatic man:—especially when that man is one we've entrusted to safeguard her life. Besides, aren't you the one who wanted Breanna to find someone special?” “I didn't have a reckless womanizer in mind.” “If Royce is a womanizer, he's abandoned that trait tonight.” Stacie took a small bite of her lemon tart. “He hasn't so much as danced with another woman . Only Breanna. As for reckless ...” Another bite. “I wouldn't describe personal, fun-time guard service as reckless behavior, would you?” She shot Wells a look “I know you worry about Breanna. But give Royce a chance. He might surprise you.” With that, she polished off her tart, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.
“Ah, word about your condition just reached Breanna,” Damen noted, watching Lady Dutton insert her plump figure between Breanna and Royce, then begin chatting excitedly. “Let's see, Breanna now knows you're with child, which she already knew, and she's about to find out that you're dizzy.”
As if on cue, Breanna's head came up, and she whipped about to face Stacie.
Her cousin gestured to her that she was fine, that she was eating, and that Breanna could safely go about her business.
Visibly relieved, Breanna concurred, turning back to Lady Dutton— and deliberately ignoring the questioning look that flitted across Stacie's face as she glanced meaningfully from Breanna to Royce and back again.
“I'll have to get my answers later,” Stacie concluded with a sigh. “Breanna's too private to confide in me during the ball.” Shelving her curiosity, Stacie watched Lady Dutton move on to the next group to share her news. “I'm so glad we're providing the evening entertainment,” she muttered. “My pregnancy is the topic of conversation among our guests.”
“That's not necessarily bad,” Damen replied, cradling her gloved hand between his. “At least they're discussing something other than the murders Bow Street is investigating. That topic has dominated the party thus far, and dampened the mood of the ball. Good news must feel like a welcome balm to everyone.”
“The situation is terrifying,” Stacie murmured, placing her empty glass and plate on the tray of a passing footman. “This is the third murder in a fortnight. Certainly Bow Street can't still suspect the men's wives. Three wives—three young wives scarcely older than I am—capable of murdering their husbands? I doubt that's possible.”
“Yet all three women have disappeared,” Wells reminded her.
“Maybe they were kidnapped,” Stacie suggested. “Possibly.” Damen pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Then again, if they were kidnapped, where are the
ransom notes? And who would the kidnapper expect to extort money from if the husbands in question are all dead?”
The assassin brushed by in time to hear Sheldrake's last comment, and a hint of a smile touched his lips at he knowledge that he was responsible for Sheldrake's bafflement and for the fear pervading the ton.
Good, he thought, heading down the hall, away from the ball and toward the servants' quarters. The marquess was as baffled as the detectives, and he was an exceedingly intelligent man, far smarter than the Bow Street runners. So, if he couldn't figure out the mystery of those noblemen's deaths, neither would hey.
Then again, Sheldrake wouldn't be contemplating the London murders for long. The deaths of three strangers would soon pale in comparison to his own loss. In a matter of days, maybe weeks, the poor man would have his own, very personal, grief to deal with.
Pity Sheldrake had to be involved. Ah well. He'd married the chit and made things worse by falling in love with her and now filling her with his child. He'd lave to suffer the consequences. He'd have to nurse a broken heart and re-acquaint himself with the life of a bachelor.
Because Anastasia Lockewood would die. The babe she was carrying would die.
And then that bitch of a cousin of hers would die.
The assassin paused when he reached the flight of stairs at the darkened rear of the house. It was deserted.
Excellent.
He took the steps purposefully, but not so as to call attention to himself—just in case anyone was watching.
He rounded the second-floor landing, and headed directly for Lady Breanna's bedchamber, still thinking about the snatches of conversation he'd overheard between Sheldrake and his wife.
It wasn't a shock that, with this third murder, the ton —and Bow Street itself—would begin to doubt the merit of their original theory that the wives of the murdered noblemen were responsible. The killings were adding up. Only a dolt would believe that these women had all killed their husbands. Instead, Bow Street would doubtless assume that the three women were being held for ransom.
Which was another reason he'd abandoned his plan to use Knox's death to his advantage—a decision he'd made even before discovering the victim had only sons. Knox was a working-class fellow, a security guard with a modest income. If a woman in his family were to suddenly disappear like the noblemen's young wives, it would contradict the notion that ransom was involved. Not to mention, Knox's murder had taken place too close to Medford Manor. And if his death were linked with the others, someone might get suspicious and tie the crimes to the threats Lady Breanna had received
Someone like Royce Chadwick.
The assassin felt a warning tremor ripple through him.
Seeing Chadwick here had been an unexpected surprise—and not a welcome one. The man was clever— far brighter than everyone at Bow Street. He was also a rebel, certainly not the type to attend holiday gatherings. So why was he here?
At first, he'd attributed Chadwick's attendance to his friendship with Sheldrake, not to mention the fact that he was still poking around the ton to see if he could uncover information on Ryder's bastard daughter. Observations of Chadwick throughout the day seem
ed to support that theory. Sticking close by him during the day's events—the morning ride, the mid-day meal, the afternoon card games—and listening closely to what he discussed had yielded no cause for alarm. Chadwick's topics of conversation were predictable: business ventures, the likely contenders at Newmarket this spring, the trip he'd taken to India. Interdispersed with the discussions were frank inquiries of the men he had yet to formally question—inquiries about whether or not they knew anyone who'd employed a chamber maid matching Ryder's paramour's description.