The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

She reached the door to her room just as the clock chimed four. Everyone was asleep. Even her lady's maid, who had been instructed to retire early, given how late the ball was expected to run.

The manor was silent.

All the guests would sleep until noon, she reflected, turning the door handle. All but Stacie. Thankfully, Stacie would be up and about by ten. Sooner, if her lurching stomach demanded the chamber pot. Then they could talk.

Contenting herself with that fact, Breanna eased open the door, and shut it softly behind her. As always, she'd left the lamp on her nightstand turned down low, offering her more than enough light to guide her way. She moved directly toward it, intend­ing to turn it up higher while she undressed.

She took one step and froze.

A white chemise lay draped across the nightstand, its lacy edge just touching the bed. A dark splotch of color stained its center, and an unfamiliar object sat alongside it.

Dread curling inside her like dark tendrils of smoke, Breanna walked over, cautiously placing one foot in front of the other as she approached the night-stand.

Her hand was shaking as she turned up the lamp.

Light flooded the nightstand, and Breanna let out a low cry, her hands flying reflexively to her mouth as if to stifle the sound.

The chemise was hers. The dark splotch marring the garment was red. Bright, vivid red.

Blood red.

Her horrified gaze shifted, took in the other object atop the nightstand.

It was a figure, a porcelain figure. At least it had been, before it was defaced. She bent over to examine it more closely, unable to bring herself to touch it. The figure wasn't one of hers. She'd never seen it before. It depicted two women standing on an elaborate pedestal base.

Red smears had been painted on both women's bodices near their hearts, and expressions of torment had been etched onto their faces.

Violently etched.

She sank onto the bed, her knees shaking too badly to support her. He'd been here. Here. In her room, going through her dresser. He'd taken her undergar­ment, tampered with it in a vile, sick manner. And the statue. Obviously meant to symbolize her and Stacie. Shot, bleeding.

Dying. Oh God.

Breanna fought the urge to scream, to race down the hall and awaken Stacie and Damen. There was nothing they could do. Not tonight. Whoever this madman was, he was long gone. He'd taken advan­tage of the chaos generated by the party and found a way to slip into the manor.

How had he known which room was hers?

She knew the answer to that even as she asked her­self the question

He'd been watching the house. For weeks, proba­bly. And now he'd gotten inside. Inside and upstairs. To her room.

She couldn't stay here another minute.

Jumping to her feet, Breanna nearly ripped the door off its hinges, then bolted out. Wild-eyed, she sur­veyed the empty hallway, reminding herself again and agai

n that there was no one here. Not now.

Another quick glance toward Stacie's room.

And another dismissal of the notion to awaken her.

Tomorrow morning was more than enough time for Stacie to hear about this. Nothing could be gained by alerting her now—nothing except a selfishly attained peace of mind for Breanna. And that she wouldn't allow. Her peace of mind wouldn't begin to offset Stacie's distress. She'd have to face this soon enough anyway. She needed her sleep. So did the babe. It wasn't as if she was in any immediate danger. For tonight, she was safe. Damen was with her, their door was bolted, and no one could get in. Even if someone was still lurking in the house. Which, given the intelli­gence of the assassin, who knew the number of guards lying in wait for him, was doubtful.

No, awakening Stacie was out of the question.

So until morning, this problem belonged to Breanna.

She'd never felt more alone in her life.