The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Lord Hart's smile broadened triumphantly as the rows of hedges Breanna had described loomed into view. This must be where she was waiting. It was at the very edge of the estate, a few dozen feet from the road. The hedges were sheltered, private. Ideal.

He brought his mare to a halt, peering about in the hopes of spotting a glint of yellow. He well remem­bered the lemon-hued gown she'd been wearing at breakfast, and his loins tightened at the thought of re­moving it.

“Lady Breanna?” he called out. “I'm here, as you re­quested.” No reply.

Realizing she must be nervous, he yanked out the note she'd sent him, waved it in the air. “See? I've brought your message. No one knows my where­abouts. So there's no reason for self-restraint.”

That yielded the desired results.

A glint of color flashed from the hedges.

But it wasn't yellow.

It was silver.

Hart scarcely had time to turn before the pistol fired. And he never realized he was going to die be­fore the bullet found its mark.

Excellent, the assassin thought, watching Hart's body drop to the ground like a stone, the note flutter­ing to his side. A perfect shot. If any of the guards heard it, they would assume it was one of the gentle­men out gaming. Their job was to protect against in­truders, not scrutinize those already present at Lady Breanna's invitation.

Still, he had to be prudent. He waited—just long enough to peer about and be sure no one was ap­proaching. Satisfied that he was alone, he crossed over, sparing the body not even a glance as he leaned past it to scoop up the note.

Stuffing it into his pocket, he slipped into the hedges and made his way back to the manor.

It wasn't until late afternoon that the victim was missed.

His wife had assumed he was with the gentlemen, and each of the gentlemen had assumed he was with either one of their colleagues or one of their col­leagues' wives.

But just after three o’clock, a group of men began looking for him. An afternoon thaw was allowing for a fox hunt and, fine sportsman that Hart was, they wanted him to join. Upon scanning the grounds, they noticed the mare wandering about. She was saddled, but minus a rider. The men were puzzled. As a result, Lord Percy Gilbert, who 'd spied the mare first, rode her back to the stables to make an inquiry. He talked to a young stable boy, who readily told him that L ord Hart had taken her out hours ago.

A search got under way.

Forty-five minutes later, Lord Crompton spotted the body.

“Over there,” he called, pointed toward the hedges.

The men hurried over, gathering around as the vis­count squatted down,

checked for a heartbeat, a whis­per of breath, anything that indicated Hart might still be among them. But his body was cold and still, the smear of blood across his shirt telling them this was no riding accident.

“He's dead,” Crompton declared grimly, rising to a standing position. “He was shot in the chest.” Pale but composed, Crompton scanned the grounds, years in the military having accustomed him to staring death in the face. “The killer could have fired from there,” he suggested, indicating the rows of hedges that offered a fine place from which an assailant could strike without being seen.

“Or he could have fired from the road.” The Duke of Maywood gestured in that direction. “It's no more than twenty-five feet away, just past those trees. That makes a lot more sense to me. He could have hunched down by the roadside and waited for a victim to show up, to get close enough to be within firing range. But to sneak onto the estate? The killer would never have gotten past all those guards—and not only once, but twice—before he committed the murder and after.”

“I agree,” Lord Percy concurred, wiping sweat off his brow and glancing about apprehensively. “And if he did fire from the road, maybe he's not finished. He could be hiding nearby, waiting to shoot another one of us. Let's get back to the manor. We'll send the guards to collect Hart’s body and take a look around.”

Pandemonium did indeed ensue—as soon as the news reached the manor.

The men argued and muttered among themselves, the women wept and wrung their hands, and Lord Hart's young widow needed to be revived twice with smelling salts. It took the guards thirty minutes to get the full story from the men who'd discovered the body, and even longer to collect the body and search the area.

No assailant was discovered—not in the hedges, and not by the road.

The next hours passed in a frenzy, as the panicked noblemen battled each other to dispatch messages to

Bow Street, demanding that action be taken and offer­ing huge sums of money for any runners willing to leave Bow Street and ride out to this shire or that in order to protect them and their families from harm.

Wells was equally frantic, trying to calm down their guests and simultaneously summon enough footmen to accommodate all the outgoing messages. Hibbert stood off to one side, keeping a clear view of both the hallway and the sitting room, unobtrusively studying the guests' individual reactions while awaiting a sig­nal from Royce.

Inside the sitting room, Royce was watching Brean­na from across the way, making sure Damen stood with her and Anastasia as they spoke to Mahoney, tried to learn all they could about what had happened.