The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

She was shaken. Badly shaken. Especially after last night's violation—which none of the guests knew about. Ironically, if they did, they'd be relieved. Fran­tic to get away from here, but relieved. If they drew the same conclusion Breanna had drawn.

She believed that Hart's murderer was the assassin who was after her, not the criminal terrorizing Bow Street with his string of aristocratic killings. Royce be­lieved she was right. Clearly, it was another message from that bastard, one that foreshadowed what he in­tended to be her fate. She was terrified, and with good cause. Worse, there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. .

Nothing except find the killer.

He stared over her head, gazing out the window and noting that the guards who'd been searching the grounds were returning to their posts. They'd done all they could. Their job was to keep other incidents from occurring.

And his job was to pick up where they left off. He turned toward the hallway, signaled Hibbert with a look.

A short while later, the two men were scrutinizing the area near the hedges where Hart’s body had been discovered

“Are you concerned that the guests might see us, ask questions about our motives?” Hibbert asked.

“No.” Royce shook his head. “At this point, anyone who knows me knows I'd be compelled to look around. That's my nature. It would be more out of character if I didn't do so.” He paused, glanced at the row of hedges, then angled his head to gaze off to­ward the road. “I'm not convinced the killer shot Hart from outside the estate. He might have. But there's no real evidence that he did. He could just as easily have shot from those hedges.”

“Agreed” Hibbert turned up his collar, and fol­lowed Royce's line of vision. “You're still contemplat­ing the possibility that he's here. That he's one of Lady Breanna's guests.”

“I can't eliminate it”

“No, you can't. But you can't prove it either. There's just as good a chance he's out there,” Hibbert made a sweep with his arm, “watching Lady Breanna and lying in wait.”

Royce scowled, unable to dispute Hibbert's reason­ing. “He's smart as hell. He intentionally chose this spot to shoot Hart, so we'd find ourselves in precisely this dilemma. He's trying to make it look as if he's the murderer of those noblemen, rather than the killer after Breanna. Dammit!” Royce clenched his fists at his sides. “How can I leave her alone after this?”

“You don't have a choice. Every guest at the party

is aware of your plans to ride straight from here to Berkshire, to try to reunite Ryder and his daugh­ter. If you alter those plans, there will be questions. Those questions could prove dangerous, especially if the killer is among the guests. Besides, from what you told me, Lady Breanna insisted you go. She wants you to bring Ryder and his daughter togeth­er.” Hibbert studied Royce's expression. “I could go to Berkshire for you. It would be risky, but we could try to come up with some plausible ex­cuse—”

“No.” Royce shook his head. “You're right. I have to go. But Hibbert...” Royce fixed his friend with an unyielding look. “Don't leave Breanna's door tonight, not for an instant. Or tomorrow night, if I'm still not back. I don't think he'll guess she's changed bed­chambers—I've asked Damen to make the room look lived in, to turn up the lamp in the evening and douse it at night, just in case that animal is watching. But if none of that works, if he should figure out that she's sleeping elsewhere and come looking for her, I want him to have to go through you.”

A grim nod. “And so he shall.”

The party ended early, an aura of morbidity settling over the manor ^as, one by one, the vehicles were brought around and the visitors took their leave.

Inside the sitting room, Royce hovered at the win­dow, watching the activity taking place outside in the drive. Hibbert stood behind him, listening to the sounds of muffled voices and slamming doors that in­dicated the guests' departures.

Both men were waiting for Wells to come in and re­port that the party was officially at an end.

At last, the butler walked in, wearily proclaiming that the final carriage had driven away.

“Thank you, Wells.” Royce was already in motion, crossing over to leave the room. “Where's Lady Bre­anna?”

“In the library, my lord,” the butler supplied. “Just as you asked. With Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake.”

“Good.” Royce veered off down the hallway. “I want you and Hibbert in there, too.”

Five minutes later, they were all assembled.

Breanna shut the novel she'd been pretending to read, and met Royce's hard stare.

“Everyone's gone,” he said, addressing all the room's occupants, but looking directly at Breanna. “From this moment until whenever we find the killer, there are to be no more callers. None. Not even on New Year's Day.”

“Callers?” Damen interrupted, bolting to his feet. “I want to take my wife and Breanna and get as far away from here as possible. My God, Royce, this as­sassin not only invaded Breanna's room, he shot and killed another man right under our noses. I won't just sit here and wait for him to do the same to Stacie and our unborn child.”

“Those are your emotions talking, not reason,” Royce observed quietly. “You know as well as I do that running would be a mistake. It would turn the women into moving targets. This man is a profession­al. He's hell-bent on killing Anastasia and Breanna. He'd follow them to the ends of the earth. The

y'd never be safe. They'd forever be looking over their shoulders. And one day—he'd be standing there. Is that what you want for your wife? For your child?”

Slowly, Damen sank back down into his chair. “No.”