The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“Then listen to me,” Royce urged. “Fleeing is not the answer. The answer is to eliminate this bastard permanently. Which I intend to do. The women must stay put. I know it's frustrating. But it's the safest way—the only way.”

“I see your point,” Damen murmured reluctantly.

“Good. As I said, from now on, no callers are to be admitted. To keep speculation from forming, keep tongues wagging. Make it public that Anastasia is still feeling ill, that's she's far too weak to entertain guests—and that her condition has worsened since Lord Hart was killed on her estate. Breanna, as expected, will be attending to her, as will you. Until Anastasia's health improves, no callers will be re­ceived.”

Anastasia forced a smile, however strained. “This pregnancy of mine is becoming more than a blessing. It's becoming quite useful in manipulating people to suit our purposes.”

Royce didn't smile back. “We'll use whatever we have, do whatever it takes. I want to rob the killer of every opportunity he might seize to get through those gates.” He rubbed his palms together. “Which re­minds me, the construction is set to resume after New Year's Day. That will have to be delayed. Blame the cold weather.”

“Consider it done,” Damen agreed at once.

“I'm leaving for Berkshire within the hour,” Royce continued. “The sooner I dispose of the Ryder matter, the sooner I'll be back. I'd rather stay. But if I do, and if the killer discovers my change of plans, he'll start drawing his own conclusions. If he should figure out I'm hunting him down, he might lash out.” A harsh edge laced Royce's tone. “That would be fine, if I were the one he was lashing out at. It would be more than fine. I'd welcome the chance to meet him head-on. But it's not me he'd vent his rage at.”

“It's me,” Breanna said quietly.

“Yes.” Royce's gaze held hers. “He'd find another way to terrorize you. Right now he's appeased. He thinks he's winning. I'd rather he keep thinking that, until I get back. Then, we'll show him otherwise. But not until then.”

“The ton thinks Hart's shooter was the killer Bow Street is looking for,” Damen muttered.

“Our assassin wanted them to think that. He's shrewd as hell. This way, he terrified Breanna with­out arousing a shred of suspicion. Hopefully, his vic­tory today will ensure us a short lull as he waits to assess Breanna's reaction. She's got to keep him won­dering.”

“How do I do that?” Breanna asked.

Royce's stare delved deep inside her. “Stay in the manor. Don't even let him see you, much less gauge how you're holding up. It will buy us time.” A pause. “May I see you alone before I leave?”

“Of course.” Breanna rose, smoothing the folds of her gown as she did. “We can talk in the green salon.”

“I don't think it would be proper to—” Wells began.

“Oh, dear.” At that exact moment, Anastasia jerked upright, looking like a rabbit about to bolt. “My stom­ach is beginning to lurch. It's my own fault. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and when I'm empty, I...” She clamped her lips together, as if stifling a wave of nau­sea.

Wells was already in motion. “I'll bring you some food. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He was gone in a heartbeat.

“Well done,” Damen commended dryly. “You ac­complished just what you wanted to.”

“I did, didn't I?” Stacie returned with a self-satisfied nod. She shot Royce a beatific smile. “You see? I told you my pregnancy was becoming useful. Now go. Be­fore Wells comes to his senses and figures out what I've done—and why. And he will figure it out. He al­ways does, as Breanna will attest.”

A hint of amusement lurked in Royce's eyes. “I'm sure. Thank you for your warning, and your clever di­version.”

He guided Breanna into the hallway, led her across to the green salon, and closed the door with a firm click.

All humor vanished, leaving only the raw emotions of fear, gloom—and something quite the opposite of both.

“Breanna,” Royce said quietly, leaning back against the door and studying her beautiful, composed fea­tures. “I know you're terrified. But I promise you, this won't last much longer. I'll find rum. You have my word.”

Breanna drew a shaky breath. “I can cope with the terror. But this is the second man who's died because of me. That I can't endure.”

“Sweetheart.” Unaware he'd even uttered the en­dearment, Royce walked over, framed her face be­tween his palms. “You didn't kill them. He did.”

“I know. But his hatred for me prompted him to do so. That makes me responsible, even if indirectly.”

Royce felt his insides tug—with compassion, with understanding, with something more.

Gently, he drew her against him, pressed her cheek to his coat. There was something about this woman, a beauty that was unique by its very design, its very ex­tent, that made him wonder if perhaps he did have a heart after all.

“Hibbert has instructions to watch you like a hawk. You'll never be alone. No one except he, Wells—and, of course, Damen, Anastasia, and I—know you've changed rooms. Oh, and your lady's maid. I told her your chambers were being redecorated. I showed her your temporary quarters, and instructed her to tell no one of their location.”