It wasn't.
Setting the box on a table, Breanna smoothed out the folds of the rumpled page, and realized it had come from a sketch book.
Her sketch book.
She recognized at once what had been her drawing—an expanse of snow-covered ground, flakes falling everywhere, Medford Manor in the background.
Two women had been added to the picture.
Both had green eyes and auburn hair. Both stood, side by side, pain etched on their faces.
Both had blood trickling from the bodices of their yellow gowns to form crimson puddles on the snow beneath them.
“Oh, God,” Breanna whispered.
“That's supposed to be us.” Anastasia had come to stand beside her cousin, and her voice was choked with horror.
“It's my sketch.” Breanna wet her lips, struggled for composure. “At least it was. I drew everything in this picture except the women. And the blood.” She swallowed. “It was in my room, in a pile of unrelated drawings. That's why I didn't notice it was missing.”
“He must have taken it when he broke in,” Hibbert concluded. He took the sketch, frowned at the detail. “These gowns are identical to the one you were wearing yesterday,” he told Breanna. “The lemon color, the lace around the sleeves—he had to have seen it. He was either a guest at the party or nearby enough to study you at close range.”
“I'll open the smaller box,” Wells announced firmly. “Miss Breanna's been through enough.”
He walked to the table, removed the inner box and raised the lid.
A puzzled expression crossed his face. “A blanket?” he muttered, reaching inside and lifting out what appeared to be a child's quilt.
“There's something wrapped inside the blanket,” Hibbert informed him. He went over, carefully unfolding the layers until he revealed a miniature wicker basket, within which lay a tiny doll—an infant doll—its head smothered by the quilt, its eyes tightly closed.
Pinned to the basket was a note that read: Lady Anastasia's babe will never see the light of day. Mother and child will die. You, my dear, will watch. Then I'll have the pleasure of watching you die. It's almost time, Lady Breanna. Your bullet awaits.
From behind her, Breanna heard Stacie's harsh gasp of distress.
She turned, automatically striving to comfort her. “Stacie.” She gripped her hands, feeling ill at the sight of her normally dauntless cousin literally quaking with fear Stacie had gone sheet-white, and was staring at the note with a wild-eyed expression, her control on the verge of snapping.
“I'm all right,” Stacie managed, squeezing Breanna's hands in return, before gratefully leanin
g back into her husband's comforting embrace.
“He's not going to get near you,” Damen said fiercely.
“I know.” Stacie blinked back tears. “And when it's only me he threatens, I can handle it. But our child ...” Her voice quavered.
“We knew the threats would continue,'' Hibbert aid in a quiet, calming tone. “And that's all these re—threats. He's heightening your fear. But he's no loser to touching either of you than he was before, try to remember that.”
“Damen, I'm not feeling very well.” Stacie lay an unsteady palm on her stomach. “I'm going to lie down.”
“I'll go with you.” Damen shot Wells a we'll-talk-bout-this-later look.
Stacie paused to glance anxiously at Breanna. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” Breanna wondered where that composed voice was coming from. “Take Stacie to your room,” she instructed Damen.
Watching the two of them climb the staircase, seeing Stacie unconsciously caress her abdomen as if to protect her unborn child, Breanna couldn't help but eel a surge of guilt. Logically, she knew the emotion was irrational. She'd shot that assassin to save Stacie's life. Still, it was because of her that Stacie and the b abe were in danger.
And she felt helpless to eliminate it.
Her gaze flickered over the basket and the sketch, and she shuddered, turning away.