The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“Forgive me for not speaking with you at that time.” Guard's smile vanished, and his dark brows drew together. “I had no idea you were here. My clerk is new, or he would have recognized your name. He certainly would have known Royce's. Either way, he would have interrupted my meeting. It won't happen again.”

Hibbert waved away the apology. “Your clerk was just doing his job. He was most efficient. He took down my name, gave me an appointment for half after two, and saw me to the door. That gave me a chance to do my preliminary investigating.”

“And you found the right jeweler?”

“In less than an hour. I followed my first instinct and went to Passeur on Avenue De Villiers. I was right.”

Guard's lips twitched. “You're becoming as arro­gant as Chadwick. And as shrewd. Passeur does in­deed craft elaborate bottles for the most discerning customers.” He rubbed a palm over his clean-shaven jaw. “Now what?”

“As I suspected, the bottle is exclusive to P

asseur. It's also quite expensive. Only five customers have purchased it—quite regularly, in fact. As luck would have it, all five live here in Paris.”

“You have all their names, of course.”

“Actually, they have mine—or rather Lord Hob-son's.” Hibbert enjoyed the perplexed look that crossed Guard's chiseled features. “Another of Lord Royce's fine ideas—one that was acceptable to Mon­sieur Passeur. As anticipated, the jeweler is an ethical man who refused to divulge the names of his cus­tomers. Lord Royce's plan spared him the necessity of doing so.”

“I'm intrigued. Please, go on”

Hibbert complied 'Through Passeur, I sent off five urgent messages, one to each customer. I told them I was in a delicate predicament I'd spent one unforget­table night with a beautiful woman whose name I ne­glected to take, but whose scent I could never forget. I confessed that I'd traced the perfume in the hopes of renewing our acquaintance during my brief trip to Paris—no matter what the price. I closed by asking if they might know this woman and, if so, could I prevail upon them to urge her to contact me—immediately, as I'll only be in Paris for a day or two. And I provided my name and the name of the inn where I'm staying.”

This time Girard threw back his head and laughed. “In other words, you appealed to the passion so typi­cal of the French.”

“Yes. And the greed so typical of criminals.” Hib­bert gave an offhanded shrug. “I expect I'll hear from several very irate husbands.”

“I'm sure you will.”

“When I find the source of this bottle, it's possible I'll need your help. Depending upon who that source is, of course.”

“Consider it done.” Girard polished off his brandy, and eyed the empty glass speculatively. “You're hop­ing this will lead to whoever is buying the women who have been kidnapped.”

“Exactly.”

A terse nod. “Then I suspect I'll be hearing from you. In the meantime, I have your descriptions of the women in question. I'll see what I can find out. Oh, and I should be hearing back any day now on my inquiries regarding the physician Chadwick's looking for.”

“Good. Because it's possible the killer first met his business associate en route to or from that physician.”

“That makes sense.” Girard organized his notes. “With any luck, all these pieces will be found while you're in Paris, and you and I will be able to assemble them.” Girard shot Hibbert a curious look. “This isn't

Chadwick's usual type of case. Nor is he going about it in his usual detached manner. Is that because Shel­drake's a friend of his? Or is it more?”

Hibbert's expression never changed. “Lord Royce and the marquess have known each other since their days at Oxford.”

“Oui. And Lord Royce and Lady Breanna have known each other less than a month. Yet I get the dis­tinct feeling Chadwick's determination has a lot more to do with her than with Sheldrake.”

Another bland look, although Hibbert knew his employer wouldn't object to Girard knowing the truth. Still, baiting him was far more enjoyable. “I'll let Lord Royce answer that question himself, when you see him.”

“Ah, and will my answer be in the form of an invi­tation, perhaps?”

“It might be.” Hibbert rose, gathering up his things. “If you help solve this case.”

Girard stood, a broad smile on his face. “You drive a hard bargain— Lord Hobson. However, being that I wouldn't want to miss out on what I'm fast coming to believe will be Royce's wedding day, I'll see what I can do.” Abruptly, all levity vanished. “Good luck with your search, Hibbert. But be careful. You don't know what you're dealing with—yet. When you do, come to me.”

Hibbert's nod was equally solemn. “I will.”

By late afternoon, three replies, one incensed hus­band, and one round woman well past middle years with an eager gleam in her eye had arrived at Hib­bert's inn.

The woman was both hopeful and persuasive. She spent twenty minutes assuring Lord Hobson they'd spent a torrid night together—one she'd be thrilled to repeat, with or without payment.