The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

It was Mahoney, approaching the house at a brisk pace.

Dear God, could it be another package? Breanna held her breath, waiting to see if he clutched a parcel in his hands. He didn't.

Instead, he had a letter. That meant that another of Royce's contacts had come through, providing an ad­ditional bit of information.

She stole another cautious peek at Royce. He looked haggard, his handsome face lined with strain. She couldn't remember the last full hour's sleep he'd had. He was obsessed w

ith his pursuit, relentless in his investigation.

He was also only human.

And Breanna wanted desperately to help him.

She was the only one who could. Hibbert was away. Stacie was the assassin's immediate target. Damen and Wells had to stick to Stacie like glue—just in case—and the guards had to stay, armed and ready, at their posts.

She had to do something.

Scrutinizing Royce, Breanna knew this was her chance—maybe her only chance. He was engrossed in a report, not concentrating on her. Besides, it would never occur to hum that she'd do anything impulsive. As a rule, impulsiveness was not in her nature.

He was about to learn that every rule had its excep­tions.

Slowly, Breanna eased toward the sitting-room doorway. She and Royce were virtually alone in this part of the house; she knew that. The servants were scattered about, in the kitchen or upstairs, performing their duties. Stacie was napping. Wells had gone up an hour ago, to relieve Damen so he could shut his eyes for an hour. No guests were expected, nor would Mahoney allow them through the gates, so it didn't matter that the entranceway was temporarily unat­tended.

It was now or never.

She slipped into the hallway, hurrying to the front door and opening it before Mahoney could knock.

The head guard looked startled. “Lady Breanna?” he guessed, taking in her neatly coiffed hair. “Why are you attending the door?”

“Ifs all right, Mr. Mahoney,” she assured him.

“Everyone is taking a much-needed nap. I don't want to disturb them.” She indicated the letter. “Is that for Lord Royce? I'll see that he gets it the minute he awakens.”

“Yes, it is. But...” Mahoney frowned, as if uncer­tain what to do. He peered into the deserted hallway, then glanced swiftly back over his shoulder, scanning the grounds in uncomfortable scrutiny. Clearly, he was worried about leaving his post for so long.

In the end, he decided it was best to get back to the gates and do what he'd been hired to do, rather than to stand here and argue with her ladyship.

He placed the note in her hand. “Here. Now please—go inside.”

“I will.” With a grateful smile, Breanna complied, shutting the door and leaning back against it.

She tore open the envelope.

The information was terse, but pivotal.

Apparently, Royce had contacted some of his more technically knowledgeable men, instructing them to uncover any gunsmith who had the ability to con­struct a sophisticated and unusual weapon—one de­signed for a four-fingered man. This reply, from someone named Rogers who was clearly an intelligent, reliable source, stated that he'd found such a gunsmith, although he no longer worked as such—at least not formally. His name was Wilkens, and his shop had been in London. But he'd shut the shop down hastily after finding out that Bow Street was on their way to ascertain whether or not he was supply­ing weapons to criminals. Now officially retired, he'd just spent several months abroad, and had returned to settle down at his home in Maidstone. An address was provided.

Maidstone? That was only an hour's ride from here.

Breanna put down the letter on an end table and scooted across to collect her mantle. Finally, she could do something to help Royce. She'd go and speak with this Wilkens, find out if he was the one who'd crafted the assassin’s pistol. She'd do it subtly, of course, ask him questions without alerting him to her intentions. Now that she considered it, she'd probably get farther than Royce would, anyway. The gunsmith, unlawful or not, would be more apt to let down his guard with a wide-eyed young woman than a formidable looking man.

She reached for the door handle, and hesitated.

The assassin was out there. What if he sew her?

Of course he'd see her—if he hadn't done so al­ready. Her job was to use that fact to her advantage. She knew he wasn't ready to kill her yet. Not with Stacie still alive. So she'd have to do something to sat­isfy him that she was going somewhere imperative, and for some plausible reason.

She'd better make this convincing—for all their sakes.