The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Royce shut the door with a firm click. “Put down the book.”

His icy tone gave her pause.

She arched a brow, surmising from the unyielding set of his jaw, the brutal determination in his eyes, that he was angrier than he had been previously, and more purposeful.

“Very well.” She tossed aside the novel and eyed him expectantly.

“Sit up.” Royce barked out the command.

She complied, uncurling her legs and lowering her feet to the floor, shaking out the folds of her gown as she did. “There. Is that to your satisfaction, mon­sieur?”

“Nothing about you is to my satisfaction,” he re­turned, folding his arms across his chest. “But all that's about to change. We're about to have a very in­formative chat.”

Her expression hardened. “Y ou're wasting your time. I won't give you his name.”

“Forget his name. Let's talk about yours —Mademoi­selle Rouge.”

A flicker of surprise, if not alarm. “Bon. Now I am impressed, my lord. I see how you earned your repu­tation.”

“And I see how you earned yours—beginning fif­teen years ago at Maison Fleur.” Royce crossed over, dragged up a chair and sat directly across from her. “Y ou met your lover then, when you were no more than a prostitute. Y ou held his—and scores of other soldiers'—attention for years.”

Silence, but the proud tilt of her chin told Royce he was right.

“Let's discuss a more recent matter, then,” he sug­gested icily. “Y ou were Viscount Medford's Paris con­tact. He sent you the women you sold.”

Maurelle's sniff was haughty. “Medford was pa­thetic. So was his merchandise. They were nothing more than workhouse women—common and unrefined. Worse, they were drained of youth, beauty, and vitality. In short, they had nothing to offer. What afflu­ent customer would pay to buy such refuse?”

“Clearly, you found buyers.”

“A few. No one worth the trouble.”

Royce clenched his teeth, fighting back the urge to shake Maurelle senseless and make her realize these were human beings they were discussing. He stifled the impulse. Losing control would only weaken his position. Besides, pleas for humanity could do noth­ing but fall on deaf ears when it came to this bitch.

“Would you like their names, monsieur?” Maurelle taunted, clearly perceiving at least some fraction of Royce's outrage. “Those I'd be happy to provide. And who knows? Maybe you could find the lowlifes I dealt with, rescue the pathetic wenches Medford pro­vided from their lustful hands.”

“You graduated beyond lowlifes,” Royce shot back instead, his voice devoid of emotion. “As of your last correspondence with Medford, you'd stepped up to aristocratic buyers.”

“I improved the caliber of my merchandise and my patrons. But no thanks to Medford. He sent me noth­ing. He's an insipid fool. He deserves to rot in New­gate.”

“So you turned to your lover instead. He took over out of lust for you and the thrill of executing people. He's even rich enough to forego the money. Lucky you. He probably gave you every pence of the profits. Pity you two had lost touch, or he might have served as your business partner from the start. Then, you'd never have had to turn to a weakling like Medford.”

With that, Royce arched a sardonic brow. “Obvious­ly your charms aren't quite as acute as you believe. Y our beloved assassin was able to stay away from them for years. What was the problem, Maurelle? Were you beneath him in station? Was that what made him leave you at Maison Fleur, cut you off?”

Anger flared in her eyes. “You're grasping at straws.

You're also insulting me. So rather than listen to your offensive words, I'll put an end to them. I'm the one who severed the relationship, not he. I was foolish. I didn't want to be a nobleman's property. I vanished. He found me. I won't make that mistake again. I be­lieve that answers your question, n'est ce pas?”

Royce's eyes narrowed as he digested that tidbit of information. Purposefully keeping her from ponder­ing how much she'd revealed, he segued back to the previous, and less inflammatory, subject. “How did you and Medford start working together?”

“We didn't start. I did. That fool never even met me, much less knew who I was. He knew only the name M. Rouge. Which was how I wanted it. As for why I approached him, it was a wise business decision. I had the money-making scheme. He had the connec­tions and the desperate need for money.”

“How did you find out about that?”

Maurelle's mocking smile returned. “Men are fools when in the throes of passion. My girls listened and often encouraged their patrons to talk. What they learned convinced me that Lord Medford was a fine candidate for what I had in mind. He knew influential people who could supply him with ships and cargo. He was deeply in debt and taking stupid chances to recoup his losses. I gave him an opportunity to do that. He jumped at it.”

“And when you heard he got caught by Bow Street?”

She shrugged. “I'd already arranged for M. Rouge to drop out of sight. Lord Sheldrake was digging around, trying to find out who I was. Medford's going to Newgate only reinforced my decision. It was time for Rouge to go on holiday.”