The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Royce swallowed. “How?”

Her lips curved. “I'm a very good sketcher. And, as you just said, I've also become an excellent sleuth. Be­tween the two—I have a plan.”

Maurelle was moving restlessly about the room when the door opened.

She turned, eager to confront Lord Royce, to probe until she found out just what had incited that arro­gant smirk he'd worn when he left her an hour ago.

Did he really have confirming documents, or had Hibbert been lying, trying to incite a reaction from her? The older man was an excellent actor. He'd fooled her once. He wouldn't fool her again.

She forced herself to look nonchalant, to watch casually as Lord Royce entered the room.

But it wasn't Lord Royce who stepped into the chambers.

It was a woman. A very pretty, very genteel woman, whose unusual coloring and haunted expres­sion left little doubt as to her identity.

“Bon.” Maurelle folded her arms across her breasts, studying the woman she knew to be her lover's ulti­mate execution target. She was clutching some folders tightly to her body—folders she seemed unaware of holding.

Interesting.

“Lady Breanna Colby, Oui?” Maurelle inquired.

“ Oui .” Breanna hefted to lean back into the hallway. She glanced about furtively, searching the area in a most thorough fashion. Then, she gestured to that wretched butler of hers, who magically appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to hover just outside the door. “Stand guard,” she instructed him in a fierce whisper—one Maurelle managed to overhear “Don't let Lord Royce know I'm in here. He thinks I'm behaving irrationally, letting my emotions rule my head. But he doesn't un­derstand. I must try this my way. I must.” She inhaled sharply. “Knock twice if you see him approaching.”

Waiting only for her butler's assent, Lady Breanna shut the door and faced Maurelle.

“I had to see you,” she announced in a small, shaky voice. “No matter what Lord Royce says, I refuse to believe any woman could remain immune to another woman's anguish. Not in this case. Not if she fully understood it.”

Maurelle kept her features carefully schooled, although her gaze flickered to the folders clutched Breanna's arms. What was in them? Was this some kind of ploy?

Doubtful. The insipid girl's state of mind was far too precarious for Chadwick to entrust her with his work. Still, those folders had to contain something. But what?

She had to find out—for his sake.

“Go ahead,” she replied carefully. “I'm willing to listen.”

Breanna swallowed, clearly fighting for control. “I won't denounce you for loving this man. I can only guess you've never seen the side of him I have. I've come here to share that side of him with you, in me hopes that you'll realize what he's capable of, and that you'll help me stop him.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “I don't want to die, Maurelle. I'm twenty one years old. My life is just beginning. Please, help me.”

“What is it you intend to share with me that will plead your case—your words, your fears?”

“No. My proof.” Breanna began crossing over to­ward the desk.

Halfway there, she paused, becoming aware of the five files she still gripped. With a shudder of revul­sion, she tossed them down on the table alongside the wardrobe, keeping only some loose papers in ha hand as she made her way to the desk.

“Proof?” Maurelle followed her automatically, her dark gaze focusing on the pages Breanna was spread­ing out on the desk top.

“Yes. His letters to me. The ones that describe what he intends to do to me, and to my cousin. My cousin is with child, Maurelle. And he knows it. He means to kill her unborn babe. He specifically says so.”

“Does he?” Maurelle controlled her amusement, her glance shifting from the letters she already knew of to the files Breanna had abandoned near the wardrobe. “Those files—are they also proof?”

Breanna looked up, followed Maurelle's gaze, and shuddered again. “Those are what Lord Royce calls proof. They're facts, dates, and worst of all, drawings, for me to go over.” Her voice trembled. “I can't do that. It's too painful. Especially seeing his face again. I realize Lord Royce has narrowed the search down to five men, and that I'm the only person who can iden­tify the killer—other than Emma, who's too dazed to speak, much less confront the man who killed her mother.”

“You've actually seen him?” Maurelle asked, keep­ing the fear out of her voice.

“Twice.” Breanna lowered her lashes, her entire body trembling as she spoke. “The night I shot him, and several days ago, when I left the estate. The first time it was dark, so all I could make out was his build. But the other day, I sew his face, his features, the coldness in his eyes. I can't brave that again. I've described him to Lord Royce. I can't help it if my de­scription could apply to any of those five noblemen. I just can't bear looking at him again.”

“I find it odd that you'd need to,” Maurelle said carefully “If you re

ally saw him in such great detail, why didn't you recognize him? Surely you've met him at one social gathering or another.”