Maurelle picked up the entire stack of reports. “Why don't you give these to your butler right now? He can turn them straight over to Lord Royce, and you need never see Arthur's face again.” A shaky pause. “Just as I won't.”
Breanna stood, gathering up the letters and walking over to Maurelle. “Thank you, Maurelle,” she said fervently, taking the files from her. “I know how difficult this was for you. But you did the right thing. Just as I knew you would.” She opened the door, gestured for Wells to approach. “Take these,” she directed him. “Give them to Lord Royce. Tell him I have his answers. I won't need to see these sketches again.”
27
Ever yone was gathered in the sitting room when Breanna and Wells walked in.
Breanna's ashen expression was no longer feigned, but very real.
“It's done,” she stated simply, her voice more hot low than shaken. “We finally know who he is.” Ha gaze flickered from one beloved face to the next, finally settling on Royce. “Viscount Crompton,” she supplied. “He's the assassin.”
“You're certain.” Royce's words were more statement than query.
“Yes.” Breanna nodded, inte r lacing her fingers tightly in front of he r. “Maurelle went first to his file. She looked at it twice, once before and once after she skimmed the others. Then, she removed my sketch of Crompton from his file and slipped it into Arthur Landow's. She brought Landow's file over to me, made sure I saw his name on it, and flourished the drawing of Crompton, admitting to me that Arthur Landow was indeed the man we sought. Once I acknowledged recognizing his face, she put the sketch back where it belonged and told me I need never look at it again.” Breanna exhaled slowly. “It's Crompton.”
Royce crossed over, enfolded Breanna in his arms. “You're astonishing,” he murmured. “I'm so proud of you.” He tilted up her chin. “Are you all right?”
“I'm fine,” she replied. “A bit numb, but fine.”
“Crompton,” Damen repeated. “I never would have believed he had the presence of mind, much less the coldheartedness, to do this.”
“I told you,” Royce responded. “This killer is a master at deception. Crompton assumed you'd think turn too eccentric to be the culprit. He was right. None of us guessed.”
“I don't think I've ever seen him without his gloves,” Anastasia commented. “Not before or after Breanna shot him. Then again, I'd have no reason to. The only times I've seen him have been at formal or sporting events.”
“Shooting,” Breanna clarified.
“Yes, shooting... no, wait. That's not true.” Anastasia sat up abruptly.
“You've seen him without his gloves?”
“No, but I've seen him outside Medford. It was right around the time Damen and I were about to expose Uncle George. Crompton was at the House of Lockewood...” She turned to gaze at her husband. “Meeting with John Cunnings. I remember because Cunnings came to your office looking for the viscount’s portfolio.”
“He met with John often,” Damen concurred. “In fact, most of the time. He sought me out for large investment decisions, but on a day-to-day basis, he dealt with Cunnings.”
“Obviously, discussing more than finances,” Royce modified caustically.
“So what do we do now?” Damen demanded. “We know who the killer is. Why don't we just ride over to his estate and grab him?”
“That would be the worst thing we could do,” Royce refuted. “First of all, Crompton isn't spending much time at his estate these days. He's here, watching Breanna. And if he knew we were on our way to seize him, he'd simply vanish, the way he did last time.” Royce paused, his worried gaze shifting from Breanna to Anastasia and back.
“Only to resurface Lord knows when to finish what he started.” Breanna completed Royce's unvoiced thought aloud.
“Yes.”
“I see your point.” Damen swallowed. “Then, how do we stop him?”
“We lure him to us. We taunt him, anger him, and turn this little cat and mouse game around.”
Stacie looked intrigued. “How?”
Royce's jaw set, that purposeful gleam returning to his eyes. “I'll have one more chat with Maurelle. Who knows? Maybe I can even unearth a few more details while her tongue is loose—which it will be, as long as it's Landow she, thinks she's betraying. At the end of that time, I'll let her know just how badly she underestimated Breanna. I'll toss out Crompton's name, and let her choke on it. Th
en, I'll help myself to an article of her clothing—preferably something intimate—and I'll leave her in the guards' capable hands.”
“You're going to send the clothing to Crompton,” Breanna murmured. “Let him know we have Maurelle.”
“You're damned right I am. I'm going to flaunt that fact as crudely as I can. Let him think I'm bedding his precious Maurelle, violating the one thing he cares about. He'll react. I guarantee it. He'll go berserk. All his precision, his brilliant strategy, will be cast to the wind. Gut emotion will take over. Even his hatred for you will be temporarily forsaken. He'll want to froe Maurelle, slit my throat for having her. And I'll be ready for him when he tries.”