“Yes. Cunnings was perfect. He knew scores of people through his position at the House of Lockewood. You'd be surprised to learn how eager some supposedly honorable men and women are to rid themselves of family members that stand between themselves and their fortunes.”
“I don't doubt it.”
“The bank itself made an ideal meeting place. No one suspected anything unscrupulous was going on during their meetings. After all, Arthur was a client—a good one.” Her lips curved. “And a smart one. He eavesdropped on Cunnings's conversations enough times to realize he was willing to compromise himself for money. He confirmed that fact by keeping an ear to the ground and learning Cunnings was spending more than he had, courting women with expensive jewelry, buying homes he couldn't afford. In short, John Cunnings was willing to do anything to support his expensive habits. Arthur offered him that opportunity.''
“Hmm.” Royce stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “In other words, Cunnings got a percentage of Landow's fee on the clients he referred?”
“Exactly.” Maurelle sighed. Tm sorry Monsieur Cunnings had to die. I have a soft spot in my heart for him. After all, it was through him that Arthur came back into my life.”
“So Landow did find you again through Cunnings's notes.”
“ Oui .” Maurelle lowered her lashes, reminding herself that she was supposed to be feeling guilty, torn by her own betrayal. “Arthur didn't come directly to Paris. First, he went to Germany, to visit that brilliant Dr. Helmett. Wilkens, the gunsmith, met them there. Arthur had surgery.” A thought struck her, and she eliminated the quickest and most logical way for Landow to prove his innocence. She had to buy Ansel time—time to finish his mission and vanish. “The surgery was so successful, his finger is as good as new.”
“Is it?” Royce looked surprised. “Then why is he so eager for revenge?”
“Because it took some time to regain his muscle control. And being in control is more important to Arthur than anything else. He was at a disadvantage for months. He had to master the new weapon Wilkens crafted in order to shoot. Also, he can't bear the thought of being bested, especially by a woman.”
“I see.” Royce nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. “Where is Helmett now?”
Maurelle swallowed. “Arthur killed him. He had no choice. He didn't expect Dr. Helmett to react so strongly when he heard Arthur boast of his plans to do away with Lady Breanna.”
“Ah. The good physician threatened to alert the au t horities?”
“Yes.”
Royce inclined his head. “By the way Wilkens i
s dead, too. Did you know that? Your lover killed him a few days ago.”
“No, I didn't. But I'm not surprised.”
“I didn't expect you would be. He seems very adept at eliminating anyone who might give him away.”
“He is.” She bit her lip. “That's why I'm so frightened. If he should learn I've betrayed him—
“Oh, he win,” Royce assured her cheerfully. He glanced at his timepiece again. “This very night, as a matter of fact.” He stepped aside, yanked open the door. “Hibbert, I could use your help.”
“My pleasure.” Hibbert strolled in, walking over to jerk Maurelle's arms behind her back. “Go ahead, my lord.”
Maurelle's eyes widened as she saw the razor appear in Royce's hand. “Are you mad? I've told you everything you want to know, and in return you're going to slit my throat?”
“No. You're not worth it.” Royce crossed over, quickly shearing off a lock of her heft Wrapping it in his handkerchief, he glanced about the room, spying the pile of clothing Maurelle had left on the chair near the wardrobe. He went over, rifled through it until he found her chemise. “This will do.” He crumpled it up, tucked it beneath his arm. “Let her go, Hibbert.”
Hibbert complied, shoving Maurelle away from him as if she were an odious insect. He headed to the door, Royce directly behind him.
“Oh, Maurelle.” Royce paused on the threshold, arching a brow in her direction. “In case you're wondering, I'll be sending off your chemise and your strand of heft, together with a very provocative letter.” His teeth gleamed. “Crompton should have it before midnight. That's Ansel Crompton, by the way, not Arthur Landow. Then again, you already know that. Your attempt to save him was valiant. Speaking of which, Lady Breanna asked me to thank you. She appreciated your switching those drawings. You played right into her hands and helped ensure Crompton's downfall.”
If Royce needed any further proof, the look of sheer panic on Maurelle's face provided it.
Her anguished cry, “Ansel,” echoed through the halls as Royce and Hibbert walked away.
Crompton was applying the final touches of red paint to the last porcelain figure when the messenger galloped up his drive.
He frowned, wondering who could be contacting him this late at night.
Ah, Maurelle, he thought, his frown vanishing. No doubt she was summoning him, eager to have him back in her arms, her bed.
Well, she hasn't long to wait. By tomorrow at this time, Lady Anastasia and Lady Breanna would be dead, and he'd be on his way to Paris.