He held the statue away from him, admired his own handiwork. The two women were leaning over a book, clutching it as they read together. And they were smiling—placid smiles that seemed incredibly out of place when one considered their fatal injuries and mutilated hands.
Satisfaction glinted in his eyes. He'd severed both women's right index fingers, trickled bloodlike paint over their hands and the book's binding and added a final red splotch over their hearts.
His final gift to Lady Breanna. It would arrive in the dead of night.
Tomorrow morning, it would be time.
He'd planned it all very carefully. The guards changed shifts at 6 a.m . A s always, that stout, uncouth sentry posted on the far side of the estate would have been drinking his secret cache of ale from sometime after midnight, and would have nodded off no later than half past 5 a.m . That left thirty minutes—more than enough time to climb the sturdy oak he'd been using for his comings and goings, and slip onto the premises. From there, he'd creep toward the manor, hide in the thick brush, and eventually ease his way around the house until he had a clear view of the sit ting room.
Then, he'd wait.
Sometime between 10 and 10:20 a.m., both Lady Breanna and Lady Anastasia would appear—heavily guarded by Chadwick, Sheldrake, and those two old codgers, Hibbert and Wells.
Did any of them actually believe they could scare him off or—an even more ludicrous thought—block his shot?
If so, they were bigger fools than he'd realized. They weren't what had kept him from striking before now. His battle plan was. He'd devised it. He meant to carry it out.
The first step had been to terrorize Lady Breanna. That step was complete.
Now, it was time for the second step. Lady Anastasia had to die—right at her cousin's feet. For that, he needed no more than fifteen seconds. And he'd get those seconds, the instant Sheldrake stepped away from his wife.
Lady Anastasia would be dead by ten thirty.
Then came the tricky part—step three.
He had to isolate Lady Breanna. It wasn't enough to kill her. If it was, he'd simply shoot her right after he did away with her cousin. No, he had to first ensure that she knew precisely who he was, what he intended to do to her. He had to close in on her like a tiger stalking its prey, see the stark terror in her eyes as she realized her life was about to end.
He needed to see her crawl, to hear her plead for her life, sob for mercy.
Then, he'd blast away her life with one long-awaited shot.
It wouldn't be that difficult to get her alone. The house would be in an uproar once Lady Anastasia fell down dead. People would scatter. Chadwick would rush outside, determined to find the killer.
Taking Lady Breanna with him to ensure her safety.
That's when he'd make his move. He'd grab her the instant Chadwick turned his back.
No, this wouldn't be difficult at all.
A knock on the front door broke into his thoughts, reminded him of the messenger's arrival.
Carefully, he lined his desk drawer with a handkerchief, then placed the statue upon it, sliding the drawer shut to conceal it. He'd write the note later. For now, he wanted to read Maurelle's words of love.
He left his study, made his way to the entranceway.
His butler had just accepted a small package from the messenger and was shutting the door. He looked up, saw the viscount approaching.
“For you, sir,” he announced.
“Excellent. Thank you.” Crompton took the parcel, glancing at it as he retreated to the privacy of his study. He'd expected a letter. Had Maurelle sent him a gift?
He locked his study door, lowered himself to the settee, and unwrapped the package. A carnal smile touched his lips as Maurelle's fragrance greeted his nostrils. He lifted out the perfume-scented chemise, amused by Maurelle's uncharacteristically girlish gesture. Evidently, she missed him as much as he missed her. But she needn't have gone to such extremes to tell him so. She, of all people, knew he needed no enticement. Not when it came to her. His desire for her was compulsive, a gnawing in his belly that seemed never to fade.
He brought the chemise to his face, inhaled deeply, and felt his body throb to life. Another day. That's all it would be. Then he'd be with her. And not just for a brief interlude. For the rest of their lives.
He lowered the garment, intending to restore it to the box.
A look of heft tumbled out of the folds.