The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

“No crime has been committed,' Damen returned quietly, his forehead creased in thought. “Did they talk to the messenger who delivered the package?”

“Yes.” Breanna nodded. “He had no contact with whoever sent it. The lad was given the box by his su­pervisor when he reported for work. And, according to the supervisor, the package was left, along with an envelope containing delivery instructions and a ten pound note, on his doorstep.”

“Then Bow Street's exhausted their clues. Also, judging from the headlines of the newspaper we bought in London, they're consumed with this mur­der investigation.” Damen pursed his lips. “There's got to be something we can do. And there is always the chance Marks is right—that this madman will stop his threats as quickly as he started them,”

“You don't believe that,” Stacie said quietly.

Soberly, Damen met her gaze, deliberately masking the full extent of his worry, yet unable to demean what they had together by offering her a barefaced lie. “No. I don't.”

A heartbeat of silence.

Breanna drew herself up—a gesture that pro­claimed she was battling her own fears, and deter­mined to master them. “This is the first day I've ventured out since Mr. Marks delivered his report,” she admitted “I've been too alarmed and too preoc­cupied to go about my business. But when I awak­ened this morning, I made a decision. I refuse to become a prisoner in my own home— again . Father's gone. No one's going to do to me what he did.

“Besides,” she continued, the edge in her tone soft­ening, giving way to anticipation—and more than a touch of eagerness. “I was impatient to come out here and see how much work had been done on your home.” She clasped Stacie's hands, hoping against hope that she and Damen might still salvage the plea­sure of watching their new home take shape—a sur­prise she'd relished giving them long before the threatening package arrived. “Let's not let this ruin your homecoming. Come. I want to show you your new manor—or at least the portion of it that's com­pleted.”

“Of course.” Anastasia tossed Damen a beseeching look—one that spoke volumes. She was asking him to grant Breanna the measure of peace she needed—for the moment. There would be plenty of time to dwell on the horrid possibilities suggested by the threaten­ing package. But for now, it was time to savor the joys of being home. For all their sakes.

“All right.” Damen's taut nod told her he under­stood, although he did pause long enough to scan the grounds with an unsettled eye. “But,” he added, un­able to totally dismiss the worry that still gnawed at him, “after that I want to inspect those dolls and read that note.”

“Of course.” Breanna agreed at once, more grateful than she was unnerved. “Oh, and Damen? If you could convince Wells that your being here means there's another strong and able-bodied man to see to our safety, I'd be forever in your debt. That poor man has taken on the roles of guardian, overseer, and sen­try. I worry about his strength holding out.”

“I'll talk to him the minute we get to the manor.” Damen's lips thinned into a tight, unyielding line. “As for you and Stacie, nothing and no one will get near you. You can count on that.” He cleared his throat, de­ferring this conversation for later. “Now, let's take a tour of our home.”

He guided the two women forward, pausing only long enough to peer over his shoulder, his penetrating gaze raking the grounds in one more exhaustive sweep.

Other than the crew of workmen toiling in their im­mediate vicinity, everything seemed quiet. Safe, he thought. At least for now.

5

So this is Lady Breanna's bedchamber .

He smiled darkly, hovering near the doorway and surveying the feminine decor.

Immaculate mahogany furniture . Canopied bed . Pristine bedcovers. A n array of tiny porcelain figures decorating the night-stand, dresser, and fireplace man­tel.

Orderly, delicate, and intact. Just like its owner.

She wouldn't stay intact for long.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass, and smiled at the bizarre image he made. Workman's clothes. They hardly suited him. Still, the disguise had gained him entry to the estate. He'd known today would be the day. The minute he heard the gossip in London—that the Marquess of Shel­drake had returned from his wedding trip—he knew she'd finally be leaving her sanctuary today. If only to show the partially finished manor to the newly married couple.

She'd surprised him by leaving the house early” even before her cousin arrived. Evidently, she'd grown tired of being cooped up. Or perhaps it was that more than a week without threats had made her bold. Either way, she'd strolled across the grounds, venturing over to the construction site.

Giving him the perfect opportunity to lie in wait.

And then, when Anastasia and her new husband arrived, to do what he'd come here to do.

The ladder he'd taken from the shed had proved most useful. He'd propped it against the rear of the house—the side facing the wooded section of proper­ty—and climbed into a hall window on the second floor.

From there, he'd made his way to Breanna's room.

He rubbed his gloved palms together, moving slowly from the mantel to the dressing table. Idly, he fingered first one object, then another. He had to choose wisely. Something personal. Yet nothing she'd miss. Also, something intimate.

He lifted the silver-handled brush, then changed his mind. No. She'd notice that immediately.

The porcelain figures.

He prowled about the chamber, studying the dozens of tiny glass statues, wondering which would be least missed.