The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Staring at the dirt, the assassin assumed the role his clothing proclaimed him to be. “I need a drink,” he muttered. “I've been layin' bricks all morning.”

“A drink?” Rather than sympathetic, the man sounded assessing. “If s scarcely mid-day.”

An adversary with a conscience, he thought, fingers gripping the pistol more tightly. Not a promising sign.

Still, he'd make one last attempt.

“Yer right, sir.” He took a half-step backward, ap­pearing to retreat even as he purposefully kept his quarry in view. “I'll get back to work, get me ale at quittin' time.”

He waited for a reaction, impatiently hoping the man would continue along, make this easy on both of them.

It didn't happen that way.

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don't look too eager to go back. In fact, you look more like a fleeing thief than a thirsty workman.” He stepped for­ward, his hand sliding to his pocket—and doubtless his weapon. “You're corning with me. We'll soon find out who you are.”

“Now that's where you're wrong.” Jerking up his head, the assassin simultaneously whipped out his gun—flourishing it before the other man could even begin to grope for his. “You won't find out who I am. No one will.”

The guard's eyes darted from the assassin's face to his pistol, widening in fear as he realized he'd fatally underestimated his opponent.

A cry formed on his lips.

It was never uttered.

The single bullet penetrated his heart.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Rather than feel relieved, the assassin felt a surge of annoyance. How irritating he contemplated, eyeing the lifeless man crumpled at his feet. Now he'd have to dispose of the body and stage a reason for the shooting. After all, he couldn't have Bow Street dis­cover the guard here, thus introducing the possibility that the murder was tied to Medford Manor—and to the package Lady Breanna had received. That might cause them to reopen her case.

No. He had to remove the body, place it elsewhere. Somewhere and in some manner that would provide an explanation as to why this man—one who hap­pened to be on his way to do a guard shift at Medford Manor—would be killed.

But move it where? And why would someone kill this fellow in cold blood?

The answer was as obvious as it was ironic, because the victim himself had provided it.

A robbery.

He'd make it appear that the killing was the result of a theft, that the guard had resisted the bandit's de­mands—and paid for it with his life.

Swiftly, he glanced about, made sure he was still alone, undetected.

He was.

Further, the pounding and hammering, still rever­berating from the construction site, was deafening enough to ensure that the sound of his gunshot had been drowned out—a lucky break, since the pistol crack would normally have been audible from this distance.

In conclusion, he had enough time to properly arrange things.

That determined, he crouched down, rifled the guard's pockets. The first thing he did was to confis­cate the man's weapon. Just as expected, it was an average flintlock pistol. Unimpressive and unimag­inative.

He spared it but one disparaging glance before shoving it into his own pocket, to be disposed of later. Then, he helped himself to the thin wad of pound notes and handful of shillings he found in the man's coat. He grimaced as he extracted a plain, well-worn timepiece. Cheap and tawdry. Ah, well. He'd bring it home and destroy it, so there would be nothing to trace back to him. True, it would be a nuisance. Still, it was a necessary nuisance, if he wanted to protect himself and convince the authorities that this murder had indeed been the result of a theft.

He tore the guard's coat in two spots, mussed his shirt and waistcoat. Minutes later, he dragged the body onto the path. He trudged the exact route the guard would have taken to reach his post, hauling the body a respectable distance before hiding it in the bushes on the roadside halfway between the rear por­tion of the estate and the front gates.

With a distasteful frown, he brushed dirt off his gloves, simultaneously retracing his steps until he reached the isolated spot where he'd left his carriage.

How irksome to have wasted his talents in so de­meaning a fashion, he brooded, climbing into the driver's seat, taking up the reins, and guiding the horses onto the deserted path.

On the other hand, the guard seemed of good stock. True, not a member of the gentry, but not a gutter rat either. He had morals, dignity. He'd probably raised his children that way.