The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

He caressed her cheek, kissed the bridge of her nose. “I want to speak with someone. Someone I think can help us.”

“Who?”

“Royce Chadwick.” Damen shrugged into his coat. “You don't know him. He couldn't make it to out wedding; he was out of the country. But he's an old acquaintance of mine. We attended Oxford together. From there, he went on to the military. He was a bril­liant strategist during the war with Napoleon. Since then, well, let's just say he's gone on to become the best at what he does.”

“Which is?”

“He finds people—people who either can't or don 't want to be found.”

“Royce Chadwick,” Wells repeated. “Isn't he the Earl of Searby's brother?”

“Yes. Although Edmund and Royce are about as alike as tea and spirits.”

“Indeed.” Wells was frowning now. “If gossip stands me correctly, the earl's brother is a reckless fel­low—a bit too wild and daring.” Dames lips curved. “Yes, Royce is not your staid ballroom type. He lives by his own set of rules. But he's incredibly shrewd, he 's honest, and he's smart as a whip. And, as I said, he's the best man I know at finding people who have vanished—people even Bow Street can 't find.”

“Such as people who choose not to repay their loans?” Stacie guessed, astutely determining how Damen knew of this Royce Chadwick 's work first-

“Exactly.” Her husband smiled, admiring her keen insights—insights he'd come to know and love. “He 's done some fine work for me and my bank.” Pausing, he framed Stacie's face between his palms, bent to ki ss her shining crown of hair. “Stay put,” he ordered. His glance lifted to include Breanna. “Both of you. In this case, it 's better to be overcautious. Wells, don't let either of them out of your sight. I 'll be back later today—with a plan.”

6

Royce Chadwick lived and worked on Bond Street.

His home, which also served as his office, stood in a row of three-story, gated Town houses, all of which exuded an aura of understated wealth and power—an aura that both commanded a second look and, at the same time, demanded privacy.

A description one could just as easily ascribe to Royce.

He and Damen had met at Oxford. The two men had developed an immediate affinity for each other, despite the fact that their philosophies of life differed sharply.

Damen was a pragmatist. He met life head-on, con­fronted its challenges, and emerged from them wiser, surer, and farther along the path to his own success.

Royce created his own challenges.

Bold, defiant, he took on the world, unwilling to accept the status quo, loath to compromise. He lived on the edge, pushed the rules as far as they could go—and then some—a fact that nearly got him ex­ pelled from Oxford on more than one occasion by the narrow-minded administration who ran it.

But, damn, he was brilliant. Brilliant and, in his own way, honorable. True, he was unconventional, driven by demons he never discussed. And yes, he lived by his own code of conduct, conduct that too often got him in trouble. But he never used people, never took advantage of those less intelligent or weaker than he. On the contrary, he was a loner, rely­ing upon his own ingenuity and cunning to get him what he wanted—partially because he was a man of integrity and partially because he refused to settle for the mediocrity offered by others. He probed, he chal­lenged, yet he drew his own figurative line—a line he wouldn't cross to reach his ends.

In short, reckless or not, Royce Chadwick was a fine man—one Damen admired and, at the moment, needed.

Pulling his carriage alongside the house, Damen swung down, hastened up the steps, and knocked.

An older man with ice blue eyes, silver hair, and a cloaked expression answered the door. “Yes? Ah, Lord Sheldrake.” His thin lips pursed so tightly they seemed to disappear into his face. “Forgive me, sir, I didn't realize you had an appointment.”

“Don't apologize, Hibbert. I didn't.”

Damen stepped into the entranceway, knowing he had his work cut out for him. Trying to talk his way past this man was akin to single-handedly taking on an army. Hibbert was more than Royce's butler, more even than his steward and his clerk. He was all three— and a veritable sentry who stood between his employer and the world. Plus, he was Royce's right hand, his advisor, ofttimes his eyes and his ears. Hib­bert's distinguished, elderly appearance stood him in good stead when he was helping Royce gather infor­mation. No one suspected that beneath the aged, be­nign exterior lurked the intelligence, cunning and agility of a fox.

“Is Royce home?” Damen demanded without pre­liminaries. “Because, if so, I need to see him. Now.”

Hibbert arched a brow. “It's not like you to become overwrought, my lord.”

“That's because I'm usually here because some­one's threatening my money. This time someone's threatening my wife.”

A sharp intake of breath. “I see.” Hibbert studied Damen for one long thoughtful moment. Then, he nodded. “Have a seat in Lord Royce's office. You know where it is. I'll see if I can free up some of his time.”

“I'd appreciate t

hat.” Damen strode down the hall, turning into the cluster of rooms Royce used for his work. He stepped into the outer office, bypassing the settee and pacing over to the bookshelves. He tapped the volumes impatiently, not really seeing them, then walked over to the window and gazed out.