The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

His tone said otherwise.

“Perhaps if you speak to Mr. Cunnings's colleagues,” Breanna suggested. “I know you did that right after he was killed. But that was three months ago. Maybe someone can provide you with new information Who knows? It's possible one of Mr. Cunnings's less rep­utable associates—male or female—saw him with this man but didn't think anything of it at the time. Until now, when you mention that the suspect you're search­ing for dropped out of sight for the past several months and has only now resurfaced.”

Marks arched a brow. “That's a bit far-fetched, wouldn't you say?” He averted Breanna's protest by holding up his palm. “I said I'll try. And I will. But I'm not promising anything.” He shifted impatiently, eager to resume work on his current murder investi­gations. “Give me a few days, maybe a week. When I'm finished poking around, I'll ride to Kent, tell you what I've found out.”

“Thank you, sir.” Breanna gestured toward the desk. “Shall I leave the note and package with you?”

“Hmm? No. Take them with you. They'd probably get lost in the shuffle here. If I need to see them again, I'll let you know.” Marks gave Lady Breanna what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Go home now. And try not to worry. The chances are this madman got just what he wanted: he scared the wits out of you. And that will be that.”

Across the street from Bow Street's office, the well-dressed man turned up his collar, moved casually away, and continued walking.

Excellent, he thought, a smug smile curving his lips. She's gone to Bow Street. They can't help her, of course. They've got nothing. But she's frightened. Good. She has reason to be. And this is only the beginning.

He rounded the corner and disappeared.

“I doubt Mr. Marks will help us much,” Breanna commented a few minutes later, leaning her head wearily against the carriage seat. “I feel thoroughly patronized. Worse, I'm not even sure he believed me at all.”

“Oh, he believed you,” Wells returned in a tight voice. “Your situation is just not, in his opinion, a mat­ter of urgency. He'll do what he can. If not for your sake, for Lord Sheldrake's.” Pursing his lips, Wells added, “Miss Breanna, I held my tongue in there be­cause my frustration would have done you more harm than good. But now that we're alone, I want you to know I don't intend to entrust your safety entirely to the Bow Street runners. Whether or not I'm overre­acting, I plan to hire additional guards.”

Grimly, Breanna nodded. “I think that's wise, par­ticularly since there are so many comings and goings at Medford these days. With all the activity necessary to complete Stacie and Damen's new home...” A painful sigh. “For the first tune, I'm relieved she's away. That means she's out of danger. Hopefully, Mr. Marks is right and this will all turn out to be nothing more than a scare. If that's the case, Stacie won't even have to know about it. She's so audacious, I shudder to think how she'd decide to handle things. And if he's wrong...” Breanna swallowed. “Let's just say that if he's wrong, if the assassin means to carry out his threats, there will be plenty of time to fill Stacie in when she arrives home. In the meantime, she can remain blissfully unaware.”

Far away, on a ship bound for England, Anastasia Lockewood awakened with a start Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up, perspiration breaking out on her brow.

“Sweetheart?” Damen shot up like a bullet. “Are you going to be sick again?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the chamber pot as he spoke.

“No.” Anastasia waved the receptacle away, shud­dering as she contemplated how many times she'd needed it on this trip home. “I'm fine. Really.” She wrapped the sheet around her, drawing up her knees, and resting her chin atop them. “At least physically.”

Relieved, Damen resettled himself beside her, smoothing back her hair and pressing his lips to her bare shoulder. “Then what is it?”

“I don't know.” Anastasia frowned, staring about their modest cabin and wondering how many days it would be before they docked in London. “But I have the most uneasy feeling. Something's not right at home.”

Scowling, Damen murmured, “With Breanna, you mean.”

“Yes. With Breanna.”

Damen nodded. He knew better than to question his wife's connection with her cousin. He'd seen first­hand how attuned to each other they were. They were more like sisters, twins in fact, than they were like cousins—in far more ways than merely their striking physical resemblance.

“We're almost home,” he soothed. “Breanna must realize that. Maybe she's feeling the same restlessness you are. Maybe that's what you're sensing. After all, we have been away for months.”

“I suppose so.” Anastasia sounded distinctly un­convinced. “Breanna's probably anticipating our homecoming as much as I am.” A pause. “Her birth­day was last week,” she continued, as if trying to per­suade herself that Damen was right. “She's finally of age. I wonder if she's planning the party we talked about before I left.”

“I'm sure she is. In fact, I'm sure she's exhausted. Be­tween planning a house party and handling the initial construction of our home by herself—I'm sure she's counting the days until we're there to lend a hand.”

“That's true.” Anastasia relaxed a bit. “Even with the staff's support, she's doubtless buried in details, determined to oversee all the preparations herself.”

“Um-hum.” Damen slipped his arms around Ana-stasia's waist, laid a possessive palm on her still-flat abdomen. “On the other hand, maybe she senses you have an announcement for her.”

His wife shot him a wry grin over her shoulder. “If so, she's probably lining the grounds with chamber pots. I can't seem to take ten steps without needing one.”

“That's only because of the motion of the sea. The ship's doctor assured me the sickness will ease once you're home, with both feet planted firmly on land.”

Laughter danced in Anastasia's eyes. “He would have assured you of anything to calm you down. You've interrupted him six times a day for reassur­ance that everything I'm experiencing is normal. The poor man probably bolts his door at night, for fear that you'll burst into his cabin and accost him with yet more questions about your pregnant wife.”

Not the least bit contrite, Damen chuckled, tugging his wife down to his chest. “I'm allowed to worry. I'm a new husband and an expectant father. I'm also in­sanely in love with my wife—a wife who, for the past three weeks, has either

swooned or been sick every time she's stepped out of bed.”

“Then perhaps I should stay on it—or rather, in it.” Her attention diverted by more scintillating matters, Stacie feathered her lips across her husband's chest, nuzzling his nipples as her fingers trailed down the hard planes of his stomach. She smiled as she felt his heart rate quicken “After all, I'm fine when I'm re­clining. Better than fine, in fact.” Her hand slid lower, found its goal, and her fingers surrounded Damen's erection, caressed him in light, teasing strokes. “So if you want me to feel better—”