The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

They were all enjoying their late breakfast when Hibbert walked into the dining room, a sober expres­sion on his face.

“Hibbert, what is it?” Breanna was on her feet. “Is it Royce?”

“No, my lady. He has yet to return from London.” Hibbert flourished a small box. “This was just deliv­ered to the front gates. Mahoney brought it up.”

“Oh, no.”

“Actually,

I'm not surprised to see it. I'm more sur­prised it's taken so long to arrive. Considering the killer's desire to intensify your terror, I would have thought he'd be increasing the frequency of his re­minders by now.” Hibbert paused, giving Breanna a measured look. “Do you want to open it, or shall I?”

“I'll do it.” Breanna walked over, saw the familiar penning of her name on the box. This parcel was smaller than the last, about the size of one of her porcelain figures.

Taking a few deep, calming breaths, she tore it open.

Inside was a bottle of perfume—a pear-shaped bot­tle, its glass facets carved atop a gilded mount, its de­sign intricate.

Its color blood red.

The note lay beneath it.

Death's sweet scent is upon you, Lady Breanna. Retreat is impossible. So is rescue. Tell your warrior his efforts are in vain. Urge him to give up the battle or his blood will spill, too. Either way, you and Lady Anastasia are doomed. Your walls cannot protect you any longer. I've toyed with you, let you believe you were safe. That's over. Precious hours remain until I strike. Your blood is my vengeance.

20

Breanna pressed her lips together to still their trem­bling. “This note not only threatens me and Stacie, it threatens Royce, as well .”

“Good,” Hibbert stated with some satisfaction. “That means Lord Royce has unnerved him.”

She started. “Is that what it means?”

“Of course.” Despite his show of nonchalance, Hib­bert was rereading the note, clearly bothered by its contents.

Before Breanna could question him further, he'd turned his attention to the bottle. Pensively, he stud­ied it, then opened its elegant gilded stopper to weft the fragrance under his nose. “An interesting scent. Jasmine and rose, I should say. Which probably means it was produced in Grasse. And the glass bot­tle—Louis XV -style—definitely French.”

Breanna stared. “How do you know so much about perfume?”

Hibbert gave her one of his hints of a smile. “About five years ago, Lord Royce had a client who was an apothecary. The gentleman had invented a promising recipe for a new fragrance. Before he could produce and sell it, a competitor of his stole it and ran off. The thief changed his name and was halfway through Italy before we caught up with him. In the interim, we had no way of knowing whether or not he'd already repro­duced the fragrance and was selling it. As it turned out, he wasn't. He was looking for an isolated spot where he'd never be found before starting his business.

“To get to the point, our client gave Lord Royce and me quite an education before he sent us off. We learned what type of bottles were manufactured where, what ingredients originated in individual provinces, even the names of specific jewelers in France, Germany, and Austria who were famous for setting precious stones on the more ornate bottles.” Hibbert ended his explanation, glancing back at the bottle in his hands. “The gilding here is sophisticated, as is the design of the base. I'll wait for Lord Royce to confirm it, but I'm fairly certain this bottle was crafted by one of three jewelers in Paris.”

“So we know the killer favors French perfume,” Damen stated flatly.

“The question is, does he also favor working with French business associates?”

“Are you implying the perfume was some kind of payment from his contact?” Breanna demanded.

“More like some kind of purchase.” Hibbert re­turned the bottle to its box. “I doubt whoever bought those women would take the time to forward a bottle of perfume as a token of thanks. And if he did, he'd send gentleman's cologne, not women's perfume.” A thoughtful pause. “After Lord Royce returns, I think I'll take a quick jaunt down to Dover. I want to see if I can find out anything about the passengers who ar­rived from Calais this morning. Dover is a quieter port than London—far too risky to use when one is shipping questionable cargo but ideal if one is cross­ing the Channel, on a return trip to England alone.”

Breanna drew a slow breath. “You think the killer actually went to Paris and bought the perfume rum-self?”

“It would certainly explain why we haven't heard from him these past few days. Perhaps he arranged a business meeting with his associate. He could have traveled from London with his cargo, delivered it in person, met with his contact, bought the perfume, then left Calais and sailed for Dover.”

“And now he's back. Ready to carry out the final stages of his plan.”

“In his mind, yes.”

“He's implying he can get to Stacie and Breanna whether they're inside the manor or not,” Damen said quietly, skimming the note. “Is that true?”