“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.
“Idoubt 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 husbandandan 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—”
“Say no more.” Features stark with desire, Damen rolled her to her back, covered her mouth—and her body—with his. “You couldn’t feel any better,” he murmured huskily. “You already feel too damned good.”
“Show me,” she whispered, twining her arms around his neck.
Damen proceeded to do just that, breathing love words against her skin, into her lips, as he penetrated her slowly, exquisitely, melding their bodies into one.
Their lovemaking was as shattering as ever, pervading every pore of Anastasia’s body, touching every inch of her soul, leaving her weak, bonelessly sated.
But afterwards, wrapped securely in Damen’s arms, sleep evaded her.
Unbidden, the uneasiness crept back, latching its disturbing tentacles into her mind. And, like the relentless queasiness that plagued her, it refused to be shaken.
Something was wrong, she concluded, stirring fitfully on the bed.
Her gaze shifted to the cabin’s tiny porthole, and she willed the winds to propel them swiftly to England.
Breanna needed her.
She had to get home.
The headline ofThe Times was quite disconcerting.
It seemed that, try though they would, Bow Street could not definitively prove who had killed two prominent noblemen.
Although, after carefully questioning dozens of people—servants and associates alike—they did have their theories.
This should be fascinating ,he thought, settling back in his dining room chair and skimming the article beneaththe headline.
His brows raised in interest as he read on.
While the murders were still unsolved, Bow Street had begun to alter their original theory that the crimes were linked, at least so far as sharing the same assailant. Instead, the police were now speculating that, while one crime probably inspired the other, the two murders had been committed by different killers. And not by two hardened criminals, but by two women, each with the same relationship to the victimand the same motivation to do him in.
Women?
Now that was an intriguing notion.
Leaning forward, he read on.
Evidently, Bow Street was corning to suspect that the wives of these renowned noblemen were, in fact, the murderesses they sought. The women in question might or might not have devised their plans together, but their motivations were doubtless the same: greed and a yearning for freedom.
He continued, almost laughing out loud as he followed Bow Street’s reasoning.
p.==The fact was that both wives had mysteriously disappeared at the same time their husbands had been shot. Initially, it was presumed that they’d been kidnapped. But now, more than a week later, no ransom notes had surfaced, nor had any trace of the women or their whereabouts been uncovered. So it was looking more and more like they’d killed their husbands, then runoff, perhaps with other lovers, most likely taking with them some private source of wealth-be it cash or jewels—that no one other than they and their husbands knew about.==
Haw clever,he thought, his teeth gleaming with amusement.What would we ever do without Bow Street and their unmatched genius?
The article concluded by assuring everyone that the authorities were hard at work, determined to apprehend the perpetrators.
What a waste of time,he reflected, folding the newspaper in half and placing it on the table.Bow Street will never find them. No one will. They’ve vanished forever.
He was just biting into his second scone when a knock sounded at the dining room door.
His butler entered. “Pardon me, m’lord, but a gentleman from Bow Street is here to see you. A Mr. Marks. He insists on speaking with you personally.”
A flicker of apprehension—one he kept carefully concealed.
Slowly, he chewed and swallowed his food, then dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. “Does he now?” He rose, a frown creasing his brow as he smoothed his gloves into place. “Did he state what his business was?”
“Something about John Cunnings, sir. Apparently, the authorities are speaking to all his associates again. I have no idea why.”
Ah, buthedid know why. He knew precisely why.
Or, more specifically,who.
Breanna Colby.
“I see,” he replied, his mind racing.
Marks’s visit had to tie in to the trip Lady Breanna had made to Bow Street three days ago. The miserable bitch. She’d obviously accomplished more than he’d realized, done a better job of convincing the police to help her than he’d anticipated.
Still, this conversation had to be strictly routine. Bow Street had no evidence to link him to Cunnings—not then or now—and certainly none to link him to their current murder investigation. They were searching for runaway wives, for heaven’s sake, not reputable gentlemen.
He’d do nothing to sway their way of thinking. Nor would he antagonize them. To the contrary, he’d be warm, gracious, utterly cooperative.
And Marks would leave no wiser than when he arrived.
Lady Breanna was another matter entirely. She had to be punished for her brazen act.
The very notion made excitement surge through his blood. He’d find a means of punishment that would intensify her fear beyond measure.
And, as a result, heighten his exhilaration even more.
“Sir?” the butler prompted. “What shall I tell Mr. Marks?”
“By all means, show him in,” he replied graciously, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’ll answer any questions he has.”
And then I’ll deal with the lovely Breanna Colby.
Four days later, Bow Street delivered its report.
Marks arrived at Medford just before lunch. He propped himself against the sitting-room door frame—a blatant indication that this wasn’t going to be a lengthy visit—and relayed his findings to Brean na andWells.
Thoroughly, meticulously, he read through the entire list of interviews he’d conducted, and their outcomes. He’d spoken with every conceivable one of John Cunnings’s associates, from the women he’d squandered his illegally acquired money on, to the men he did business with, to his neighbors, to those few friends he had. No one knew anything about an assassin, nor did they know of anyone who’d want to kill Cunnings. In fact, they knew nothing more about Cunnings’s illegal dealings than they had three months ago—which was nil, other than whatever they’d read in the newspapers.
Having concluded his report, Marks straightened and smoothed his scarlet waistcoat. “That’s all I have, my lady.” He shut his notebook. “Have you received any more threats?”
Breanna shook her head. “No.”
“Then I’d say you’re in no immediate danger. Nor is your cousin, Lady Sheldrake. Besides, the point is moot. We have nothing more to go on.”
“But Mr. Marks—”
“I’ve done everything I can, my lady.” His mouth set in grim lines. “I can’t justify spending another hour on this—not with the current murder investigation I’m involved in. My suggestion is: be careful. Don’t go out alone. Tell your cousin the same when she returns from her wedding trip. I noticed you hired some guards. Good idea. The more security you have the better. That’ll scare this lunatic off— if heplans to carry out his threats. Which I don’t think he will.” With that, Marks tipped his hat. “Good day, my lady.”
He crouched down in the bushes by the roadside, watching as Marks drove through the iron gates and curved onto the road leading away from Medford Manor.
Good. Bow Street’s finished. She’s on her own now. Which means I can strike whenever I wish. I won’t rush it. The time has to be right…
It was two days later when the carriage bearing the Lockewood family crest turned off the road, heading toward Medford.
Inside the carriage, Anastasia frowned as the iron gates loomed into view—along with two burly men posted on either side.
“Who are they?” she demanded, scooting to the edge of her seat and eyeing them. “And why are they standing so rigidly at the gates—as if they’re sentries?”
“I don’t know.” Even Damen looked perplexed, his brows knitting as one of the two men gestured for their driver to stop.
The driver complied, and the man approached the carriage.
“I’ll need your names, please,” he began, peering inside the window. “Then you’ll have to wait to be announced… oh forgive me, Lady Breanna. I didn’t know you’d gone out.” He bowed, backed away from the carriage, and waved them on. “Drive right through.”