A throaty laugh. “I assure you, I was never common—no matter how shabby my surroundings. I was always a treasure.” A coveted treasure—worth everything a man had and more. There's no one like me. Not then, not now, not ever. No one understood that better than he.”
She'd given Royce both his answers. Her days as a prostitute had been spent somewhere else. Some where shabby. And the assassin had already known her there.
“So he's familiar with who you are,” Royce acknowledged, diverting her attention from the fact that she'd just supplied him with vital information. “What about you, Maurelle? Do you know what he does? How he gets you the women he delivers?”
That scornful look returned. “Ah, you're hoping to deliver a crushing blow. To shock me into revealing his name. Don't bother. Yes, Lord Chadwick, I know what he does. I know how he rids the women I sell of their family ties. And I know what he intends for your friend Lady Breanna. Death—one bullet to the heart.” Her brows arched in sardonic question. “He's a superb marksman, wouldn't you say?”
Royce forced his features to remain impassive, fully aware she was trying to goad him into an emotional reaction. “Indeed he is. A filthy animal, but a superb marksman.”
“Now you're trying to provoke me, monsieur. That won't work on me any more than it just did on you.”
“I'm impressed. You're a formidable adversary.” Royce studied her closely, focusing on her face. What was it about her? Her features, her mannerisms. The utter self-confidence of her stance.
No matter how shabby my surroundings ... I was always a treasure. A coveted treasure...
Abruptly, an image flashed through Royce's mind—a younger, less sophisticated Maurelle, but Maurelle nonetheless.
The pieces slammed into place, the scene replaying from start to finish.
He had his answer.
It was time to do something with it.
Unaware of the direction Royce's thoughts had taken, Maurelle played right into his hands, assuming she was taunting him.
She stretched her arms high over her head, then covered her mouth to stifle a yawn. “If you're not going to beat or brutalize me in any way, I'd like to get some sleep.” A mocking smile. “May we continue this interrogation tomorrow?”
Royce nearly laughed aloud. Maurelle was waiting for him to fly into a tirade. While, in truth, he was delighted to comply with her request. He was impatient to get out of that room, itching to put his new realization to work.
Still, he couldn't arouse her suspicions.
Feigning irritation, he gave a curt nod. “As you wish. But tomorrow begins quite early here. Don't expect to get much sleep.”
Maurelle looked amused. “I can do with very little sleep, my lord. It's a necessary talent in my business Bonne nuit.”
No, Maurelle, Royce countered silently, making his way from the servants' quarters. Not bonne nuit.
Fini.
His first stop was Damen and Anastasia's room.
There, he explained the situation in a few terse sentences, then requested Damen's help. Damen offered it instantly.
The message was written and, ten minutes later, was in the hands of a footman who was rushing it to Damen's swiftest courier. The attached note from Damen instructed his envoy to dispatch Royce's message to the Continent within the hour.
It would be in Paris by morning.
Satisfied that the wheels were in motion, Royce headed directly to his quarters, where Breanna and Hibbert were discussing the events of the past few days while eyeing the door, waiting for Royce to reappear.
They both jumped up when he walked in. “Did Maurelle tell you anything?'' Breanna burst out.
Triumph gleamed in Royce's eyes. “Far more than she realized.”
“Then she gave you enough to figure out the killer's name?”
“Definitely not. Maurelle Le Joyau is as tough as they come. And smart. She'll die before exposing the killer. Especially since it's clear she's in love with him.”
Breanna gave a bemused shake of her head, puzzled by the victorious expression on Royce's face. “What did she say?”
Swiftly, Royce relayed their conversation.
When he was finished, even Hibbert looked baffled. “I see where your questions were headed. You wanted to find out about her past, figure out where and when she and the assassin met. Hopefully, Girard will do that for us.”
“Oh, he'll definitely do that for us. Very effectively, with the help of the note I just sent him.”
“A note,” Breanna repeated, sensing this piece of information was directly tied to whatever was making Royce feel so encouraged, “telling him what?”
“That I've encountered Mademoiselle Le Joyau before tonight. And that I remember exactly where and when that was.”
Even Hibbert stared. “You've met?”
“Not officially no. Which makes it all the better, as she has no memory of me, while I have an excellent memory of her. She was the main attraction in Paris some years ago—at least to a very confused young man who was reluctant to return with me to England and to his anxious father. I had to drag the boy out of that brothel, so taken was he with his paid companion's beauty and numerous charms. I never knew her name—we weren't exactly formally introduced. But I never forget a face. It's she, all right.”
By now, Breanna had caught on. “Y ou're talking about your first case—the one you told me about. That junior officer you found for his father the general. The man you located at a seedy brothel outside Paris.”
“Maison Fleur,” Royce supplied. “That was the name of the brothel. I don't know whether or not it's still standing. But when it was, Maurelle Le Joyau worked there. Their clientele were chiefly soldiers.”
“Including the assassin,” Breanna declared.
“Right.” Royce rubbed his hands together. “Damen arranged for his fastest courier to get my message to Girard. We'll have Mademoiselle Le Joyau's complete history in a matter of days. In the meantime, tomorrow my men will start compiling information on all the men on the guest list who have military records-which will reveal exactly who was stationed near Paris, and when. Between that and what Girard tells us, we'll figure out the identity of our assassin.”
“But will it be in time?” Breanna asked.
Royce shot her an uneasy look, trying to ascertain how much she'd deduced.
“Royce, I know you're trying to protect me.” Softly, she answered his unspoken question. “But I'm not stupid. That animal is taunting us by delivering a stream of those porcelain figures—the ones stolen from the shop in Canterbury you told me about. If there really were only seven statues in all, then he's down to the last of them. And after that...” She shuddered. “After that, there will no longer be a reason for him to wait.”
“We'll give him a reason.” Royce went to her, seized her shoulders in a tender but determined grip. “Remember something, sweetheart. Now we have something he wants—a bargaining tool to dangle before him.''
“Maurelle.”
“Right. My guess is, he's as involved with Maurelle as she is with him. Which means he's vulnerable when it comes to her. And his vulnerability is our weapon.”
“How can we inform him we have her if we don't know who he is?” Breanna asked.
“There are ways,” Royce returned quietly, thinking he'd parade Maurelle Le Joyau across the front lawn at gunpoint, shouting out that she was his prisoner in order to get the assassin's attention, if need be. “Some of those ways are riskier than others. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The last statue hasn't arrived yet. Until it does, we have time. L et's use that time. Maybe we'll have our answers by then.”
“What are you planning?”
“I'm going to interrogate Maurelle L e Joyau. I'm bound to learn something, however small. Maybe I’ll run Cunnings's name by her, or even your father's. She might know something about them.”
“How?”
Royce cleared his throat. “Men are known to b
e less guarded when they're in a woman's bed. They talk more openly. Maurelle knew about you—she taunted me with the fact that her assassin meant to kill you with one bullet. That means he said something, not only about his plans, but about his belief that you and I are involved. Why else would she expect me to react to your intended fate?”
“I see.”
“I might learn enough to strike a few additional names from the guest list. At the same time, I'm going to send a deluge of letters out to my contacts-as many as I can write tonight and tomorrow. That will keep messengers rushing on and off the estate, which, in turn, will keep the assassin wondering what the hell is going on. It might also interfere with his ability to get close to the manor. I'm buying time, Breanna. Just a day or two. By then, I'll have what I need.”
“Unless the last statue arrives first. In which case, our time has run out.”
Royce's jaw clenched. “In which case, so has his.”
26
The next day passed in a frenzy of activity and a knot of tension.
By nightfall, two dozen messages had gone out, five had arrived, and no packages had been delivered.
T he distraction had done its job.
As for Maurelle, she was as unyielding as ever. She staunchly refused to discuss her lover, other than to hail him as a genius and declare her commitment to him .
Still, Royce chipped away at her reserve, finding out tidbits of information about their relationship— enough for him to realize this was a longstanding liaison, formed over many years, and that it centered around a sick preoccupation with each other that Maurelle viewed as love.
Love between a murderer and a heartless bitch who sold women.
The whole notion made Royce sick.
It was late at night when he finished interrogating Maurelle. After that he began amassing the initial in formation that his contacts had provided. It was sketchy, but it did enable him to eliminate ten names, men who definitely hadn't served in the military. That still left twelve.
He could hardly weft to get his hands on the thorough background checks of the possible suspects. With a modicum of luck, those reports would arrive at Medford Manor by late tomorrow.
It was half after three when he finally crawled into bed.
Breanna was awake, her nigh trail tangled from tossing about, trying to sleep.
Royce reached for her, gathered her against him, and held her tightly.
“I wonder if I'll ever shut my eyes again,” she whispered. “Or if he'll haunt me forever.”
“He won't. It's almost over.” Royce pressed his lips to her shining crown of hair, feeling that now-familiar surge of protectiveness and need. “And the instant it is, I'm dragging you off somewhere and marrying you.”
She smiled against his chest. “You won't have to drag me. I'm as eager as you.” She continued talking, desperate to forget the present, to cling to the hope of their future. “There's a little church about a mile from here. I used to walk there a lot when my father was away. Actually, discovered it as a child, with Grandfather. He took me there for the first time when I was eight. My father and I were visiting Medford, and father had flown into one of his rages. I was desperate to get away from him. The church is so peaceful and lovely; it has a sort of quiet dignity about it that reminds me of Grandfather. It conjures up special memories of him for me. I'd love to get married there.”
“Then we will.” Royce tilted up her chin, brushed her lips with his. “We'll ride there the day this nightmare ends, speak to the vicar. I'll get a special license, if need be. We'll be married as soon as Wells and Anastasia are finished organizing the kind of wedding you deserve.”
Breanna swallowed. “Do you think I'm foolish for wanting something traditional?”
“I never trunk you're foolish. I think you're beautiful. And I think you're entitled to the most perfect wedding day any bride ever dreamed of.”
The raw emotions of the past few days converged, welled up inside her, and Breanna felt a sharp need to relieve them, to lose herself in a way only Royce could ensure. “Royce,” she murmured, her voice unsteady. “Make love to me. Please.”
She felt his sharp intake of breath, sensed her own urgency come alive in him. He unbuttoned her night-rail, pushed it down and off, and tossed it to the carpet. Then, he pulled her against him, kissing her fiercely as he rolled her beneath him.
“Forget everything,” he muttered thickly. “Everything but how much I love you, and how right it feels when I'm inside you.”
Breanna complied, wrapping her arms around him and opening her body to his.
The rest of the night was theirs.
The reports began arriving after lunch.
Four more names were eliminated by the time late afternoon tea had been served.
“That leaves eight,” Royce announced, looking around the sitting room, where Breanna, Anastasia, and Damen were seated, with Hibbert manning the doorway. “All with lean bodies, graying temples, and around forty-five or fifty years of age.”
Damen nodded, taking Stacie's hand in his. “Let's analyze each one of them, see if we can make an educated guess as to which one is the killer.”
“No.” Royce gave an adamant shake of his head. “I've purposely avoided doing that. Our views on all these men are subjective. Whoever this killer is, he's a master at deception. He's managed to fool us, and the rest of the ton for Lord knows how long. Let's get all the facts. Then, we'll analyze.”
Restlessly, Damen nodded. “You're right. I'm just losing my mind.”
“I have a feeling we're on the verge of something,” Anastasia murmured. “I'm not sure why, but I do.”
“So do I,” Breanna concurred. “So it must be true.”
Ten minutes later, Wells rushed into the sitting room, waving an envelope.
“Lord Royce,” he said, proffering the letter. “This just arrived from the Continent. Lord Sheldr ake 's envoy delivered it. It's from your colleague, Mr. G i rard.”
“Good.” Royce went taut, snatching the envelope and tearing it open.
His eyes widened as he read, first with surprise, then with realization. “Damn,” he said, rising slowly with a sharp exhalation of breath. “This is unbelievable.”
“What?” Damen bolted to his feet, too. “What did Girard find out about Maurelle Le Joyau?”
“Did he confirm that she worked in that brothel-Maison Fleur?” Anastasia questioned eagerly.
“Indeed he did.” Royce skimmed the letter again, then lowered it to meet the five expectant stares glued to him. “She worked at Maison Fleur for over a decade, until about four years ago. She began her career there, as a young girl in her teens. She formed quite a reputation among Wellington's men. Over the next eleven years, she made a bloody fortune servicing them in bed. Enough to buy the townhouse that's now Le Joyau and redecorate it from top to bottom, rum it into a plush abode. She hired some girls who were almost as much in demand as she was, and opened the doors to Paris's most elegant brothel.”
“And?” Breanna prompted, recognizing the look on Royce's face, impatient to hear the rest.
“And it's no wonder Girard was finding it so bloody hard to uncover anything about her past before my message arrived. Without knowing she worked at Maison Fleur, it was virtually impossible to dig up a single detail on her history. Maurelle covered her tracks like a seasoned criminal. It's as if she appeared out of nowhere four years ago.” Royce paused, filled in the most essential piece. “Because at the same time that she acquired Le Joyau, she acquired the name she christened it with.”
“Her real name isn't Maurelle Le Joyau?” Breanna demanded.
“No.” Royce shook his head, his midnight gaze glittering with sparks. “Her real name is Maurelle Rouge.”
A heartbeat of silence followed Royce's revelation. Then, the impact sank in, and everyone began talking at once.
“Maurelle Rouge ... M. Rouge,” Breanna breathed. “My God, it was her all along
.”
“No wonder my men couldn't find George's Paris contact,” Damen realized grimly. “It never occurred to any of us he was a she.”
“Right.” Royce's lips thinned into a pensive line. “Apparently, Maurelle renounced the name Rouge when she left Maison Fleur. She only uses it for buying and setting women. The rest of the world knows her as Maurelle Le Joyau.”
“Wait.” Anastasia held up her palm. “If this is true, if Maurelle is Rouge, and if the assassin was intimately involved with her when she was using her real name, then his establishing a business relationship with her at this particular time makes sense. The night he shot John Cunnings, Cunnings was searching for a woman to ship to M. Rouge—even if he didn't know who M. Rouge was.”
“But the assassin did know who she was,” Breanna finished for her. “He would have recognized the name when he saw it. He would have seized Cunnings's notes. And he would have planned to pursue things with Maurelle when he got to the Continent.”
Stacie frowned. “The only problem with that t heory is that Royce believes the relationship between the killer and Maurelle is longstanding, not sporadic. So why would he need Cunnings's notes to figure out what she was up to? Why wouldn't she just have told him? She seems to be aware of all his sinister activities. Why wouldn't he know of hers?”
“Unless ...” Royce pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maurelle keeps making references to her feelings for the assassin being more powerful than they've been before. She emphasizes that she loves him now more than ever—almost as if she's had time apart from him to realize the depth of her feelings. Maybe, at some point, they severed ties. I don't know when, or for how long but maybe they lost touch. Maybe he never knew her as Maurelle Le Joyau—until he found Cunnings's notes and went in search of M. Rouge. Maybe they only recently rediscovered each other.”
“But if they're so deeply involved, what would make them sever ties?” Breanna wondered aloud. “Could he have frightened her off?”
“No.” Royce shook his head. “Maurelle is as cold-blooded as they come. She doesn’t frighten easily. If they ended things, even for a while, it wasn't because she was afraid of him. Maybe it was he who had his reasons. I don't know. But it certainly gives me another angle to pursue. I'll see what I can find out.” A hard smile curved Royce's lips. “I have a great many more facts now, and some strong leads to pursue. Not only Maurelle's tie to the killer, but her tie to Viscount Medford. Maybe I can learn the fate of all those poor women she did sell.”