Andrea Kane (16 page)

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why are you out here alone?” George forced a smile to his lips. “Or is that because you’re passing time waiting for my lovely daughter to awaken from her long night of dancing?”

“Actually, there are several matters at the bank weighing heavily on my mind,” Damen replied, choosing his words with purposeful care. “I only wish it
had
been Breanna I was contemplating. Your daughter has been one of the bright spots in my week. It occurred to me last night just how drab the past Seasons’ balls have been without her there to light up the room.”

This time there was a genuine, if still weak, quality to George’s smile. “I’m pleased to hear that.” He clapped Damen on the shoulder in an awkward gesture of friendship. “Then why don’t we stop talking about finances and return to the manor? I’m sure Breanna is awake by now.”

“A fine idea.”

Breanna and Anastasia had just finished breakfast and were descending the stairs when the two men entered the manor.

“Ah, Breanna.” George took a step forward, then paused, glancing uncertainly from one girl to the other.

“Yes, Father?” Breanna gathered up her skirts and moved forward, automatically touching her smooth knot of upswept hair to ensure it was in place.

“Lord Sheldrake was wondering where you were,” George responded, totally ignoring his niece. “I assured him you’d be awake by now.”

“We were experimenting with Stacie’s hair,” Breanna responded, glancing proudly at Anastasia, whose hair had been arranged in much the same fashion as hers. “Doesn’t it look lovely?”

“H-m-m-m?” George gave his niece a perfunctory look. “Oh. Yes, yes, of course.”

A grin curved Anastasia’s lips. “It’s stayed put for nearly ten minutes now. That’s a record, at least for me.” Her laughing eyes met Damen’s, and instantly she averted her gaze. “If you’ll excuse me, I promised Mrs. Rhodes I’d give her Mama’s recipe for glazed cross-buns. They were the talk of Philadelphia.”

“I’m sure they were.” George gave a dismissive wave. “By all means, go.” He waited until she’d complied, then turned to Damen. “I’d best check on the rest of my guests. I’ll leave Breanna in your capable hands.”

“My pleasure.” Damen gave a half-bow, smiling at Breanna as George turned and walked off.

But once George was gone, and for the briefest of instances, Damen’s gaze flickered toward the kitchen, watching as Anastasia disappeared from view.

Dammit, George thought, hovering on the threshold of the billiards room, observing his guests as they played. What else could go wrong at this bloody party? First the news about Meade and his threats, then Rouge trying to renegotiate their deal, and now Sheldrake and his unexpected affinity for Anastasia.

Bad enough that Sheldrake was actually condoning the chit’s squandering away funds that by all rights should have been his—and believing in her enough to invest his own money, to actually form a partnership. But the amount of time the marquess was spending with her— the waltzes, the early morning rides—how much of that was business and how much personal interest?

George had taken steps to find out how much money was being invested in that partnership—the right steps. It had been a stupid blunder on his part to ask Sheldrake outright how much of Anastasia’s inheritance she was committing. With any luck, he’d withdrawn the question in time to avoid permanent damage. He’d find out in his usual fashion, from his usual source, who’d be receiving his instructions within the hour. As for the personal aspect of Sheldrake and Anastasia’s relationship, he’d take care of that himself.

He needed Sheldrake. He needed more and better quality merchandise. He needed the money both would yield. And he needed time to get them—time he didn’t have.

Only ten weeks until Anastasia’s twenty-first birthday. If he didn’t get his hands on Henry’s money by then, it would slip through his fingers. Anastasia would be an independent woman, no longer under his guardianship; free to go where she pleased, live where she pleased, marry whomever she pleased.

And take her bloody inheritance with her.

Damn. He
had
to get Henry’s money while Anastasia was still living at Medford Manor, under his roof and his guidance. He had to eliminate all the obstacles. They were cluttering his path. Especially Anastasia.

First things first. One obstacle at a time.

Shifting his weight, George peered into the billiards room, waiting for just the right moment to catch Bates’s eye.

The magistrate must have sensed something because he missed his shot, then glanced up to find George studying him from the doorway. Ever so slightly, George angled his head in the direction of the French doors, indicating to Bates that he wanted to see him alone.

Bates gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“That’s enough for me,” he announced, tugging his waistcoat down over his portly belly and backing away from the table. “My luck is definitely not here today. Perhaps I’ll do better at the gaming table.”

A few grumbling retorts followed, but on the whole the men accepted Bates’s quitting without question and resumed their play.

Bates checked the doorway again, noticed that it was now empty. Confirming that everyone’s attention was no longer on him, he ambled toward the rear of the billiards room and strolled through the French doors. There, he paused, whistling as he idly surveyed the grounds.

As if by chance, George joined him, coming around the side of the manor and greeting his guest.

The two men walked off, chatting amiably.

“What’s wrong?” Bates murmured when they were beyond hearing range. “I thought we’d taken care of your problem when we spoke last night. I told you I’d find you a new source. And I will.”

“There’s another problem I need to discuss with you— one I couldn’t get into at the ball,” George replied.

“Which is?”

“Meade.”

A sigh. “Is he giving you trouble again? What is it this time—stealing the goods or tampering with them?”

“Worse. He’s refusing to deliver my merchandise without a hefty pay increase. He’s also making some threatening noises that sound disturbingly like blackmail. And
that
is something I will not tolerate.”

No, but you’ll inflict it,
Bates thought bitterly. Aloud, all he said was, “What do you need?”

“An arrest warrant.” George pursed his lips. “I need something to hold over Meade’s head. A warrant would do the trick nicely. The charges are certainly real enough. The bastard is guilty of smuggling, privateering, maybe worse. You’ve conveniently overlooked all that to suit our purposes. Well, now our purposes have changed. And, as we both know, Meade is terrified of being sent to the gallows.”

“So if you remind him that we can send him there, you ensure his cooperation.” Bates nodded his balding head. “A sound idea. Consider it done.”

George came to a halt. “When can you get it to me?”

“Is tomorrow soon enough? I can have my messenger deliver it by nightfall.”

“Tomorrow is fine. I’ll pay Meade a visit the next morning, wave the warrant in his face.” A bitter smile. “That will do a great deal toward ensuring his cooperation, and his flexibility about payment.”

“Then it’s settled.” Bates relaxed, as he always did when he’d satisfied Medford’s demands. In truth, he hated dealing with the man. It made him jittery every time the viscount sent for him. But he owed Medford, and would continue to owe him as long as he wanted to keep his position of power.

How many times had he berated himself for accepting Medford’s first offer, thus allowing the snake to have this much control over his life? But it was too late now. Medford’s support, his connections, were what had ensured that Bates received—and kept—his appointment as magistrate of, not one, but three thriving districts, including this one in Kent. Undermining Medford would cost him everything: his reputation, his appointment, and, knowing Medford, perhaps even more.

The prospects were chilling.

“Your party is a rousing success,” Bates commented, switching to the safer ground of casual conversation. “Your niece was welcomed with open arms by nearly every unattached man, as well as many of the attached ones. And the added attraction of having Breanna among us again—” A chuckle. “If I weren’t so old, I’d give Sheldrake some competition myself. I’d happily choose either of the women he’s pursuing.”

George’s head snapped up. “Either of the women he’s pursuing?”

Instantly, Bates realized his error. “Not to worry. He spent most of the evening with Breanna.”

“And the rest of it with Anastasia,” George amended bitterly.

“I’m sure he was just being cordial. I wouldn’t give it a thought.”

“I have to give it a thought. More than a thought, in fact.” George’s hands balled into fists at his sides, his mutterings only half audible. “If she does anything else to ruin my life …” He stopped, sucked in his breath. “Just take care of the warrant,” he snapped at Bates. “I’ll deal with Anastasia.”

T
HE HOUSE OF LOCKEWOOD
was even more impressive than Anastasia had imagined. Running almost the full length of Bishopsgate Street, it was a veritable world unto itself—a dignified world, with high, molded ceilings, polished marble floors and, at the head of the room, a bronze plaque of a coin bearing the Lockewood family crest, set on a pedestal and flanked by twin columns. One side of the bank boasted a triple set of doors that admitted patrons, and between the doors were rows of floor-to-ceiling windows, adorned by deep-green velvet drapes.

The uniformed staff, properly spaced along the entire periphery of the room, stood behind walnut gates, ready to assist the bank’s clientele. In the rear of the room were small, private cubicles, where bank officers could meet with customers on matters that required additional attention. Behind the cubicles stood a towering walnut door bearing a bronze plaque etched with the word private—a clear divider between the main room and whatever lay beyond.

Anastasia wandered farther into the bank, her gaze shifting to the bustle of activity taking place around her. How many dozens of people must come and go from here over the course of a day, contributing to the aura of importance that permeated the House of Lockewood? How many of those people had Damen Lockewood advised, turned profits for, vitally impacted with respect to their financial success?

“My lady.” A reedy gentleman, whose sleek top hat and dark green uniform heralded him as an employee of the House of Lockewood, hurried forward, bowing the instant Anastasia entered the bank. “We’ve been expecting you.”

As he spoke, the bank’s clock chimed eleven, precisely the hour Anastasia had told Damen she’d be arriving.

Curiously, she inclined her head. “Forgive me, sir, but how do you know who I am?”

A polite smile curved his lips. “I’m the head gatekeeper here. It’s my job to recognize all our clients. Lord Medford visits our bank often, sometimes with Lady Breanna. And Lord Sheldrake told me how much alike you and your cousin look.”

Anastasia smiled back. “I’m impressed, Mr. …?”

“Graff,” he supplied. Another bow. “And it’s my pleasure to assist you, my lady.” He stepped back, making a grand sweep with his arm. “If you’re ready, I’ll show you to Lord Sheldrake’s office. Mr. Fenshaw is expected shortly.”

“Thank you, Mr. Graff.” Anastasia cast another awed look around, then gathered up her skirts and followed him across the marble floors, past the individual cubicles, and through the massive walnut door.

A semicircular expanse of imposing offices loomed before her.

“This way, my lady.” Graff gestured toward the farthest—and, clearly, the grandest—office; the one nestled in the corner by itself. He paused, knocking briskly on the gleaming door.

“Yes?” Damen’s deep baritone rumbled from within.

“Lady Anastasia is here, my lord.”

“Show her in, Graff.”

“Yes, sir.” Graff turned the handle and eased open the door. “Go right in, my lady,” he instructed, carefully remaining outside.

“Thank you.” Wondering what on earth to expect, Anastasia gripped the folds of her lilac gown, and crossed the threshold.

Instantly, the door shut behind her—so firmly that she jumped.

Chuckling, Damen rose from behind his desk, smoothing his striped silk waistcoat as he walked around to greet her. “Alone in the lion’s den,” he teased, taking her gloved hand and kissing it.

“That’s a bit what I feel like.” Anastasia studied her surroundings, taking in the walnut furnishings and green velvet drapes, similar to the ones that accented the rest of the bank, along with a few personal touches: stacks of leather-bound books on the desk and shelves, an Oriental carpet atop the polished floor, and two magnificent landscape paintings adorning the walls.

“Are you pleased with what you see; actually, with everything you’ve seen throughout the bank thus far?”

Anastasia nodded in amazement, her gaze returning to his. “I’m astounded. In fact, it’s good I met you elsewhere first, or I’d probably be very intimidated.”

Laughter rumbled from Damen’s chest. “I can’t imagine anyone or anything intimidating you.”

“You’re right.” An impish grin. “Then let’s just say I wouldn’t have been nearly as relaxed around you as I have been.” A bright flush stained her cheeks. “By relaxed, I didn’t mean …”

“I know what you meant.” He was still holding her hand, brushing her gloved fingers against his lips. “I also know that something’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, something that’s making you keep your distance from me. You barely spoke a word to me at the party—
after
our ride, that is. Those few minutes following the race, when we were together—did I offend you?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You know you didn’t.”

“Good. I didn’t think so.” Without warning, Damen tugged her closer, brought her arms around his neck. “In that case we’ll discuss your misconceptions later, whatever they might be. Because Fenshaw’s due here soon with our papers, after which we won’t be alone. And since I’ve been unable to stop thinking about you—the feel of you in my arms, the taste of your mouth under mine—and since I can’t seem to act rationally around you, I need to do this.” His palms slid down the length of her arms, capturing her face and angling it toward his.