Andrea Kane (25 page)

That decided, Anastasia walked over to the window, shifting the curtain just enough so she could peek out without being seen. Her guess—if the purposeful footsteps she’d heard within her uncle’s study had been any indication—was that Mr. Lyman would be making his exit any moment now.

Sure enough, the door opened and their agitated visitor hurried down the steps and into his waiting carriage.

The carriage rounded the drive and sped off.

For a long minute Anastasia waited, peering outside to see if any further activity would ensue.

She was greeted with nothing but stillness.

Stepping away from the window, she rubbed her temples, trying to imagine what her uncle was doing right now—or more importantly, where he was. Clearly, he wasn’t rushing off to meet anyone. What that suggested, given his recent behavior, was that he’d bid Mr. Lyman good-bye, then retreated back into the refuge of his study, where he’d promptly drowned himself in more brandy.

On the other hand, he could be making provisions to go out, perhaps getting some papers in order or composing himself enough to ride off and deal with this Meade person he blamed for the loss of his cargo.

If that was the case, Anastasia could very well come face-to-face with her uncle in the entranceway door. Fine. That was a chance she’d have to take. And if it happened, she’d have to pray that Wells would sense her dilemma and choose to follow her lead.

Sucking in her breath, Anastasia smoothed her gown, tucked a few loose tendrils of hair behind her ear, and left her bedchamber. She paused outside Breanna’s door, wondering if her cousin was inside. Her fingers automatically reached for the door handle, then, just as quickly, fell away. It didn’t matter whether or not Breanna was in her room. She couldn’t be involved in this. In fact, the less she knew of Anastasia’s intentions, the less vulnerable she’d be to Uncle George’s outrage. That way, when interrogated by her father, Breanna could honestly declare she’d been totally unaware of her cousin’s last-minute decision to travel to Town.

Staunchly, Anastasia continued on her way, descending the stairs while forcing herself to appear as casual as possible.

The ground floor was deserted.

Slowly, nonchalantly, Anastasia headed toward the entranceway door, half expecting her uncle to spring out at her and demand to know where she was going and why.

No such confrontation occurred.

Wells looked up as she approached, inclining his head in question. “Miss Stacie.” He determined her identity upon seeing the loose waves of hair that tumbled about her shoulders. “Are you going out?”

“Yes, Wells, I am.” Stacie glanced about quickly, ensuring that they were alone. “I need your help,” she confessed in a whisper. “And, unfortunately, in this case that means lying to Uncle George. I wouldn’t ask it of you unless the matter was critical.”

The butler cleared his throat, appearing less surprised by her request than she’d expected. “What sort of lie is it you require?”

“A minor one,” Anastasia assured him. “It’s crucial that I speak with Lord Sheldrake—at once. And since the marquess isn’t due here today, I need a reason to go to the House of Lockewood. I’d like you to advise Uncle George that the marquess contacted me with regard to our investment; that his message said something had come up—something that required my immediate attention— and my immediate presence at his bank. Can you do that without feeling disloyal?”

“Crucial, you said.” Wells’s gaze remained steady. “May I assume you’re choosing me to provide this lie in order to protect Miss Breanna?”

“You may.”

A flicker of resolve. “In that case, I can manage to live with my guilt. Consider your favor granted.” He pivoted, tugging open the door. “Go. If your uncle asks, Lord Sheldrake summoned you to his bank. You left immediately thereafter. We won’t expect you back until late this afternoon.” The barest hint of a smile. “In fact, you were in so much of a hurry that you dashed off without your lady’s maid.”

Anastasia’s head snapped up, and she studied Wells’s face, wondering if the astute butler understood even more than she’d suspected. “Thank you,” she murmured, recognizing that now was not the time for questions. “That explanation would be ideal.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Stacie.” Wells’s expression turned sober, and a note of concern crept into his voice. “Good luck. And be careful.”

Solemnly, Anastasia nodded. “I will.”

The House of Lockewood was buzzing with activity when she burst in several hours later.

Graff spotted her immediately, and strode rapidly to her side. “Lady Breanna,” he greeted her. A quick scan of the doorway told him that she was unaccompanied by the Viscount Medford. “Or is it Lady Anastasia?” he amended, with a questioning lift of his brows. “Forgive me, but I still can’t seem to tell you two apart.”

Anastasia grinned. “And since you saw I was unchaperoned, you made an educated guess as to which cousin I was—a correct guess, I might add. Very good, Graff. Lord Sheldrake is lucky to have you in his employ.”

A bow. “Thank you, my lady.” He pursed his lips. “Is the marquess expecting you?”

“No, but it’s imperative that I see him.” For the first time, the untenable possibility that Damen might not be at the bank occurred to her. “Is he available?”

“He’s in his office, meeting with a client. But let me tell him you’re here. I’m sure he’ll make time to see you.”

With a crisp bow, he headed off toward the private section of offices.

Anastasia paced about the lobby of the bank, plucking at her gloves as she awaited Graff’s return. She hoped he’d be persistent enough to yank Damen off to a side, at least long enough to tell him not only who was here, but how anxious she was to see him.

“Why, hello.”

A masculine voice, faintly familiar, brought her head around, and Anastasia found herself looking up into Mr. Booth’s round face and thoroughly pleased expression.

“My lady.” He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. “I had no idea you and your father were expected today. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Booth.” Anastasia shifted a bit, thinking there was something about this man that made her feel vaguely uneasy. Perhaps it was his obvious captivation with Breanna, and now with her. “It’s no surprise you weren’t expecting me,” she added. “My visit to your bank wasn’t planned. It just came up. By the way, I think you’ve confused me with my cousin.”

Booth had clearly come to that conclusion on his own, given Anastasia’s easily detected, diminished accent. “Lady Anastasia,” he corrected himself. “Forgive my error.” He offered her a small, apologetic smile. “It’s hard to believe that two such lovely young women exist, much less how identical in appearance they are.”

“I… thank you for the compliment,” she replied, more self-conscious than flattered. “But I assure you, Breanna and I are anything but identical, other than in our appearance.”

“Anastasia.”

Before she could elaborate—in whatever as-of-yet undetermined manner she intended to do that—Damen came up behind her, his tone clearly commanding her full attention. “Is everything all right?”

She whipped about, met his penetrating gaze, and nodded. “Yes. I apologize for interrupting your meeting. But I needed to see you right away.”

He scrutinized her for another long, probing minute, then nodded, lifting his head and fixing his hard stare on Booth. “Crompton’s in my office. You’ll have to take over for me—at least until John gets back from his meeting at Lloyds.”

“I’m here, Damen.” As luck would have it, John Cunnings happened back at that moment, reaching his employer’s side in ample time to deduce what was going on. “I’ll handle Crompton. The investment he’s contemplating extends to several European countries as well as to Singapore. I’m familiar with the risks and rewards of the transaction.”

“Excellent. I’ll send him to your office.” Having resolved the matter to his satisfaction, Damen gestured to Anastasia, careful to maintain the aloof, professional air they’d established between them in public. “Come, my lady.”

Anastasia preceded Damen to his office, pausing only to greet Mr. Crompton as he gathered up his portfolio, nodding his agreement to join John Cunnings.

“I see you found a backer,” Crompton noted in that crisp, military way he had. “Good for you, dear girl.”

“Thank you.” Anastasia didn’t bother correcting him about Damen’s role in her venture. She was far too preoccupied to concern herself with how Lord Crompton perceived her business acumen. “I’m grateful to be working with the marquess.”

“As well you should be. He and his officers are among England’s finest.” Crompton smoothed his waistcoat, then tugged each finger of his gloves snugly into place. “Sheldrake,” he continued, snapping his lean body into formal erectness. “I appreciate your preliminary advice. Cunnings can handle things from here. I’ll stop by your office after he and I have conducted our business. I assume by then you and Lady Anastasia will have completed yours.”

“That will be fine.” Damen held the door ajar, waiting politely until the older man had left. Then, he shut the door and turned the key in the lock.

An instant later, he was across the room, gripping Anastasia’s shoulders, his eyes boring into hers. “What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

She swallowed, realizing for the first time how unnerving this day had been. “I overheard something. A conversation. Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“What kind of conversation? Between whom?”

Carefully, Anastasia recounted whatever snatches she could recall of her uncle’s discussion with Edgar Lyman.

“Dammit,” Damen hissed when she’d finished. “I was afraid something like this might be going on.” His grip on her shoulders tightened. “You’re sure neither of them saw you? That they had no idea you were there?”

“I’m sure. I was gone before they opened the study door.” She made a helpless gesture. “Damen, obviously whatever my uncle is involved in is illegal. The question is, what? And who else—besides Mr. Lyman—is involved in this sordid scheme?”

“This Meade person, for one.” Damen frowned. “But my guess is he’s just some unsavory seaman who works for Lyman. He might not even know what the hell it is he’s carrying aboard his ship. If we go to the trouble of finding and confronting him, it’s very likely we’ll learn nothing, and risk exposing ourselves in the process.”

Anastasia nodded. “Meade would doubtless tell Mr. Lyman about our visit. And he, in turn, would tell Uncle George. After all, that’s where Meade’s loyalties—and his wages—lie.”

“Exactly.” Damen pressed his lips together. “Did your uncle or Lyman mention any other names?”

“I’m not sure. It’s possible.” Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall every word of the conversation. A nagging feeling plagued her, the vague awareness that she was forgetting something—something important. Whatever it was, it hovered just beyond the periphery of her memory—tangible, but out of reach. “I was so overwhelmed by what my uncle is doing—not to mention his cold-blooded attitude about the loss of all those lives—that I had trouble focusing on the rest of what he and Mr. Lyman were saying. Also, their voices were muffled. The study door is thick.”

Damen nodded his understanding. “If there’s something more, you’ll remember it. In the meantime, whatever goods George is transporting, they’re obviously damned valuable. Otherwise, he’d never take this kind of risk. Then again, I don’t know how desperate he is. Maybe his finances have deteriorated to the point where he’ll do anything just to recoup a portion of his losses.”

Anastasia inhaled sharply, then blew out her breath. “We need answers. And to get them, we need proof. Without it, there’s nothing we can do, except put ourselves—and most of all, Breanna—at risk.”

“I have scores of contacts, Stacie. But even my resources can reach just so far, especially when it comes to unethical dealings. I’m not exactly an expert on those.”

“I know.”

With an exasperated sound, Damen scowled, racking his brain as he sought the right avenue to pursue. “Meade is inconsequential. For that matter, so is Lyman. He’d never tell us a thing, not when talking would incriminate him as much as it would your uncle. No, what we need is someone who can get us concrete evidence. Someone who can gain access to actual records—written documentation of these dealings your uncle is involved in. Those records have got to exist, even if they’re disguised as innocent exchanges of money for merchandise. If I could get my hands on them, I could figure out what George’s arrangement is, and with whom—possibly even what they’re transporting. But who’s close enough to your uncle to gain that sort of access? Wells?”

Anastasia gave a definitive shake of her head. “No. Asking Wells to betray Uncle George would be dangerous and unfair. Besides, Wells knows the household like the back of his hand, but he hasn’t an inkling how Uncle George conducts his business. Nor would my uncle agree to share that sort of information with a servant. No, whoever does this bit of detective work has to delve beyond whatever sketchy records Uncle George most likely keeps in his study. They have to have access to …”

Breaking off, Anastasia met Damen’s gaze, the obvious choice exploding in her mind like fireworks. “Me.” She gripped the lapels of Damen’s coat. “Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ve been so fixed on the fact that our answers lie at Medford Manor, that I overlooked the obvious—the place where records could more easily be hidden: Colby and Sons.”

A dark scowl blackened Damen’s face. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” She chewed her lip, her mind racing as she followed her idea through to completion. “But it’s the logical choice—the only choice. Damen, you yourself said that Uncle George’s sole source of income seems to be coming from the profits of Colby and Sons. Couple that with what we’ve just learned, and the fact that no one else has the key to his private office.” A smug smile.
“Yet,”
she amended. “All that’s about to change. I now own all Papa’s shares of Colby and Sons. It’s only natural that I show an interest in the running of our family business. I’ll tell Uncle George I want to visit the offices, to see the ledgers, the receipts, all the records of our recent profits. I’ll ask to meet our suppliers—
all
of them—one of which you and I know to be Mr. Lyman. Uncle George will have no choice but to comply. Not unless he wants me to discuss his lack of cooperation with Mr. Fenshaw.”