Andrea Kane (26 page)

Damen’s jaw had dropped, a look of disbelief slashing his features. “You must be joking. Do you honestly believe your uncle would willingly, and without suspicion, share the details of his business operations with you?”

“It’s not
his
business. It’s our family’s. He won’t have a choice. And, knowing me as he does, he won’t suspect anything but that I’m being my usual audacious, bluestocking self. It would never occur to him that I’m actually searching for something incriminating, nor that I’m clever enough to find it. I am a woman, after all.” She shot Damen an impish grin. “I assume you noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed, all right.” Damen’s scowl deepened. “I also noticed you’re reckless and over-confident. What you’re planning—it could be incredibly dangerous.”

“Or incredibly informative.” Anastasia’s resolve was strengthening more with each passing instant. “Damen, my uncle is bitter and greedy. As we’ve just learned, he’s also unlawful. My worry is that he’s dangerous, as well. Any man who would do what he’s doing, speak as he spoke …” A distasteful shudder. “My concern is Breanna.”

“It should also be you.” Damen dragged her against him, tucking her head beneath his chin and stroking the tumbled waves of her hair. “Stacie, if your uncle is the criminal we suspect, you represent a major obstacle in his path. If he should suspect…”

“He won’t.” Anastasia drew back, offered Damen an appealing look. “Give me a few days. That’s all I ask. Let me poke around the offices at Colby and Sons. If I don’t stumble on anything, or if I sense I’m walking into any sort of danger, I’ll stop. You have my word. I’ll come straight to you, and we’ll think up another tactic. Agreed?”

“Two days,” Damen clarified. “Beginning tomorrow. And at the end of each of those two days, I’ll be riding to Medford Manor for dinner. To call on Breanna,” he added with a meaningful look. “She and I will take two very long walks on those nights. After which, we’ll determine our next step.
Now
are we agreed?”

Something warm and wonderful unfurled in Anastasia’s chest. “Yes,” she murmured, reaching up to kiss his chin. “Agreed.”

Damen tugged back her head, lifted her face to his for a profound, lingering kiss. “You and I have things to discuss,” he muttered against her lips. “You know that, don’t you?”

She nodded, not daring to allow herself the sheer joy of contemplating what those things might be.

“We’ve put off this conversation far longer than I care to contemplate—
weeks
longer.” He drew back, threaded his fingers through her hair. “But no more. These feelings between us—feelings that started that first day in Fenshaw’s office and have intensified every moment since— they’re very real. Very real and
very
permanent. And the instant this dilemma with your uncle is resolved …”

“Yes. That instant.” Anastasia pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing his declaration. “But until then …” She shivered, her eyes sliding shut as Damen drew her fingers into his mouth, caressed them with his tongue.

“Until then?” he prompted.

“Oh, Damen, I’m falling in love with you,” she confessed breathlessly. “Surely you know that.”

He pulled her against him, covered her mouth with his. “Yes, I know that,” he murmured huskily. “But I had to hear it. Because I’m so in love with you I can hardly think.”

He sealed his vow with a kiss that both cherished and consumed her, wrapped itself around her heart with a force that nearly made her legs give out.

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting their precious moments of discovery, and Damen gave a disgusted grunt deep in his throat. “We could ignore it,” he said, his voice rumbling against her lips as he continued to kiss her.

“We could.” Anastasia sighed. “But we’d only arouse suspicions. And that’s the last thing we want.”

“Is it?”

Their gazes met—and held.

“A few days, Damen,” she said in a pleading whisper. “Just to ensure Breanna’s safety. Remember, I can challenge Uncle George’s guardianship any time I please, request that Mr. Fenshaw find a more appropriate person to oversee my well-being. But Breanna doesn’t have that option. She’s completely at his mercy. Please—a few days is all I ask.”

“A few days,” Damen agreed. “No more. After that, I’ll break into Colby and Sons myself if I have to, find the bloody evidence we need to put your uncle in prison. And once Breanna is safe, nothing is going to stop me from making you mine. Nothing, Anastasia.”

Another knock.

Muttering a curse, Damen walked over and turned the key, flinging the door open to admit a startled Cunnings. “What can I do for you?”

One of Cunnings’s dark brows arched. “Have I interrupted something?”

Damen pivoted, stalking over to his desk. “I’m trying to review some details with Lady Anastasia. Which I can’t do if I’m interrupted.” His head came up, and he met Cunnings’s curious gaze. “I repeat, what can I do for you?”

Cunnings took a few tentative steps into the office. “I just wanted to see if Lord Crompton’s portfolio was in here. He seems to have misplaced it.”

“Here it is, Cunnings.” Booth stood in the doorway, waving the portfolio in the air. “Evidently, Crompton left it in the waiting area. Graff retrieved it and brought it directly to your office.”

“Ah. Good.” Cunnings smiled, heading for the door and pausing only to shoot Damen an odd look. “I apologize for interrupting your meeting. Lady Anastasia …” He bowed. “Good day.” His heels echoed down the corridor.

Booth hovered in the doorway for a minute, staring at Anastasia as if she were a priceless painting.

“Yes, Booth?” Damen prompted.

“H-m-m? Oh, nothing, sir. If you’ll excuse me …” One last reverent glance, and he left, shutting the door behind him.

“That man makes me very uncomfortable,” Anastasia declared. “He gapes at me as if I were a valuable jewel of some kind.”

“You are.” Damen’s tone was fervent.

“Thank you.” Anastasia smiled. “Coming from you, that’s a lovely compliment. Mr. Booth, however, is another story entirely. He’s not my suitor, Damen, he’s your employee. And he ogles me every time I walk through those doors.”

“It’s not ogling, it’s admiration. He does the same to Breanna.” Damen shrugged carelessly. “Booth is a shy man who doesn’t spend much time with women. My guess is he’s lonely. But he’s harmless, believe me.”

“If you say so.” She sounded dubious.

“I do.” Damen walked over, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

A faint smile. “No, you’ll see Breanna.”

“Everyone else might see Breanna. I see you.”

Anastasia leaned reflexively closer, half-wishing she could just fling herself into Damen’s arms and let the rest of the world take care of itself.

“Two days,” he reiterated quietly, as if reading her mind. “Two risky days in which I’ll probably worry myself sick. After that, we’re taking whatever steps are necessary to bring down your uncle and end this ridiculous charade.”

Today had been a nightmare, George reflected bleakly. Hovering inside the dingy pub, he peered about through bloodshot eyes, trying to clear his muddled brain. The room swam around him, and he wobbled a bit, then glared at the buxom barmaid who shot him a curious look.
Cast your wretched gaze in a different direction,
his icy stare seemed to command.

That did the trick.

She hurried off, and George leaned against a pillar so as not to make the same mistake again. The last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe nothing mattered anymore.

Brushing droplets of rain off his coat, he blinked, trying to focus on the rear of the tavern where his contact doubtless awaited him. He was rankled that he’d been summoned in the first place—today of all days. After Lyman’s devastating news and all the havoc it prophesied, he had enough to contend with without traveling to this filthy hovel for yet another meeting.

He’d spent the entire afternoon and evening closeted in his study, buried in his brandy as he desperately tried to conjure up a solution to his crumpling life. Rouge wouldn’t be assuaged or bullied, not this time. No, this time all George could expect was fury, condemnation, and a complete severing of business ties between himself and his Paris buyer. And then what would he do? How would he find another interested party? He couldn’t exactly advertise for one in the newspaper. Further, how would he recoup his staggering losses? He’d invested nearly every last pence in this final shipment—a shipment whose exceptional quality Rouge would never see, nor believe existed.

Perhaps that’s what this late-night meeting was about, he thought with a surge of panic. Perhaps Rouge had already sent him a message terminating their association, and he was about to receive it. But no, he decided, commanding his frayed nerves to quiet. His contact never accepted or delivered messages in person. He hired a courier to do that, for the obvious purpose of protecting his own identity.

Then what the hell was tonight about?

The note had said it was important.

What could possibly be important when his entire life was falling apart?

Damn Meade. Damn the storm. And damn the fates for once again shattering his life.

The fates—and Anne. Nothing had been right since she betrayed him.

Squelching that unwelcome thought, he straightened, sharpening his search of the darkened pub.

From the far corner, a telltale flicker of light caught his eye, and he strode toward it.

“I’m not in good humor,” he bit out, dragging out his chair and dropping heavily into it. “So make this brief.”

“Fine.” His contact lit his customary cheroot, assessing George curiously as he blew out a ring of smoke. “Are you all right?”

“I didn’t hire you to inquire about my health,” George snapped back. “Just tell me why the hell you needed to see me so I can go home.”

An offhanded shrug. “Very well. I thought you should know that your niece was at the House of Lockewood today. It was a most unexpected visit.”

“That’s
what you dragged me out here for—to talk about my wretched niece?” George shoved back his chair, ready to stagger to his feet and leave. “The only good news you could give me about Anastasia is that she’d been struck by a carriage and killed.”

“I was under the impression you wanted me to keep an eye on her, at least with regard to Sheldrake.”

“I did.” George gave a dismissive wave. “But a visit to the bank hardly constitutes a tryst. Besides, I already knew about her little excursion. My butler gave me the message right after she left Medford Manor. He said Sheldrake sent for her about some nonsensical matter. I think he needed to review some details of that contemptible venture of theirs.”

“Did he?” Another slow draw of the cheroot. “That’s not the way it seemed to me. To me, it seemed like Sheldrake was as surprised by Lady Anastasia s visit as I was—and even more pleased than he was surprised.”

George went still. “You’re saying this visit wasn’t at Sheldrake’s initiation?”

“It certainly didn’t look that way. What’s more, they were in his office for nearly an hour, with the door locked. After which, their physical appearance was … shall we say, distinctly mussed.”

“Mussed.” George scowled. “You’re crazy. Sheldrake’s been at the manor three or four times a week, hovering at Breanna’s side like a hawk circling its prey. There’s nothing between him and my niece. He scarcely acknowledges her, except for some polite conversation over dinner.”

“Whatever you say. But when that office door opened it didn’t look to me as if he and Lady Anastasia had been discussing business of any kind. Sheldrake was brusque and out of sorts, while your niece’s hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed …”

George gave a derisive laugh. “Anastasia is perpetually disheveled. She has been since childhood. If looking rumpled was deemed grounds for punishment, she would have been thrown in prison long ago.” A pause. “Did you actually
see
the two of them in a compromising state?”

“No. As I said, the door was locked. And in public, well, in public they behave like business associates.”

“Then there you have it.” A worried frown creased George’s brow as a sudden, untenable thought struck. “This business meeting—Anastasia isn’t planning on squandering any more of Henry’s inheritance, is she?”

“I’ve seen no papers to indicate that. So far, it’s been only the American bank.”

“Good.” George felt only a minor surge of relief, the most current dilemma still weighing heavily on his mind. “And your courier’s brought you no messages for me from the Continent?”

“If so, you’d already have received them.”

“I suppose I would have.” A wave of futility swept over George. “It doesn’t matter. It’s inevitable anyway. Damned, bloody inevitable. All of it. Except Sheldrake. He’s my last hope. He—and whatever I can recover of my brother’s funds before that miserable bitch invests it all away.” George teetered to his feet. “In any case, this whole meeting’s been a waste of time. I’m going home for a brandy.”

The other man studied George thoughtfully, simultaneously grinding out his cheroot. “You can get a drink here.”

George eyed him as if he were insane. “I don’t drink the swill they serve in this place.” He buttoned his coat, missing the second buttonhole twice. “Good night.” He paused, blinking to make the room right itself, reflecting on what he’d just said. An inner voice penetrated his foggy state, warning him that he couldn’t afford to be too lax, too sure of himself, when it came to Sheldrake. Marrying the marquess off to Breanna might very well turn out to be his last hope, his last chance of survival.

“Whether or not you’re imagining things, I want you to continue as you were,” he instructed his contact. “Keep your eye on these meetings between my niece and Sheldrake. Make sure all they share is that bank. Because if it’s more …” Rage momentarily twisted his features. “Just make sure it’s not.”

G
EORGE’S LATE-NIGHT BRANDY
was just burning its way down to his stomach when a knock sounded on the study door.

He scowled, staring down at the miniature portrait of Anne and willing whoever was summoning him to go away.