Andrea Kane (27 page)

His wishes went unheeded.

A second knock sounded, this time more firmly.

“What is it?” he barked, carefully replacing the portrait and rearranging the drawer before sliding it shut.

The study door opened and a young woman who was either Breanna or Anastasia stepped inside. The girl’s hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her bold gaze flickered from the near-empty goblet to the neatly stacked desk to George’s bloodshot eyes, blatant disapproval registering in her own.

Anastasia.

“What do you want?” George snarled.

“I need to speak with you, Uncle George.”

“Not tonight.” He waved her away, fuming at the intrusion. The last thing he wanted to deal with tonight was this outspoken bitch—a bitch who was the living embodiment of Anne’s betrayal. “I’m too tired. Whatever it is can wait.”

“No, it can’t.” Anastasia walked toward him, her unwavering stare meeting his head-on. “Uncle George, it occurs to me that I’m neglecting my role as Papa’s heir. I’ve been so caught up with my own coming-out party and my reunion with Breanna, that I’ve completely overlooked my responsibility to Colby and Sons.”

George went rigid. “What are you talking about?”

“Our company. I own half of it now. In America, Papa spent long years teaching me about the family business. He’d want me to continue with my education, to share with you the full responsibility of running Colby and Sons. I intend to do that. Starting tomorrow.”

Bile rose in George’s throat, and he quickly washed it down with another gulp of brandy. “I must be misunderstanding you.”

“I don’t think so,” she countered brightly. “What I’ve planned is to visit our London offices tomorrow. I’ll go through our current list of business associates, our suppliers, our contacts throughout the Continent. I’m sure most of those names will be familiar to me—after all, we dealt with them from our American offices, too.” She inclined her head quizzically. “Would you like to join me? Or shall I just take the plunge on my own?”

George felt as if his head was about to split in two. How dare this impertinent little bitch walk in here and announce that she was assuming a role in his company? How dare she presume she had the right?

His knuckles whitened around the periphery of his glass.

The trouble was, she
did
have the right.

“Uncle George?” she pressed. “Shall I tell Wells that I’ll be traveling to London alone, or …”

“No,” he ground out, fighting the vise of panic that gripped him at the thought of Anastasia having access to his doctored receipts, his veiled correspondence.
Stop it,
he commanded himself.
She’ll never see through it—not if you don’t condemn yourself by acting guilty.
“I’ll go with you,” he continued, in as calm a voice as he could muster. “I’ll show you around the office. I’ll ask my carriage driver to wait, so you can run along home immediately thereafter.”

“Oh, I don’t want to run along,” Anastasia declined with a reassuring smile. “I want to stay—to read through the ledgers, the ongoing contracts, everything.” Her smile faded, and she gave him an apologetic look. “I know you find the prospect of a woman in business outrageous. But I think you’ll be surprised to see how quick my mind actually is. I suppose I take after Papa. I find the import-export business fascinating.” With that, she glanced at her uncle’s half-empty brandy bottle, and backed away. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. You mentioned you were tired. And I, too, had best get a good night’s rest. I want to be especially alert tomorrow.”

George stared after her as she left, watching blindly as the door shut in her wake. A fury like he’d never known surged inside him, pulsed through his veins. Violently, he seized his bottle of brandy, hurling it at the now-closed door, staring at the dark splotches of color that splattered the walls, stained the carpet.

If only it was Anastasia he’d shattered, her blood he’d spilled. Then maybe retribution could blot out adversity.

It was just past dawn when Breanna knocked on her cousin’s bedchamber door.

“Stacie, are you awake?”

Anastasia opened the door, a surprised expression crossing her face. “Awake and dressed,” she assured her cousin. “Is everything all right?”

“You tell me.” Breanna walked into the room, shutting the door and leaning back against it. “I tossed and turned all night. I couldn’t shake the feeling that you’re in some kind of trouble. Are you?”

Rubbing her palms together, Anastasia contemplated how to answer that. It didn’t surprise her that Breanna sensed her turmoil, not given the uncanny connection that existed between them. But what could she possibly say to ease her cousin’s mind?

“Don’t skirt the issue or try lying to me,” Breanna second-guessed her to warn. “You’re terrible at hedging and even worse at lying.”

A grin. “That certainly limits my options, now doesn’t it?” Her smile faded. “Breanna, I’m not trying to hide things from you. I’m only trying to protect you.”

“From my father,” Breanna concluded.

“
Yes.
From your father.”

A contemplative pause, during which time Breanna studied her cousin, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “But you
have
shared this dilemma of yours with someone. And I’d be willing to bet that someone is Damen Lockewood.”

“You’d be right.” This, at least, was something Anastasia could share with Breanna—something she was aching to share with her. “I’m in love with him,” she admitted, gauging her cousin’s reaction. “And what’s even more wonderful, he’s in love with me.”

Genuine joy erupted on Breanna’s face, and she rushed over, hugged Anastasia tightly. “I’m so happy for you— for you both.” She drew back, teasing laughter dancing in her eyes. “Of course,
I’ve
known this for weeks. I was wondering how long it would take the two of you to figure it out. You’re both so miserably stubborn.”

“You’re right.” Anastasia smiled. “But we finally declared our feelings aloud.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. At the House of Lockewood.”

That elicited an entirely different reaction, worry clouding Breanna’s face. “You didn’t mention to me that you were going to the bank.”

“The visit wasn’t planned.” Anastasia fell silent, torn between the attempt to protect her cousin and the realization that Breanna had a right to the truth—especially if that truth turned out to be a dangerous one. “Breanna, I overheard something yesterday, something terribly unnerving. I went to Damen for advice, and perhaps for help.”

“And that something involves Father.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what it is. I deserve to know.” Breanna’s jaw set as if to steel her for what was to come. “Even if I won’t like what I hear.”

“All right.” Anastasia sank down on the bed, relaying the entire conversation she’d overheard, ending with her talk with Damen and her subsequent decision to visit the offices of Colby and Sons. “If there’s anything incriminating to be found, I’m sure that’s where it will be. It’s the only place Uncle George would feel secure about leaving such records.”

“God.” Breanna sank down beside her cousin. “This is even worse than I suspected.” She massaged her temples, then abruptly stopped. Twisting about, she faced Anastasia. “But if my father is involved in something ugly, you could be endangering yourself by going there and trying to uncover evidence.”

“That was Damen’s argument. It didn’t deter me. Nor will it now.”

“Fine. Then I’m going with you.”

“No.” Anastasia leapt to her feet. “You’re not.”

“Stacie, he’s
my
father. You’re not putting yourself at risk alone.”

Anastasia gave a hard shake of her head. “Breanna, listen to me. I’m not trying to be heroic. I’m trying to find answers. Thus far, I’ve succeeded in arranging all this without arousing Uncle George’s suspicions. But if you suddenly appear by my side, insisting on learning a business you’ve never before expressed any interest in, all that will change. Your father’s not a stupid man.” Anastasia took Breanna’s hand in hers. “I have to do this alone—for all our sakes, to get at the truth as soon as possible. And if our worst suspicions are confirmed, if Uncle George is indeed dangerous …” A swallow. “Then he must be dealt with before he can harm anyone.”

“Anyone—meaning me.”

“Yes, meaning you.” Anastasia never diverted her gaze. “I asked you this once before, in a less than straightforward fashion. Now I’m asking you directly: does Uncle George strike you?”

“Strike me, yes. Beat me senseless, no. Do I sense an element of cruelty in him? Of course. But can I say I’ve ever feared for my safety? I … I don’t think so.”

“You’ve never given him reason to threaten your safety, or to become truly enraged, for that matter. But if you did, especially now, when he’s constantly drinking, when his humor is as black as night and his temper so short that everyone cringes the minute he enters the room …” Anastasia’s voice trailed off. “I can’t vouch for what he might do. Nor can I vouch for his stability. The bottom line is, he’s your father. That’s not something you can undo. You’re his responsibility until your twenty-first birthday. I can sever ties with him if need be. You can’t. And I won’t leave you here at his mercy.” A pause. “Can you shoot a pistol?”

Breanna sucked in her breath. “What?”

“Humor me. Can you shoot?”

A nod. “At targets and pigeons, yes. But not at people.” Breanna gave her cousin an incredulous look. “Do you honestly believe I’ll need to defend myself to that degree?”

“I don’t know what to believe. And I’m not thinking only of the possible danger Uncle George represents. If he’s involved in something illegal, who knows what type of people he consorts with? Or how many of those unsavory contacts won’t get paid—and, as a result, will become very agitated—because that shipment of Uncle George’s went down?” Anastasia counted off on her fingers. “There are those who supplied the illegal cargo, those who awaited its arrival, investors—the possibilities are too vast too contemplate. Will any of those lowlifes show up here to retaliate? I’m not going to speculate. But I have a very uneasy feeling about all this. And I’d feel better if you kept a pistol nearby, just in case.”

Breanna frowned, unable to dispute her cousin’s reasoning. “Very well. As I recall, Father keeps an extra pistol in the library, to have on hand in case of a burglary. Since he never uses it, he wouldn’t notice if it were to disappear, at least not for a few days. I’ll go downstairs and get it after you and he leave for the office. I’ll hide it in my bureau drawer.” Her frown deepened. “What about you? How will you protect yourself?”

“If I sense anything out of the ordinary today, I’ll slip off and go straight to the House of Lockewood. If need be, I’ll borrow a pistol from Damen. But Uncle George wouldn’t dare harm me in public—especially not once I casually mention that I informed Damen during yesterday’s meeting that I’d be going to Colby and Sons today.”

“I see your point. My father would never want to tarnish his image—not in the eyes of Lord Sheldrake.” Breanna captured both Anastasia’s hands, squeezed them tightly. “Please. Be careful. And try not to act too cheeky. Things will go much better with Father if you don’t challenge his opinions or his authority.”

A rueful smile tugged at Anastasia’s lips. “I hear the message you’re giving me loud and clear. I promise to do my best to keep my place and not antagonize Uncle George.”

That promise wasn’t going to be easy to keep, she fumed silently, after traipsing along behind her uncle for an hour, exploring the wonders of the outer office at Colby and Sons. The sum total of the room was a desk, occupied by their mild-mannered clerk Mr. Roberts, a row of chairs and a file cabinet against one wall and, against the wall adjacent to George’s private offices, a settee and two end tables, before which rested a long, rectangular table. Not a sheet of paper lay exposed upon the desk or any of the tables, nor was there visible evidence of any other business-oriented material.

Did her uncle actually think she’d be content with this inane tour and then run along home like a good little girl?

If so, he had quite a surprise in store.

She’d begin with the obvious file cabinet.

“Uncle George, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to start familiarizing myself with the company.” She gestured toward the cabinet. “What if I begin by glancing through the files so I can acquaint myself with our current transactions, as well as the names of those suppliers we deal with most frequently.”

Her uncle bristled and Mr. Roberts’s head shot up as he awaited his employer’s reply.

“Fine,” George bit out, practically choking on his words. “I have some papers to sort through in my office.” He turned to his clerk. “Roberts, give Lady Anastasia whatever she needs.”

“Certainly, my lord.” The poor little man whipped off his spectacles, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust before shoving the spectacles back on his nose and rising to his feet. “Why don’t you have a seat, my lady? I’ll bring the files to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Roberts. That would be very kind.” Anastasia settled herself on the settee. Surreptitiously, she peeked at her uncle from the corner of her eye, watching him approach his private office, then extract a key from his pocket, which he used to unlock the door. That done, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It took all her self-restraint not to dash in after him.

Leaning forward, she peered around the open doorway and caught a glimpse of a tidy room with a walnut desk and sideboard. Ledgers were neatly stacked on the far left-hand corner of the desk alongside a tray of papers— correspondence, perhaps—and what looked to be an appointment book. The sideboard was uncluttered, although she’d bet her last pound that it was stocked with liquor.

She was dying to go through those ledgers and that appointment book. But she’d have to wait, bide her time, until she could find the means to get in.

The door slammed shut.

Sighing, Anastasia resettled herself on the settee, awaiting Mr. Roberts, who was gathering files for her from the cabinet. Instinct told her she’d find nothing incriminating in what she was about to be given. Whatever her uncle was involved in, he certainly wouldn’t want Roberts having access to those records. Still, she had to be sure. She also had to start somewhere.