Andrea Kane (32 page)

The footsteps faded. Minutes later, Wells’s resumed, this time alone. He paused mere feet from where they stood, and pulled out his handkerchief. Folding it in two, he blew his nose loudly—once, twice—then continued on his way.

Despite the tension permeating her body, Anastasia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “I believe that was our signal,” she hissed.

Breanna nodded, her own lips twitching. “Let’s wait another minute, make sure we’ve given Wells enough time to get back to his post. If anything should go wrong, I don’t want him in trouble.”

“Agreed.”

They held their breath, counted slowly to sixty. Then, they tiptoed down the hall, rounding the corridor that led to George’s study.

Outside, they halted, ears pressed close to the tightly shut door.

“No, I don’t want a drink,” a muffled voice was refusing. “I want an answer to my question. What in God’s name possessed you to drag me here at six
A.M
.?”

“I know that voice,” Anastasia muttered. “I’ve heard it recently.”

“I dragged you here because I’ve thought up the solution to all our problems,” George was replying. “With a little work on both our parts, our circumstances will be better than ever in one week’s time.”

“How can that be? Just yesterday you told me that the entire shipment I supplied you with is lost, with no chance for recovery.”

“Bates,” Anastasia determined in a low voice. “The magistrate. That’s who Uncle George is talking to.”

“I know what I told you, Bates,” George confirmed with his next words. “But things have changed since then. Everything’s changed.”

“I don’t care. I’m finished worrying myself to sleep every night, finished praying I’ll have a job rather than a cell to go to in the morning. Whatever it is, Medford, count me out.”

Footsteps, as Bates veered away, marched toward the door.

The girls tensed, preparing to bolt.

“I can’t do that.” George’s icy statement halted the magistrate in his tracks. “And I wouldn’t suggest you walk out of this study. Because if you do, I’ll be forced to uncover records tying you to that final shipment, and all the others that preceded it.” A pause. “Ah, I see I have your attention. Does that mean you’ll be staying?”

“What choice do I have?” was the bitter response. “Tell me what you want of me. And it better not be another lot; I’ve exhausted my contacts.”

“No, no, this time I’ve got my own merchandise to provide. As luck would have it, only one girl is required, not an entire crop. And I’ve got the perfect one picked out.”

“Then why do you need me?” Bates sounded as puzzled as he did unnerved.

“Because this is going to take some creativity to pull off. And I need your cooperation to do that.” The clinking of a glass … no, a cup and saucer. George wasn’t drinking spirits, not this time. “As you know, I’ve recently ensured our friend Meade’s continuing services. We’ll need him for this particular assignment. He’ll be our captain. Lyman will supply the ship, and the falsified records as to its destination. And I’ll supply the passenger.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What false destination? And where do I come in?”

“I’m just getting to that part. Unfortunately, soon after leaving England for America—which, in answer to your question, is our false destination—our ship will encounter some turbulent seas. Sadly, our homesick passenger, who will be strolling on deck when the harsh seas strike, will topple overboard and drown, despite Meade’s frantic attempts to save her. Terribly upset, Meade will steer the ship back to London, bringing with him our passenger’s personal effects—personal effects I can easily supply. At which point you will declare her legally dead. And the sun will, once again, shine.”

“America.” A nervous cough. “Where will this ship really have gone?”

“To Paris, as usual. To deliver the merchandise to Rouge.”

“The merchandise. In other words, this girl isn’t really going to drown. She’s going to …” A long, uneasy pause—as if Bates had already guessed the answer to his question. “Who is it you’re sending to Paris?”

“Why, Bates. I’m surprised you have to ask.”

“My God, Medford. You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” A biting laugh. “I’ll get Henry’s inheritance, Rouge’s generous payment, and the perfect son-in-law from one swift, ingenious transaction. Who am I sending? Why, my niece, Anastasia, of course.”

A
LL THE COLOR DRAINED
from Anastasia’s face, as she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

Uncle George was selling women. And
she
was next.

“Oh my God,” she heard Breanna gasp. An instant later, distraught hands grasped her arms, and Breanna gave her a hard, insistent shake. “Stacie, come on. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to go—
now
.”

Anastasia turned her head, stared blankly at Breanna as shock continued to ripple through her.

Abruptly, her cousin’s words sank in and she sprang to life.

Gathering up her skirts so as not to make a sound, she slipped past Breanna to lead the way. They tiptoed halfway down the hall, then abandoned precautions and dashed the remaining distance to the stairway, tearing up the steps and down the corridor to Anastasia’s room.

Breanna shut the door firmly behind them, turning to gape at her cousin.

“Do you realize what’s been happening? Worse, what’s going to happen?” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I can’t believe what I just heard, what my father is capable of.”

Now that the shock of discovery was fading, Anastasia felt reason seep back into her brain. “Even I never suspected …” She sucked in her breath. “Women. The man is actually peddling women, selling them as possessions.” She shot her cousin a look of utter revulsion. “I shudder to think how many unsuspecting girls he’s done this to.”

“Obviously many. At least according to what Bates said.”

“Bates,” Anastasia echoed in disgust. “Well, he should certainly know. He’s been supplying them. It’s barbaric.” With an appalled shiver, she wrapped her arms about herself, as if to ward off her uncle’s vile intentions. “And lucrative,” she continued bitterly. “And, in my case, the perfect way to even a long-unsettled score.”

“Oh, Stacie.” Breanna looked as if she were going to be sick. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t you dare apologize. You and I have always known that all you and Uncle George share is blood. You’re
nothing
like him. And the onus of who he is, what he does—that’s his alone to bear.” Anastasia laced her fingers together, contemplating the current dilemma. “We could analyze this for hours, and we’d probably come up with all the missing details. Unfortunately, I seem to have run out of time. I suspect that Meade and his ship will be leaving soon—with me on it, if Uncle George has his way.”

“Well, he won’t.” Breanna dashed across the room, pulling out Anastasia’s bags and tugging her gowns from her wardrobe, one by one. “You’re leaving Medford Manor. Today. Right away.”

Anastasia frowned, stayed Breanna with her hand. “And do what—run away? I won’t do that. Nor will I leave you here alone with that monster.”

Breanna straightened, facing Anastasia, hands on hips, in that rare but unyielding stance she used when her mind was utterly made up. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have Wells— who is clearly more than a little suspicious of Father— and a houseful of servants, any of whom would come to my aid if need be. As for you, I think the more distance you put between yourself and Father, the safer you’ll be. Go to Mr. Fenshaw, ask him to put you up at a local inn …” She broke off, seeing the insightful spark that lit Anastasia’s eyes. “You have a plan,” she realized aloud. “What is it?”

“I need a quill and some paper.” Anastasia marched over to the desk, extracting both. “I’m going to write your father a note. Then, I’m going to help you pack my things. I’ll be gone within the hour.”

“A note? Saying what?”

“That I’m off to supervise the opening of my new bank.”

Breanna started. “In Philadelphia?”

“Exactly.” A hint of a smile. “Every new business needs overseeing in order to ensure a smooth onset. And if
I
know that, your father will, too. Actually,” she added thoughtfully, beginning to write, “I have him to thank for my plan. After all, it was he who first came up with the idea that I should return to America—
allegedly.
”

“Allegedly.” Brows drawn, Breanna studied her cousin’s face. “So you won’t really be leaving England.”

“No. Definitely not.” Anastasia tossed her cousin a sideways look. “Did you actually think I’d leave you, leave all Grandfather wanted for us—especially now, when everything is about to explode in our faces?”

“Truthfully? No.” A quizzical glance. “Where do you intend to go—or need I ask?”

“I doubt you need to ask. But I’ll answer anyway. I’m going to Damen.”

“So I assumed.” Breanna peered over her cousin’s shoulder, read her words. “Ah, you’re telling Father that you’re traveling to Philadelphia at Damen’s request. That sounds believable. After all, half that investment money is his.”

“Exactly.” Anastasia paused, frowning. “I’ll have to reach Damen right away, not only so he can make provisions to hide me, but so he’ll know what I’ve told Uncle George and can play along.”

“So you’re going straight to the bank.”

A hard shake of the head. “That would be too easy for Uncle George to trace, in the event he decides to verify my story. He could simply ask his driver, who’d say he drove me to the House of Lockewood. And why would I be going there if I’m leaving the country? No, I’ll send Damen a note, asking him to meet me at the docks. I’ll have Uncle George’s driver deliver me there. That way, everything will appear legitimate.”

“Fine.
I’ll
find a way to get the message to Damen.”

“Oh, no you won’t. Getting you involved is the last thing we need. Wells will take care of it for me, quickly and discreetly. I’ll pen the note to Damen as soon as I’m finished writing the one to your father. I’ll give both notes to Wells as I leave the manor, ask him to dispatch Damen’s right away, then wait a bit before handing Uncle George his. Damen will be at the docks before I know it.”

“Not soon enough.” Breanna frowned. “Those docks aren’t safe.”

“It’s broad daylight. The warehouses will be swarming with activity.”

“They’ll also be swarming with lowlifes like that Meade person,” Breanna countered. “Face it, Stacie—you’re female, you’re pretty, and you’re alone.” She leaned forward, snatching up another sheet of paper and motioning for Anastasia to make room for her at the desk. “You finish the note to my father. I’ll write the message to Damen. Then, I’ll give it to Wells while you pack the rest of your things. Wells will make sure the letter is on its way to London before you climb into that carnage. With any luck, Damen will be waiting for you when you get to the docks.”

Reluctantly, Anastasia nodded. “You’re right.” She hesitated a minute, chewing her lip as she studied her cousin, contemplated Breanna’s status in all this. “You
did
fetch that pistol from the library, didn’t you?”

Breanna nodded, pivoting slowly to meet her cousin’s gaze. “It’s in my nightstand.”

“Good. Keep it close by at all times.”

“Stacie…”

Anastasia waved away whatever protest Breanna was about to make. “Your father is unstable. He must be, to actually sell women for profit. We don’t know how he’ll react to my bolting like this. He might panic at the thought of losing out on his profit, or explode at the realization that I’ve eluded his sick attempt at revenge. In either case, he’ll probably vent his emotion at you or, if he decides to try to stop me from leaving, he might try forcing you to tell him details of my departure—details you’re going to claim not to know. I’m not sure what tactic he’ll take. But, servants or not, you must keep up your guard. Promise me.”

“All right. I promise.” Breanna swallowed. “How will I contact you? How will I know you’re all right? When will I see you?”

Anastasia squeezed her hand. “Damen is courting you, remember? He’ll be sure to take you for many carriage rides. Well, I’ll be the destination of those rides.” Her jaw set. “It will be a matter of days, Breanna, not weeks. With what we overheard in that study, I have more than enough incriminating information to pass along to Damen. He’ll use it to dig up whatever evidence we need.” A frustrated sigh. “If we only had that evidence now, I’d go straight to the authorities, rather than dropping out of sight. But all we have is a conversation we’d attest to having heard. Your father would, of course, deny everything.”

Pondering her own words, Anastasia gave an ironic laugh. “Not only would he deny everything, he’d probably arrange for his friend Bates to hear our charges. And we both know how that would turn out. Uncle George would walk out of that courtroom a free man, and you and I would bear the brunt of his rage. No, when we confront your father, I want to be sure we have all the evidence we need to send him to Newgate for a long, long time.”

“I agree.” Breanna dipped her quill into the inkwell, gesturing for Anastasia to do the same. “And speaking of time, let’s not waste it. You have to leave Medford Manor—before it’s too late.”

Damen’s carriage sped to a stop.

Leaping out, he stalked down to the wharf, peering between the masts of ships and rows of warehouses, pushing his way through the crowds of workers and searching for Anastasia.

Where the hell was she?

What was going on?

Why did she have to meet him here, now, without a single word of explanation?

And why had the note he received been written by Breanna rather than by Anastasia herself? What in the name of heaven had happened?

“Damen.”

As if in answer to his fears, Anastasia called out to him, her voice shaky, barely audible above the surrounding din.

But Damen heard it.

He swerved, watching as she stepped out of a warehouse doorway and beckoned to him, her cheeks flushed, her entire body sagging with relief as he strode to her side. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Stacie.” His own relief was absolute, and he gathered her against him, savoring the sheer joy of holding her, knowing she was safe. “Are you all right?”