Andrea Kane (42 page)

“I appreciate that,” Breanna replied, nodding her understanding. Wells had freed himself of having to man the entranceway door by claiming to be ill. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be available to her, if her father lost control. “I’ll be fine,” she said, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze, then shooing him toward the door. “Go. Get some rest. That way, you’ll be yourself again in no time.”

Waiting only till Wells had gone, Breanna retreated into her chambers, tugging the napkin off the tray and nearly laughing aloud as she viewed her “refreshment.” A shoddy pair of breeches, a threadbare shirt, some scuffed but serviceable boots and—ah, bless Wells’s keen mind—a cap.

Breanna gathered up the clothes, tucked them away in her wardrobe. Then, with a thoughtful glance at her nightstand, she reminded herself of the one other article she’d need to bring with her.

Her pistol.

Given the risk involved in tonight’s excursion, the full extent of which she didn’t dare ponder, a little protection was in order. Because if her identity were discovered, she’d need that protection—not only from her father, whose wrath would be too fierce to imagine, but from his informant, with whom she was doubtless acquainted and could therefore identify, and from any riffraff who became unruly once they realized she was a woman.

In short, discovery was unthinkable. But, should it occur, the pistol was necessary.

As for now, her father had asked to see her. Well, that came as no great surprise. By now, Wells had doubtless told him that Damen had been at Medford Manor during his absence, which would make him frantic to find out what Damen knew of Stacie’s whereabouts.

And what he knew of her father s guilt.

Bitterness surged through Breanna’s veins.
Very well, Father. I’ll come to your study. I’ll play this cat and mouse game with you. But if you think you’ll learn one wretched thing from me, you’re wrong. Even I can’t be browbeaten into helping you, not when it’s lives you plan to sacrifice. Innocent lives—including Stacie’s. No, not this time. This time you’re going to get what you deserve.

G
EORGE SWORE UNDER HIS
breath, examining each worthless letter that had been delivered today, then slapping them onto his desk. All trivial invitations and foolish announcements. Not one of them pertinent to the dilemma he now faced.

He
had
to find Anastasia.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he dropped into his chair, contemplating today’s latest development.

Sheldrake had been here. He’d spent hours alone with Breanna. Why? Certainly not to woo her. That he knew, thanks to the information he’d received from his reliable contact. Then why? Did Sheldrake know where Anastasia was? Had he come to tell Breanna? Or was he corroborating Anastasia’s story that it was he who’d sent her to America?

Tonight’s meeting should yield some answers with regard to Sheldrake’s involvement, not only in Anastasia’s disappearance, but in whatever incriminating search she’d undertaken.

Perhaps, in the meantime, he could acquire a few of those answers from his daughter.

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the study door.

“Yes?” he responded impatiently.

“You wanted to see me, Father?” Breanna called back.

George rose, crossing over and unlocking the door. He gestured at his daughter, who was hovering on the threshold, eyeing him warily. “Come in.” He stood aside, waiting for her to comply.

She took a few tentative steps into the room, then halted.

“Stop staring at me as if you expect me to whip you,” George ordered.

“Do you?”

George drew a slow, calming breath. “No.” He shut the door, but refrained from locking it. “There. This is a private conversation, or I’d leave the door ajar. But the bolt isn’t thrown. You can escape any time you fear for your safety.” He paused, giving her a pointed glare. “Or did you bring your pistol as protection?”

“My pistol is in my drawer.” Breanna interlaced her fingers in front of her. “I told you, I don’t intend to walk around the manor armed.”

“Ah. You’ll just shout for the servants if need be, accuse me of thrashing you within an inch of your life.” George walked across the room, stood before his desk, and leaned back against it. “Well, don’t worry. I want only to talk.”

Breanna’s delicate brows rose. “About what—Stacie?”

“No, about Lord Sheldrake. He did visit you today, didn’t he?”

“You must know he did. Just as you must know we went for a carriage ride.”

Indeed I do. George folded his arms across his chest, watching Breanna’s face. “And tell me, how is your courtship progressing? I did advise you to encourage the marquess as much as possible, if you remember.”

“I remember.” Breanna never averted her gaze. “But, as I tried to tell you last time, no one can force feelings. Lord Sheldrake isn’t in love with me. Nor, to be honest, am I in love with him. He’s a fine man. But he’s not destined to become my husband.” A small smile played about her lips. “However, I do suspect he’ll be a member of our family, nonetheless.”

George’s brows shot up. He’d expected to catch Breanna in a lie. Dammit, was she actually going to tell him the truth? “What does that mean?” he asked carefully.

“It means that Lord Sheldrake and Stacie are in love. I expect they’ll be getting married. Whenever Stacie gets home, that is.”

“I see.” George’s fingers dug into his sleeves, anger surging through him in wide, hammering waves. What kind of game was Breanna playing, admitting something she knew would enrage him? Was she testing him to see if he’d strike her?

He wouldn’t. Furious or not, he’d keep this to a battle of words.

“Your cousin and Sheldrake,” he said icily. “Interesting. Tell me, when did they become so enamored with each other?”

“Over the course of their business meetings, I suppose. I really don’t know the details. Stacie hadn’t time to divulge them to me before she left.”

“If she and Sheldrake are so smitten with each other, why did she leave him and make this trip to the States?”

Breanna sighed. “We already discussed this, Father. I told you: Lord Sheldrake felt Stacie would be the right one to protect their interests in that new banking venture. Frankly, I think Stacie agreed. She’s as leery as the marquess is about trusting others with their investments.”

George leaned forward, scowling at Breanna. “Why didn’t Sheldrake go himself?”

“I couldn’t say. Probably because he’s a busy man. He has dozens of clients who count on him.”

“Yet he found time to see you.”

“He came to see you, Father. But you weren’t home.”

“So he took you on a lengthy carriage ride?”

A grateful nod. “He’s a very compassionate man. He guessed how much I miss Stacie, and tried to take my mind off it. Now that I’ve stopped trying to win his affections, I feel far more relaxed around him.”

Good,
George thought silently.
Then you’ll slip easily into the role of the Marchioness of Sheldrake once I’ve rid myself of your cousin.
Aloud, he asked, “What did you and Sheldrake discuss during your ride?”

Breanna shrugged offhandedly. “Nothing special: Stacie. You.”

George’s insides clenched. “Me? How did I factor into this conversation?”

The slightest hesitation. “To be frank, Lord Sheldrake is relieved that Stacie will be of age when she returns to England. He didn’t want to offend you by whisking her off to Gretna Green, but he is determined to wed her. Now you’ll have several months to accustom yourself to the idea of their marriage and, upon Stacie’s return, it will no longer be an issue. She’ll be twenty-one and she and Lord Sheldrake can have the normal church wedding she wants so much, along with the presence and the blessings of those they love.”

Over my dead body,
George thought bitterly.
It’s
you
who will be Sheldrake’s bride. He’ll get over Anastasia, learn to live with the closest substitute. Just as I did. And I’ll get my respectability back, along with Henry’s inheritance, and all the benefits of Sheldrake’s wealth and acclaim.

“Father?”

George blinked, refocused on Breanna. “What?”

“Was there anything else you wanted?”

Swiftly, he gathered his thoughts. “Sheldrake—did he say when Anastasia would be returning?” A pointed pause. “From the States, that is.”

If Breanna felt flustered by the question, she didn’t show it. “She’ll leave the minute the bank is open and running smoothly. She’ll be back before the holidays. After all, she won’t want to be away for
too
many months. She has so many exciting announcements to make, so many life-altering events to look forward to—not only her wedding, but beyond.”

A hard knot of dread gripped George’s gut. “Beyond?” he echoed, unable to keep the strain out of his tone. “What kind of events are you referring to?”

Breanna met his gaze, her expression unreadable. “Fate is a miraculous thing, Father, whether or not you believe it. It takes a hand in putting the right people together, and seeing that the right people get what they deserve.”

George could hear the thundering of his own heart. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Mean?” Breanna’s brows drew together, but there was an odd glint in her eyes. “It was a philosophical statement. I don’t think it requires further explanation.”

The rage was beginning to take over. George could feel it. “I’ll ask you again,” he said, unconsciously pushing away from his desk, taking a step toward Breanna. “What life-altering events are you referring to? And who is it you expect to get what he deserves?”

Like prey being cornered by a hunter, Breanna tensed, swiftly assessing her father’s approach, the controlled violence of his motions. She reacted instantly, reaching behind her to twist open the door handle. “I’m going to my room,” she pronounced. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

“Not before you answer my question.” In three strides, George was beside her, slamming his palm against the door and holding it shut, his eyes blazing as he glared down at his daughter. “What events? And what
deserving
people?”

Although Breanna was clearly unnerved by the vehemence of his response, she didn’t cower, nor did she evade the question. “Stacie’s beginning a new life with a new husband here in England, the country she loves but spent ten years away from. If those aren’t life-altering events, I don’t know what is. I realize you don’t feel about her as I do, but I happen to think Stacie is wonderful. She and Lord Sheldrake deserve a long and happy future together.” Breanna drew a slow, shaky breath. “Now please take your arm away and let me pass. I’d like to go upstairs and rest.”

“In a minute,” George ground out from between clenched teeth. He grabbed her arm, his stare probing hers with seething intensity. “And don’t bother shouting for the servants. I don’t intend to thrash you—not this time. But I
do
intend to get an answer. You say you were referring to your cousin’s future, her right to be happy. Let’s say I accept that. But I
don’t
accept that ludicrous explanation about your comment regarding fate.” His grip tightened. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“Nothing.” Breanna shook herself free, wearing that same determined look she’d worn when she aimed her pistol at him. “You know everything I do, and you have for far longer than I. But knowing and accepting are two different things.”

“Knowing and accepting what?” George shouted, abandoning his last filaments of control.

“Just what I said.” Breanna raised her chin, twin spots of color staining her cheeks. “That the right people belong together. Like Stacie and Lord Sheldrake.” A pointed pause. “And Uncle Henry and Aunt Anne.”

George went rigid, his air expelling in a hiss. Anne? What did his daughter know about Anne?

“I might have been a child, but even I could see how much in love she and Uncle Henry were,” Breanna supplied. “Your bitterness was wasted. Aunt Anne cared only for her husband, just as Lord Sheldrake cares only for Stacie.” An astute look. “Or is that repetition of history exactly what’s bothering you so much?”

Fury exploded in George’s skull.

“And
I’m
getting what I deserve?” he bellowed, grabbing Breanna’s shoulders, shaking her violently, his fingers biting into her flesh until she whimpered.
“I’m getting what I deserve?”
He flung her away from him, knowing that in another minute, he’d beat her so viciously, he’d ensure his own undoing. “Get out of here!” he thundered, wrenching open the door and shoving Breanna halfway across the hall. “Get out of my sight!”

He slammed the door in her wake, his entire body shaking with the force of his rage. That little bitch Anastasia had actually told the entire story to Breanna. It’s the only way his daughter could have found out. Which meant that Anne, the faithless trollop, had confided the whole history of their lives to the child she should have had with him, but had given Henry instead.

Muttering an oath, George crossed over and sloshed a drink into his goblet. On the verge of tossing it down in a few hard gulps, he slammed it onto the sideboard and thrust it away.
No,
he ordered himself, eyeing his trembling hands.
I’m already out of control. I can’t compound it by getting drunk.

He gripped the edge of the sideboard, determined to stay, if not rational, then sober—sober enough to ponder all Breanna had just said.

And all she hadn’t said.

Had she really told him all she knew? Or had that allusion to his getting what he deserved encompassed more than just her assessment of his bitterness, his solitary life? Had Anastasia confided in her cousin, told her she was close to exposing him as a culprit, a thief—or worse? Had she told her about Bates’s visit to his office, wondered what urgent business a magistrate might have with Colby and Sons? Had she found something suspicious in his files—something she couldn’t yet prove? Had she noticed anything out of the ordinary about his bills from Lyman and the few other shippers he had special financial arrangements with? Was it even worse than that? Had she actually managed to fit together enough pieces to deduce what was
really
being transported to the Continent?