Andrea Kane (43 page)

And what the hell had Breanna meant about the life-altering events Anastasia had to look forward to after her wedding? Oh, she’d explained it away nicely with that drivel about her cousin becoming a bride, starting a whole new life. But George sensed there was more—a lot more.

Icy fear prickled up his spine.

Could Lyman be right? Could Anastasia be with child? Could
that
have been what Breanna was alluding to? Had Anastasia divulged that to her, then sworn her to secrecy? Was his wretched niece giving Sheldrake a child? Is that why she’d run off, yet remained in England?

No. Dammit, no. If she was pregnant, she’d have gone straight to Sheldrake.

Maybe she had.

Not according to Breanna.

But Breanna wouldn’t admit such a truth—not if it meant betraying her cousin.

Still, Sheldrake was so bloody noble. If Anastasia had gone to him, told him she was carrying his child, it would have been Gretna Green he’d be driving to today, not Medford Manor.

So where did Damen Lockewood fit into all this? What did he know, about Anastasia, about the illegal activities going on at Colby and Sons? How involved in Anastasia’s investigation was he? And what life-altering results might have resulted from this liaison of theirs?

All the unanswered questions led back to Sheldrake. As did George’s future. Because the minute Anastasia showed up on the marquess’s doorstep, either with the news that she was carrying his child or with proof of her uncle’s guilt, George’s hopes, and his life, would be over.

Which meant one thing: He had to get to Anastasia before she got to Sheldrake.

And when he did …

When he did—what?

A better question would be
how, he berated himself.
How do I find her? How do I get rid of her when I do—especially if the time frame on Rouge’s requirement has elapsed?

George scowled at the sideboard, ran his forefinger around the rim of his goblet. He’d questioned dozens of people today: from Lyman, Bates, and Fenshaw, to a slew of innkeepers in both London and Kent, not a single one of whom had an Anastasia Colby—or any young woman matching her description—staying in their establishment. George had even gone into shops, into coffee houses, and made inquiries. Nothing. And, as of his last check with Lyman, made late in the day, not one of the shipping company owner’s contacts had turned up anything, nor had Anastasia’s name appeared on a single ship’s manifest.

The bloody chit had vanished into thin air.

Unless she was with Sheldrake.

According to the marquess’s conversation with Breanna, she wasn’t. Unless, of course, Breanna was lying. But she wouldn’t be that stupid. Not when she knew bloody well he’d confirm the story with Sheldrake the very next chance he got.

So, if Anastasia wasn’t with Sheldrake, where was she? Where had she disappeared to? And who was equipped to find her?

That question incited a flash of recall, and George’s mind darted to the conversation he’d had—the one about the professional assassin. Abruptly, he found himself considering the prospect.

A hired killer; one who’d hunt Anastasia down and end her miserable life.

It sounded more enticing by the minute—and more necessary.

Of course, it would mean forfeiting Rouge’s money, but that was a moot point anyway, since if Anastasia didn’t surface, there would be no fifty-thousand-pound compensation. Besides, perhaps a suitable substitute really could be found. He still had some time.

But not if Anastasia incriminated him.

Which she couldn’t if she were dead.

With her demise, the threat to his freedom would be gone, Henry’s inheritance would be his.

And hell, the bitch would be gone forever.

Wouldn’t that be divine justice, Anne,
George mused sardonically.
Destroying the one person you loved even more than you did Henry. Killing off Henry’s legacy, his sole heir. Marrying Breanna off to Sheldrake, and having the Colby name to myself. Savoring the sheer joy of knowing I do.

On that thought, George stalked over to his desk, dragging open the drawer and shoving everything aside until he found the miniature portrait. He glared down at Anne’s likeness, loathing her with every fiber of his being, wishing he had her in front of him, alive and well, just so he could choke her to death with his bare hands.

Savagely, he flung the portrait across the room, watched it strike the wall and topple to the carpet, not giving a damn that its clutter upset the room’s perfect sense of order. Fine. Anne was dead. Perhaps it was time he accepted it.

Perhaps it was also time for Anastasia to join her.

I
T WAS TEN MINUTES
past midnight.

Breanna shoved in her last hairpin, then tugged on the cap Wells had given her, relieved to see it was deep enough to cover all her hair, its brim reaching halfway down her forehead.

Excellent. She pivoted in front of the looking glass, grinning at the image she made. If someone didn’t plant himself directly before her, they’d think she was a scrawny but wholly realistic sailor or workman.

Mentally, she reviewed what was left to do.

Her bed.

She crossed over, rearranging the bedcovers and stuffing the pillows beneath it until it looked as if someone was not only there, but deeply asleep. That way, if her maid should check on her, all would seem normal.

With a satisfied nod, Breanna completed the final detail of her attire. She slid open the nightstand drawer and extracted the pistol, shoving it into the pocket of her coat. Now she was ready.

Twelve fifteen. Almost time.

She wandered about the room, running her fingertips over her porcelain figures and reflecting back over the cryptic war of words she’d had with her father—a war that had ended with him exploding in a manner so irrational that it made her wonder if he’d truly gone over the edge. The enmity in his eyes, the trembling fury in his voice, the frenzied way he’d thrown her out… Even now Breanna shuddered.

Maybe she’d pushed him too far. She’d sensed his surprise and his anger when she freely offered him information on Stacie and Damen’s feelings for each other. Clearly, he’d expected her to lie. Which also meant he had no recollection of what he’d blurted out yesterday while in a drunken rage—the reference to Stacie as Damen’s partner in bed. If he’d recalled saying it, he would have known why she’d called his bluff, given him the truth she already knew he possessed.

But the rest of what she’d said to him…

Breanna frowned, unconsciously picking up the figure of the two little girls, holding it tightly in her hands. She’d known she would provoke him with that reference to people getting what they deserve. But she hadn’t been able to restrain herself. It had been a stupid thing to say— she was fully aware that she’d made him suspicious of how much she knew. Nevertheless, she couldn’t regret it. She hated him for what he was doing, and in some small way, she needed him to know that.

However, his control had snapped when she mentioned fate putting the right people together. She hadn’t planned on telling him she knew about Aunt Anne; that had just slipped out in the heat of anger. Still, even she had never anticipated the intensity of his rage.

Well, it was too late now for regrets. She couldn’t retract her words even if she wanted to. Whatever her father believed, however furious he was, the damage was done, the die cast.

As for his reaction to her statement about life-altering events, obviously he was worried about how Stacie’s future would affect his. She’d be marrying Damen, joining her life with his …

Having his children.

Breanna’s head shot up, the realization accosting her. Of course.
That’s
what her father’s fears stemmed from. He knew Stacie and Damen were intimately involved. He was probably terrified that she was pregnant. In his mind, that would explain why she’d run off.

It would also explain his absolute determination to find her. To find her and rid himself of her—especially if she was also carrying a child he wanted gone, its conception undiscovered. She could almost imagine her father’s thoughts: If he shipped Anastasia off to Rouge quickly enough, he could pass this child off on another man and no one would ever be the wiser. But if he waited too long …

A surge of fear shot through Breanna. Her father’s panic was escalating. He stood to lose more and more with each passing day. Lord only knew what lengths he would go to to find Stacie and transport her to Rouge.

She had to stop him.

Biting her lip, Breanna replaced the porcelain figure on her bureau, pausing only long enough to caress the edge of the silver coin, which was gently nudged in its slot between the little girls and the flowers. “Help me, Grandfather,” she whispered aloud. “Help me find the strength to do what I must. And please—help Stacie.”

She turned away from her bureau, dashed away the moisture from her lashes.

Her glance fell on the dock.

Twelve twenty-five. Time to act.

Savoring the reassuring weight of the pistol in her coat and her grandfather’s presence in her heart, Breanna went to the door, eased it open.

The hallway was deserted.

She made her way to the landing, hiding in the alcove and listening for noises below—noises that would indicate her father’s departure.

Three minutes later, she heard them.

Quick, purposeful strides—her father’s—walked the length of the front hall to the entranceway. The door opened, then shut, its firm click echoing through the empty hallway.

Breanna counted to ten. Then, she scooted down the staircase and darted in the opposite direction, down the corridor that led to the manor’s side door, and the eastern portion of the drive.

She glanced into her father’s study as she ran by, shivering as she remembered the rage on his face when he’d shoved her out.

A shiny object near the threshold caught her eye.

Without the slightest notion why, Breanna stopped long enough to bend down and pick up the object. It turned out to be a small, ornate picture frame, one that housed a tiny portrait. The portrait was of a woman, one with delicate features, fair skin, and a cloud of honey brown hair.

At first glance, she thought it was her mother.

Instinct made her look more closely, and she realized her mistake in a flash.

It wasn’t her mother. It was Aunt Anne.

Trepidation gripped Breanna’s gut.

Her father had kept Aunt Anne’s portrait all these years. Clearly, he’d been consumed for decades by a woman he adamantly believed should have been his.

But what really frightened her was that he’d chosen tonight to destroy it, as if he’d finally banished Aunt Anne from his life.

Just as he intended to banish Stacie.

Time was running out.

Stuffing the miniature into her pocket, Breanna took off at a tear, bolting down the hall and bursting out the side door.

Wells and the phaeton were waiting. Panting, Breanna climbed into the passenger seat, adjusting her cap and peering around the drive.

Silently, Wells pointed, indicating that her father’s carriage was nearing the gates.

Breanna nodded.

They waited only until George’s phaeton had turned the corner, disappeared from view.

Then Wells slapped the reins.

Damen’s contacts were as good as their word.

By one
A.M
., they’d compiled and delivered personal details on every one of the five men—his four bank officers and Graff—who had access to the private offices at the House of Lockewood.

Proust brought the final papers to the sitting room, where Damen and Anastasia were already poring over what they’d received.

“That’s the last of what you requested, sir,” Proust announced.

“Thank you, Proust.” Damen glanced at the grandfather dock, which heralded the hour as ten past one. “Go to bed. Anastasia and I can manage from here.”

“Very good, sir.” The valet bowed and took his leave.

“I see absolutely nothing incriminating about Booth,” Stacie murmured. She was curled up on the settee, papers strewn all around her, and she frowned as she read and reread the pages on Booth. “He lives a simple life, doesn’t gamble or attend parties, and resides in a modest flat several blocks from the bank. Even his savings account is adequate but not huge, although I doubt this snake would be stupid enough to deposit his illegal earnings in your bank.”

“Probably not.” Damen crossed over, sank into the armchair beside Anastasia. “However, you’d be surprised how arrogant some people become when they feel they’ve outsmarted the world. They become lax, make careless mistakes. I see it every day in business.” He peered over Stacie’s shoulder. “In Booth’s case, though, I think we’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve reviewed everything three times, and I see nothing to label him as anything but a quiet, honest man.”

With a frustrated sigh, Anastasia tossed the pages aside. “We’ve also reviewed the pages on Validate and Lockhorn. They, too, appear to be as innocent as babes. Which means that all we have left are Graff and Cunnings. Both of whom have been with you longer than any of the others. Both of whom have handled your confidential papers for nearly a decade.”

“All the more reason we have to investigate them.” A muscle worked in Damen’s jaw as he tore the seal of the newly delivered envelope. “I can’t let sentiment interfere with learning the truth.”

“Damen, I can’t imagine …” Stacie broke off, waving away his oncoming rebuttal. “I know. We have to be sure. Fine. Let’s be sure. But I’m beginning to wonder if this is all a waste of time.”

“Someone told George about us. Someone is corresponding with Rouge. If these papers don’t tell us who that someone is, we’ll find another way. But I want that son of a bitch stopped.”

Anastasia heard the pain in his voice, and she put aside her doubts, aching for what this part of the investigation was doing to him. “I love you,” she said quietly, reaching out to caress his forearm.

Damen looked up, the tension on his face softening, although the fiercely protective light in his eyes seemed to intensify rather than diminish. “And I love you. I don’t think you realize how much.” He caught her palm, brought it to his lips. “I want my ring on your finger,” he said fervently. “I want to flourish you before the world as my wife. I want my child growing inside you. And I mean to make all those wants realities the minute you’re safe and those bastards are in Newgate. I intend to move heaven and earth to see that that happens.”