Andrea Kane (44 page)

Anastasia’s fingertips caressed his jaw. “I hope you realize something, Lord Sheldrake,” she murmured in a watery tone. “Brilliant as you are, some things are not even in your control.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the last want you described.” Her misty gaze met his. “It’s very possible our child will decide not to wait for your permission to go ahead and be conceived. Especially if he’s half as impatient as his mother.” Anastasia’s voice quavered. “Or
her
mother, as the case may be.”

Damen put the envelope aside long enough to pull Stacie off the settee and drag her onto his lap. “That thought… the very possibility of you carrying my child…” His eyes darkened to a smoky gray, his hand tightened around the nape of her neck as he lowered his mouth to hers. “God, you don’t know what it does to me.”

“I think I do.” She twined her arms around his neck.

“I love you,” he breathed, burying his lips in hers. “And if I had my way I’d forget these bloody papers and carry you off to bed, create our first child. Tonight. This minute.” A shuddering sigh, as he brought himself under control. “But I won’t. Because I intend to have
all
those ‘wants,’ Stacie, not just one. And there’s only one way that can happen.”

“I know.” Anastasia kissed him tenderly. Then, she leaned over, scooped up the envelope, and extracted the remaining papers. “Let’s find him.”

The pub was a forty-minute drive from Medford Manor, tucked off a dilapidated road in a village near Canterbury.

“As I suspected,” Wells muttered, pulling the phaeton into a nearby alley, nestling it in the shadows between a carpenter shop and a blacksmith shop. “A shabby alehouse; one that’s close enough to get to, but far enough— and crude enough—not to be recognized in.”

“I see your point.” Breanna peered about, tried to see around the corner. “Is Father already inside?”

A terse nod. “His phaeton is on the far side of the pub. I saw him leave it there and make his way inside.”

“Good. Then we can follow.” She began to descend.

“Wait.” Wells stayed her with his hand. “Give the viscount an extra minute or two to get settled. I realize you’re anxious. But he’s not going to elude us, not at this point. And we certainly don’t want to come face to face with him.”

“You’re right.” Breanna hovered at the edge of her seat, poised and ready.

“Miss Breanna, maybe you should stay here while I…”

“Wells, I’m going in there with you,” Breanna interrupted. “I came to find out who my father is meeting and what they have planned. And I’m not leaving until I do.” She leaped lightly from the phaeton. “We’ve given him enough time. Let’s go.”

Wells alit as quickly as his less youthful bones would allow. Then, he walked around the phaeton, studying Breanna intently and ensuring, for the tenth time, that her identity and her gender were totally concealed. “I’ll do the talking,” he instructed. “I have only to remember to speak in a less refined manner. Whereas you’d have to do that
and
lower your voice to a much deeper pitch.”

“I can manage.”

A troubled frown creased Wells’s forehead. “Miss Breanna,” he said unsteadily. “If anything should happen to you, your grandfather would never forgive me.” A deep swallow. “I would never forgive myself.”

“Nothing will happen to me, Wells.” Breanna squeezed his arm. “I promise. As for Grandfather, he’s with us. I can feel his presence. Besides,” she added, trying to soothe Wells’s misgivings. “We’ll fit right in. We both look like common workingmen.” She patted the worn sleeve of his coat. “And our shillings will qualify us as patrons.”

Accepting, however uneasily, her unwavering decision, Wells nodded. Together, they strolled out of the alley and toward the pub.

“We’ve got to act natural, as if we’re used to frequenting alehouses,” Breanna instructed. “The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. We’ll find Father, sit as near to him and his colleague as we dare. And remember …” She tapped her pocket. “If necessary, I have my pistol.”

The butler’s lips thinned into a grim line. “I haven’t forgotten. I only pray you won’t have to use it.”

The pub was smoky and dim, the latter of which Breanna was thankful for. She scanned the room, scrutinizing the darkest corners first—the tables where it made the most sense for anyone trying to avoid detection to sit.

Sure enough. There he was. He and another man, whose back was turned toward them.

Silently, Breanna nudged Wells, jerking her chin in that direction so he could follow her gaze.

Wells’s eyes narrowed as he saw the viscount and his associate, and he pointed to a table just beside theirs— one that was equally concealed by darkness, but that was close enough to attempt eavesdropping.

Pausing only to order two ales—which they paid for at the counter to avoid any immediate interruptions—Wells and Breanna carried their tankards to the table, lowering themselves to the rickety stools.

“You’re sure Sheldrake acted normal? He didn’t slip off during the day or receive any suspicious missives?”

It was her father’s voice, audible even over the thrum of voices, clanking of glasses, and occasional bursts of raucous laughter.

Breanna leaned closer, listening for the reply.

“Perfectly normal. And the only time he slipped off was to go to your house. I’m telling you, he thinks she’s on her way to the States. Whatever your niece is doing, she’s doing it alone. Or with your daughter.”

Clenching her teeth, Breanna stifled the anger that rose inside her.

She knew that other voice. And so did Damen. He knew it well.

“Dammit.”

Damen uttered the word in a hiss of disbelief, his finger tracing the number of purchases listed on the page he was reading: jewelry, clothing—all bought over the past several months. In addition, there was a large quantity of food purchased and people hired—extra footmen, a cook, maids, a trio of musicians—for an extravagant party that had been held a fortnight ago at a private house. The house, whose address Damen had never before seen or heard mention of, was the property of the same man who’d paid for the party, a fact that was verified by the attached documents.

In short, John Cunnings was spending more than ten times what he was earning.

He was also conducting extra business with one of the House of Lockewood’s couriers—business the courier believed to be sanctioned by the bank but which, upon closer investigation by Damen’s contacts, showed no bank authorization whatsoever. And that business involved the delivery of messages to and from Medford Manor.

“Oh, Damen.” Anastasia lifted her head, her stunned eyes meeting Damen’s. “I can’t believe this.”

“Cunnings.” Damen dragged both hands through his hair. “Of all people.” A bitter laugh. “My senior officer, the man in charge of all my overseas investments. He’s been with the House of Lockewood since before my father died, and he was by my side from the day I took over. I considered him to be my right-hand man, my friend. Yet it appears I don’t even know him.”

Anastasia interlaced her fingers with Damen’s. “To some people, money means more than anything, including friendship and integrity,” she reminded him softly. “I know that’s foreign to you, as it is to me. But just look at Uncle George. Look at the extremes he’s willing to go to for wealth and position.”

“Yes. George.” Damen’s jaw set. “I wonder how deeply involved Cunnings is in his sick scheme. Is he just George’s spy, his connection to the fastest courier? Or is he fully aware of the cargo George deals with? Worse, is he getting paid to help find you, ship you off on the next vessel to Rouge?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll have to …” Anastasia broke off, an odd expression crossing her face.

“What is it?” Damen asked.

“I’m not sure.” She pressed her lips together, shifting restlessly on Damen’s lap. “But I have the strangest feeling something’s happening. Something that involves Breanna.”

“You think she’s in danger?”

Contemplating that possibility, Anastasia frowned, slowly shook her head. “No. At least I don’t think so. I don’t feel panicked. I feel… fidgety.” Her gaze met Damen’s. “Whatever it is, it won’t be long now. My instincts tell me that this whole nightmare is beginning to unravel.”

In the alehouse, Cunnings straddled his stool, lighting a cheroot and eyeing George warily. “Medford, isn’t it time you told me what’s going on? I know you want Sheldrake to marry your daughter. You’ve been doing everything you can to keep him and your niece apart. Well, now she’s gone. So why aren’t you celebrating?”

“Because I don’t think she’s gone.” George’s laugh was bitter. “And because ‘gone’ is no longer good enough.”

“You’re talking about your brother’s inheritance.”

“I’m talking about all of it: the inheritance, the company, Sheldrake. Everything. But I can’t get my hands on those things as long as Anastasia’s missing.”

Cunnings brought the cheroot to his lips, inhaled. “I thought you had a plan.”

“I did.”

“But you need your niece for that plan.”

“Exactly.”

Cunnings took a swallow of ale. “She’d have to be dead for you to get any of what you want—including Sheldrake, at this point. I told you, he’s head over heels in love with her.”

George stared at his clenched hands. “If my plan had worked, the world would have believed she was dead.”

“Where
would
she have been?”

“On a ship. En route to the Continent.”

One of Cunnings’s brows rose. “To Rouge?”

“Yes.”

A low whistle. “That sounds like a damned good plan. How much were you getting paid?”

“It doesn’t matter.” George shoved aside his untouched tankard of ale, glaring at Cunnings. “What matters is, Anastasia’s gone. I
know
she’s still in England—although where, I haven’t an inkling.”

“And if she reappears—without your being able to grab her before she gets to Sheldrake, ship her off to Rouge—then your plan is a thing of the past. As, given your current financial situation, are you.” Cunnings inclined his head. “Have you considered sending a substitute? Or is Rouge demanding only Anastasia?”

“What Rouge is demanding is a well-bred young woman who’s chaste, beautiful, and highborn. And I’ve got five days to deliver her.”

“Really.” Cunnings stabbed out his cheroot. “Let me look over the bank’s client list. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a lady we can send in Anastasia’s place—someone who fits Rouge’s specifications,
and
who won’t be missed. How would that be? Would it be worth ten percent of whatever Rouge is paying you?”

“Fine. Fine.” Whereas yesterday George would have jumped at that opportunity, today he was more preoccupied with finding Anastasia and eliminating her—permanently. “But first we deal with the problem of Anastasia. Which brings me to the other business we have to discuss tonight.” He gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward to regard Cunnings intently. “That associate of yours—the one you mentioned last time—how good is he at tracking people down?”

Cunnings raised his chin, met George’s stare head-on. “There’s no one better.”

“So he’ll find her.”

“No matter where she’s hiding, yes. He’ll find her.”

“And then?”

“He’ll kill her.”

At the next table, Breanna bit off a cry. She grabbed her tankard of ale and pressed it to her lips, taking an enormous gulp to quell her shock.

Kill her? He was going to
kill
Stacie?

The bitter taste of ale burned its way to her stomach, but she scarcely noticed it.

Her horrified stare met Wells’s.

“I’ve known him for quite some time,” Cunnings was continuing. “And I’m well aware of his accomplishments. He’s an expert tracker and an even better shot.” A meaningful pause. “He’s also expensive.
Very
expensive.”

George waved away the warning. “That doesn’t concern me.”

“It should. You owe me almost a thousand pounds, plus that ten percent if I find you another girl for Rouge. You owe a fortune to your colleagues and your creditors. How the hell are you going to pay the kind of professional we’re discussing? His fees are a lot higher than mine.”

“You forget about Henry’s inheritance.” Triumph curved George’s lips. “You yourself told me Anastasia only invested twenty-five thousand pounds of that money. That leaves over one hundred seventy-five thousand pounds for me. I can pay you double what I owe you, and I can pay your friend. I’ll be a rich man, Cunnings. I’ll also be sole owner of Colby and Sons. In fact, handle both these assignments successfully—ending Anastasia’s life and securing another candidate for Rouge—and I’ll give you the notoriety you’ve always craved. No more second place. You’ll have a seat on my Board of Directors. Why, you’ll be right up there with Sheldrake.”

Cunnings tossed off the rest of his ale with a flourish. “I’ve served like a faithful dog at my rich master’s feet all these years. And what has it gotten me? Nothing but an occasional pat on the head. I deserve better. And I’m going to
get
better. You’ve got yourself a deal, Medford. Give me a day. I’ll dig through the bank’s files and contact my associate. Your niece is as good as dead.”

George’s eyes gleamed. “When can I meet this gifted assassin?”

“You can’t. He never meets with anyone—other than me.” Cunnings shoved back his stool, aiming a pointed look at George. “Surely, given his line of work, you can understand his desire to stay anonymous.”

“I suppose so.” George nodded reluctantly. “How long will this take? It must happen quickly.”

“If she’s nearby, as you claim? A day. Two at the most. Relax. The next time you see Anastasia, it will be at her funeral.”

Breanna’s breath was coming in sharp rasps as she dashed down the alley and jumped into the phaeton.

She’d had to dig her nails into her thighs to keep from leaping up and lunging after Cunnings. But she had to stay level-headed—for Stacie’s sake. So, she and Wells had nursed their drinks, lowering their heads as Cunnings walked past them and exited the alehouse. Not long after, her father had followed suit.

They’d given it another five minutes—enough time for George to reach his phaeton—before they acted.