Andrea Kane (45 page)

Making their way outside, they’d peeked to the right, ensuring George was out of sight, before veering off to the left.

Wells hadn’t come close to keeping up with her pace.

Breanna huddled in the phaeton, watching the elderly butler hurrying toward her, blood pounding in her veins. There was never a doubt what she had to do.

“Miss Breanna…” Wells hoisted himself into the phaeton. “Are you all right?”

The poor man was sheet-white, and Breanna lay her hand over his. “No,” she replied honestly. “Are you?”

Mutely, he shook his head.

“Wells, listen to me. I’ve got to get to Stacie. I know how exhausted you are, not to mention you’re reeling with shock. I’d never ask this of you, but…”

Jaw set, Wells snatched up the reins. “I assume Miss Stacie is with Lord Sheldrake?”

“Yes.”

“I recall the address. We’re on our way.”

It was still dark when the phaeton sped up to Damen’s Town house.

Inside the sitting room, Stacie’s head shot up, and she gently disengaged herself from Damen’s arms, climbing off the chair and trying not to awaken him. He’d nodded off less than an hour ago and, after the emotional upheaval of the night, she was determined not to disturb him until it became absolutely necessary.

It was about to become necessary.

She’d expected something significant to occur ever since that feeling had come over her. She didn’t know what, but the very knowledge had precluded her from relaxing into sleep.

Well, she was about to get her answer.

She peered out the window, tensing as she saw two shoddily dressed men climb out of a phaeton and dart up the Town house stairs.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

“Damen …”

He was awake and beside her before she’d finished uttering his name. His jaw clenched as he scrutinized their two surprise visitors. “Who the hell…?”

“You don’t know them, then?”

“No. I don’t know who they are or what they want. But I’m sure as hell going to find out.” He stalked over to the small corner desk, unlocked the top drawer, and extracted a pistol. Clutching the weapon in his hand, he headed off, pausing only to glare at Stacie. “Stay here—out of sight,” he ordered. “These men might work for your uncle.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “All right. But be careful.”

“I will.”

Stacie listened as Damen strode down the hall and yanked open the front door. She couldn’t keep herself from venturing as far as the sitting room threshold, peeking around the corner to watch.

“Who are you?” Damen was demanding. He flourished his pistol, blocking the doorway, and whoever was standing at it. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Damen.” Breanna’s voice was muffled but urgent. “It’s us.”

S
TACIE WAS ACROSS THE
threshold and down the hall in a heartbeat.

“Breanna!” She grabbed her cousin’s arms, pulling her into the entranceway, and staring in amazement as she assessed Breanna’s unexpected attire. Her gaze shifted to the tall, shabbily dressed man behind her, and her eyes widened. “Wells? Is that you?”

“Yes, Miss Stacie. Indeed it is.”

“Why on earth are you dressed like that?”

It was Breanna who replied. “We followed Father to his meeting place. We saw and heard everything: who he met, what they talked about—oh, Stacie …” She stared at her hands, realized they were still shaking.

“You … what?” Anastasia gasped. “Are you all right?”

“Were you followed?” Damen interrupted to demand. “Is anyone after you?”

“No, we weren’t followed and yes, we’re fine.” A pained pause. “Physically.”

Damen leaned past them, peering suspiciously out into the night and seeing nothing but a deserted street. “Let’s not take any chances. Don’t stay out in the open. Come in.” He gestured for Wells to enter, shutting the door behind him, then leading the way to the sitting room. “I’ll pour you each a drink. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“More like a demon,” Anastasia muttered. “A demon named Cunnings.”

“You know?” Breanna’s head jerked up as she sank into a chair.

Anastasia nodded, glancing over at Damen, who was pouring drinks at the sideboard.

“So, it really is Cunnings.” He handed a glass of Madeira to Breanna, then one to Wells, a bitter scowl darkening his face. “Yes, we knew. My contacts uncovered some ugly facts about him. But I suppose I needed confirmation.”

“You have it.” Breanna tugged off her cap, her burnished tresses, for the first time, a bit disheveled. “He’s my father’s informant. That, and a great deal more.”

Anastasia was too unsettled to sit still. She paced about the sitting room, looking from Breanna to Wells, a thousand questions crowding her mind, clamoring to be asked.

Her curiosity was diverted when she saw Wells lean his head wearily against the wall, looking so utterly depleted that it broke her heart.

“You’re spent, my friend,” she said softly, walking over and guiding him into a cushioned armchair. “You need rest.”

“I’ll get rest,” he stated flatly, taking a healthy swallow of his drink. “
After
all this is resolved. Don’t worry about me, Miss Stacie. I’m hardier than I look.”

“Wells was heroic tonight,” Breanna declared. “I don’t know how I would have managed without him.”

“Tell us what happened. How did you come to follow Uncle George? What did you overhear?” Stacie began blurting out her stream of questions.

Quickly, Breanna filled Stacie and Damen in on the talk she’d had with her father, on the plan she and Wells had conjured up, and on where it had taken them.

“So you actually saw Uncle George and Mr. Cunnings together?”

“Oh, we more than saw them,” Breanna affirmed. “We sat at the table next to them. We eavesdropped on their entire conversation.” She took an unsteady sip of Madeira, then lifted her chin, met Stacie’s intent gaze. “Stacie, there’s no easy way to tell you this. So, I’m not even going to try to soften the blow. Father’s hiring an assassin. He means to have you killed.”

A ponderous silence filled the room.

“Killed,” Anastasia repeated woodenly—although her surprise was less acute than Breanna’s. Any man who’d sell his niece—or any woman, for that matter—as a whore, was capable of anything. “What about Rouge? What happened to Uncle George’s plan to export me?”

“Apparently, Father’s fear that you’re closing in on him, figuring out the full extent of his criminal activities, has overshadowed all else. He’s convinced you’re still in England. Probably to finish the investigation you began, and see him in prison. Either that, or …”

“Or?” Anastasia prompted.

“This is just a feeling on my part. But, judging from some of the things Father said to me, I suspect he’s contemplating another reason you might have dropped out of sight—a reason that intimidates him almost as much as your plans to incriminate him.”

“And what’s that?”

“I think he’s afraid you’re with child—Damen’s child. That would be almost as destructive to him as being found out. With the exception of prison, the rest of his sentence would be the same: he’d lose Uncle Henry’s inheritance, control of Colby and Sons, and, of course, Damen. As for Rouge, Cunnings solved that problem for him.”

“Cunnings did,” Damen echoed, a vein throbbing at his forehead. “How?”

“By making some adjustments to my father’s original plan. He offered to find Father a substitute for Rouge— one of the bank’s female clients who, as he put it, won’t be missed. That way, Father can collect his huge fee
and
get his hands on those things he’d need Stacie dead to acquire.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

Breanna nodded bleakly. “I don’t believe I’m saying it.”

Damen rubbed the back of his neck, trying to come to terms with everything he was learning. “You said George is hiring an assassin. How is he managing that?”

“He’s not.” There was genuine pain in Breanna’s eyes, spawned by the realization that she was about to deliver a cruel blow. “Cunnings is.”

Shock jolted through Damen’s body, and he recoiled from its impact.
“Cunnings?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Damen. But Cunnings is the one with this particular contact. Father instructed him to make the arrangements.”

“How the hell is an officer at my bank acquainted with a paid killer?”

Breanna spread her arms helplessly. “He didn’t say. In fact, he was very secretive about the matter. When Father asked to meet with this man, Cunnings said no, that this assassin would do business only through him.”

A muscle was working furiously in Damen’s jaw. “What’s Cunnings getting in exchange? A huge amount of money?”

“Several thousand pounds, plus ten percent of whatever Rouge pays Father. Oh, and one thing more.” Breanna swallowed. “A seat on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons.”

“Which Uncle George will have sole ownership of, if I’m eliminated.” Twin spots of red tinged Anastasia’s cheeks. “That monster will then have just what he wants, what he’s always wanted—to triumph over Papa, and to wrest away everything Grandfather held dear: his company, his name, and everything good our family represents.”

“Not to mention acquiring Uncle Henry’s inheritance,” Breanna reminded her. “And Damen, who Father assumes will seek solace in my arms once you’re gone.” A bitter gleam flashed in her eyes. “Does that course of events sound familiar?”

“It’s the path he took when he married your mother,” Anastasia supplied, gripping the folds of her gown as if by doing so she could stem her rage. “He’s decided Damen will do the same: love a woman he can’t have, and marry her closest replica.”

“Exactly. Father all but admitted that to me during our argument tonight. Which reminds me…” Breanna shoved her hand into her pocket, extracted the miniature portrait. Its frame was somewhat mangled, but the image inside remained clear as day. “I found this in Father’s study after he left tonight. He’d obviously hurled it at the wall.” She stretched out her arm, offered the portrait to Stacie. “I believe it’s self-explanatory.”

Stacie took it, her eyes widening as she recognized the likeness. “Mama,” she murmured, angling the picture for inspection. “He’s kept a portrait of her all these years?”

“And destroyed it the very day he decided to destroy you.”

“I can’t listen to this another minute.” Damen strode over, refilled his drink. “Not without riding to Medford Manor and choking that son of a bitch with my bare hands.” He sucked in his breath, then released it, fighting for the restraint necessary to resolve things. “However, we still have one problem—the same problem we’ve had since the onset. Proof. Or lack thereof. What concrete evidence, other than hearsay, do we really have against George?”

“I believe we can tie the viscount to Mr. Cunnings,” Wells put in, his color somewhat restored from the Madeira. “I gave Miss Breanna the address of the courier who delivers messages between the two of them. Surely that will help.”

“Thank you, Wells,” Damen replied, staring broodingly into his goblet. “Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Oh, I have more than enough proof that Cunnings is involved in personal business with George.” He gestured toward the pile of papers on the end table. “My contacts supplied me with dates and times when that courier ran personal deliveries back and forth between Medford Manor and my bank—at Cunnings’s authorization. And Cunnings has been living like a prince, buying property, jewelry for women, you name it.”

Damen’s hands balled into fists. “The problem is, we still haven’t gotten hold of documents that directly incriminate George. Nor have we closed in on any of his colleagues to the point where we could squeeze a confession out of them, one that would implicate George, as well. If we went to Bow Street, had them seize George, he’d slip right through our fingers. They’d have only our testimony, and a few suspicious actions, to go on. Doubtless, George would have Bates exert some judicial influence—Bates, who’s nearly as crooked as he is. After which, George would walk out a free man.”

“What if we had a confession?” Anastasia interrupted. “A confession made directly to the authorities?”

Three pairs of eyes riveted to her.

“Stacie, have you lost your mind?” Breanna responded. “Father would never confess—not when he’s sober and never to the authorities.”

“He might. If he didn’t know he was confessing.”

“You’ve lost me.” Breanna inclined her head quizzically in Damen’s direction. “Do you know anything about this?”

A dark scowl. “Only that I’m not going to like it.” He set down his drink, folded his arms across his chest, and leveled his stare at Anastasia. “Let’s hear your plan. And Stacie—it had better not involve you.”

Her chin jutted up. “I’m already at risk, Damen. As of tomorrow, a hired assassin will be out hunting me down. How long do you think I can hide in your Town house?” She rubbed her palms together, growing more determined the more she contemplated her plan. “Breanna, did Cunnings say anything to Uncle George implying Damen played a part in my disappearance?”

“Cunnings is convinced that Damen isn’t involved. He’s satisfied that Damen believes you’re really on your way to the States.”

“Excellent. I suspected as much, given Damen’s acting performance today at the bank. So whether I dropped out of sight because I’m pregnant with Damen’s child or because I’m close to exposing Uncle George as a criminal, he thinks I haven’t yet gone to Damen with the news.”

Still baffled, Breanna nodded.

“What if I found the evidence I was looking for? What if I got hold of exactly what it would take to throw Uncle George into prison?” A smile curved Anastasia’s lips. “I’d share that proof with Damen immediately, wouldn’t I?”

“But we don’t have any proof.”

“Your father doesn’t know that.”

Breanna’s brows drew together. “Do you want me to plant a seed in Father’s mind?”

“Absolutely not. He’d never believe you. Uncle George already knows your loyalty lies with me. No, we’ll let Cunnings take care of that for us.”

“How?”

“That’s easy.” Anastasia grinned. “Remember our pact. I’ll go to the bank in the morning, pretending to be you. I’ll insist on seeing Damen, alone, in his private office. Mr. Cunnings will be unbearably curious about the nature of my visit—pardon me,
Breanna’s
visit. Damen and I will make sure he overhears every word of our private talk. I’ll tell Damen that Anastasia contacted me, saying she found the evidence she was searching for, but that she was reluctant to deliver it to Bow Street without first getting my—Breanna’s—permission. After all, turning over this evidence would mean sending Breanna’s father to prison, and thereby tainting the Colby name, neither of which Anastasia felt right doing without securing Breanna’s consent first. Being the moral person Breanna is, she’ll fully support Anastasia’s decision once she sees the evidence.”