Lowering his blade, Meade snatched the page, brought it over to the window. He swore at the official-looking seal at the bottom of the document, knowing right away what it meant.
"Now, can we renegotiate our terms?" George inquired. "Instead of your demands for an increase and your threats to expose me, why don't we settle for keeping things just as they are? In return, I'll pretend I never heard of you, should I be asked. I'll simply ignore the dictates of my conscience, refrain from turning you in. I think that's a fair arrangement, don't you?"
Silence.
"Good. Then we understand each other. Right, Meade?"
Another long silence, during which Meade felt his heart drumming wildly in his chest. Hanging. Dying. Feeling his neck crack in two.
Nothing was worth that.
Resignation sank deep in his gut, and he saw his fortune go up in smoke. "Yeah, Medford," he muttered bitterly. "Right."
Triumph glittered in the viscount's eyes. "Excellent. The next shipment will be ready in ten days. Be prepared to deliver it on time. And Meade? Don't ever blackmail me again."
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
The victory was little cause for celebration.
George leaned back in his carriage, his teeth gritting as he assessed the situation.
All well and good that Meade would deliver the shipment as planned. First, the damned merchandise had to be secured, a reality that Bates was supposedly seeing to. And even if both tasks went smoothly, George had to pray that his note to Rouge had been convincing enough to inspire a modicum of patience; that, as a result of George's threat to take his business elsewhere, Rouge would adhere to the specified terms and pay the full amount due.
And if that happened?
Even the full amount was a mere drop in the bucket compared to George's ocean of debt.
His colleagues, his creditors, his informants.
The very thought of how many thousands and thousands of pounds he owed made him ill.
And then there was Anastasia.
Just pondering his niece, the fact that she held his fate in the palm of her hand, made his skull pound with rage. Oh, Henry's precious brat had no idea of the power she wielded. But George did. And he loathed her for it.
What had his contact found out? he wondered bitterly. How much of Henry's money had been committed to this wretched bank Anastasia hoped to open? And what were the details of her partnership with Sheldrake—and any other unwelcome bond that might be developing between them?
George wasn't stupid. He knew only too well that business associations often led to personal ones. And given that it was a man and a woman who were involved in this particular partnership—well, suddenly the word personal took on a whole new meaning. If Anastasia and Sheldrake were to spend any substantial amount of time together… George's hands balled into fists at his sides. Damn her. She would not rob him of that, too.
He'd have another talk with Breanna—immediately—and make his intentions for her future unmistakably clear. Then he'd find ways to throw her and Sheldrake together, and ways to keep the marquess and Anastasia apart. He needed Sheldrake in the family, not only to provide money and status, but to shed a favorable light on George's reputation, and to ensure his silence if he were to learn anything damning about his new father-in-law.
Perhaps there was something to say for family after all.
A humorless smile twisted George's lips. Family hadn't been enough motivation for Henry, not when it came to including his brother as a beneficiary to his estate. Well, with the right manipulation, Henry's funds would find their way into the right hands after all.
Whatever was left of those funds, that is.
George stared out the window, watched as the gates of Medford Manor came into view.
He had to find out how much of Henry's inheritance had been allocated to that bloody bank. And he had to find out now.
He was in trouble. Big trouble. His options were vanishing before his very eyes. With Anastasia controlling half of Colby and Sons, and Sheldrake acting as her trusty administrator, there was little hope of doctoring receipts to Lyman or any other supplier without getting caught. As for a more readily available source, there were only a few thousand pounds left to drain of the funds Henry had set aside for Anastasia's coming-out.
He needed that inheritance.
Ten weeks. After which, it would be too late. Everything would blow up in his face. Rouge would find another supplier, the creditors would close in, and Anastasia would walk away with her inheritance, her half of Colby and Sons, and—Lord help her—Damen Lockewood.
No. George sat upright, his fingers reflexively gripping the door handle, ready to twist it the instant the carriage came to a halt. He wouldn't allow it. He'd talk to Breanna right now. Then, he'd summon his contact, learn the details of that bloody partnership.
And then, he'd do whatever he must to save his neck.
Wells stood in the open doorway, his expression nondescript as he watched the viscount stalk up the stairs and into the manor.
"Where's Breanna?" George bit out, glaring at his butler.
"In the library, my lord. Shall I summon her?"
"No. I'll do my own summoning. Besides, the library is as good a place as any."
Wells stiffened a bit. "For what, sir?"
"Nothing that concerns you." George strode down the hall, jerking open the library door and stepping inside.
"Father." Breanna started, as she looked up from the settee upon which she was curled, thumbing through a novel. She studied her father's expression, a certain wariness coming over her. Slowly, she shut the book. "Did you wish to see me?"
"Indeed I did." George shut the door firmly behind him. He crossed over to the sideboard, poured himself a drink. Tossing it down in three gulps, he slammed the goblet onto an end table and walked across the room until he loomed directly over his daughter. "You and I are going to talk. Or rather, I'm going to talk. You're going to listen. And then, you're going to do as I say."
Instinctively, Breanna scooted to the far corner of the settee. "What is it we're talking about?"
"You and Lord Sheldrake." George pressed his palms together, studying his hands as if that act could help him maintain his self-restraint. "It's time we took definite steps to ensure your future as Mrs. Damen Lockewood."
Color suffused Breanna's cheeks, and she lowered her lashes, contemplating the cover of her book. "I think any steps we take would be futile," she said at last. "In fact, I think we should both accept the fact that I don't have a future with Lord Sheldrake."
Her breath lodged in her throat, as George swooped down, gripping her shoulders and nearly lifting her off the settee. "I don't think you understand. So let me make it clear. Giving up is not an option. Not in this case." His eyes blazed with jade fire, his fingers bit into her flesh. "You will marry Lord Sheldrake. Soon. What I'm here to discuss is how best to speed up this courtship."
Breanna's eyes widened in fear, but she didn't retreat. "What courtship, Father? There is none."
"Then there will be one as of now." George lowered Breanna back to the settee, his forefinger jerking up her chin to meet his gaze. "Besides, you underestimate yourself. The marquess was very attentive at the ball. He danced with you for most of the evening. Afterward, he spoke highly of you. I think all he needs is a little encouragement—not from me, from you. And you're going to give him that encouragement."
"Why? Why is it so important to you that I marry Lord Sheldrake? Are you hoping he'll offer you money for my hand?"
A flicker of astonishment, after which George's lips thinned into an angry line. "Where is this newfound impertinence coming from—having Anastasia living with us?"
Breanna swallowed. "I apologize if I sounded rude. But it's only natural for me to have questions. After all, it is my life we're discussing. And I'd like to understand what you hope to gain by wedding me to Lord Sheldrake. I know how much wealth and position mean to you. We wouldn't
be having this conversation if the marquess were poor and unrenowned. Is it that you hope to gain access to his fortune? If so, I don't think that's an unspoken certainty—not unless Lord Sheldrake chooses it to be. And, to be honest, I don't think he's so enchanted with me that he'd pay handsomely just to give me his name."
George twisted Breanna's chin until she whimpered, then shoved her away. "My motives, daughter, are my own. Your job is to make them a reality. Now, I'm going to invite the marquess to breakfast tomorrow. Once the meal is over, I'll suggest that you two take a private stroll. During that time, I expect you to make it blatantly clear that you enjoy his attentions, and that you'd welcome his affections. Is that understood?"
Silence.
Renewed anger flared in George's eyes, and he leaned menacingly over her. "Is that understood?"
Breanna nodded, but didn't flinch. "Yes, Father. You've made your expectations perfectly clear."
"Good." George backed away, walked over to freshen his drink. "Where is Anastasia—in her room?"
Steeling herself for the inevitable explosion, Breanna shook her head. "No, she went out several hours ago. She should be back any minute."
Something about Breanna's tone must have aroused George's suspicions, or perhaps it was the fact that Anastasia rarely went out alone that made him leery.
He turned, goblet in hand. "Where did she go?"
"To the House of Lockewood." Breanna tried not to react to the fury that twisted her father's features. "She said something about a meeting."
"Dammit." George raised his arm over his head, and Breanna braced herself for the crash of the goblet striking the floor.
The crash never came.
Slowly, George lowered his arm, visibly trying to control his wrath.
"Send her to my study," he ground out between clenched teeth, "the minute she returns. It's time your cousin and I had a little talk, as well."
"She's only gone to finish settling Uncle Henry's affairs," Breanna defended at once, trying to ward off whatever confrontation her father had in mind. "I'm sure she would have told you about this meeting herself, but you'd already left the estate."
"I'm sure she is and I'm sure she would have." George's words were as caustic as his smile. "But the fact remains that I'm her guardian. And, as such, I can't have her gallivanting about without permission or, knowing Anastasia, without a proper chaperon. I'm concerned for her safety, and for her reputation. After all, this is England, not America."
"Still, I don't think…"
"Stop shielding her, Breanna. Just send her to my study. Immediately." George's eyes narrowed into glittering jade chips. "And remember what I said. I expect to be announcing your betrothal to Lord Sheldrake in a matter of weeks."
* * *
Anastasia sensed something was wrong the minute she saw Wells's drawn expression.
Glancing about, she noted the empty hall, felt the tension permeating it.
"Wells?" she murmured, inclining her head. "What is it?"
The butler didn't mince words. "Your uncle arrived home an hour ago. He was unusually distressed."
"Distressed," Anastasia repeated. "You mean angry. Especially when he learned I wasn't here—and probably where I was." Another swift glance down the hall. "Is he with Breanna now?"
"Not anymore. He was with your cousin in the library for about twenty minutes. Then, he emerged rather briskly, and disappeared into his study."
Anastasia's uneasiness intensified. "What about Breanna? Is she still in the library?"
"Yes, Miss Stacie. She's come out twice asking if you were home yet. I promised to send you down the moment you arrived."
"I'm on my way." Anastasia hurried down the hall, tiptoeing past her uncle's study, and made her way to the library.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Breanna was pacing in front of the windows.
"Stacie. Thank goodness." She motioned for her to enter and shut the door behind her.
Anastasia complied, frowning as she studied her cousin. Breanna was noticeably upset, just as she always was after dealing with her father. But this time she was more; this time she was totally distraught.
"What happened?" Anastasia didn't mince words. She crossed over, seized Breanna's hands.
And went utterly cold inside when she saw the bruise on her cousin's chin—a bruise that could have been caused by nothing but the punishing grip of a thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, no." She reached out, touched the mark ever so gently.
"It doesn't hurt." Breanna waved away her cousin's concern. "Honestly, Stacie. I don't even think Father knew he was doing it. He was desperate to make his point, to push me into doing his bidding. And when I balked … well, I truly think he lost his reason."
"You're defending him?" Anastasia asked incredulously.
"No, of course not. All I'm saying is, he didn't beat me. He didn't even shout. It's as if he's desperate—desperate enough to be even more callous than usual."
"But it's me he's angry at, not you."
"Actually, it's both of us." Breanna smoothed a shaky hand over her upswept hair. "You, for going to Lord Sheldrake's bank; me, for not yet wearing his wedding ring." She dismissed Anastasia's onslaught of questions with a firm shake of her head. "Listen to me, Stacie. You and I can discuss this in detail tonight after Father's gone to bed and we're alone. Right now, he's awaiting your arrival like a hungry lion awaits its dinner. He's angry, he's unnerved, and he's determined to have his say. All that's important is for you to know what you're in for. Father feels threatened by your relationship with Lord Sheldrake—both personally and financially. He has his own plans for the marquess's fortune—and his future. Father wants me to marry Lord Sheldrake. You and I both know that. We also know it's never going to happen, and why. How we get Father to accept it is another matter entirely. I tried, and failed. It's your turn. But tread carefully. This is not going to be a pleasant meeting."
Anastasia listened closely, appreciating Breanna's worry, at the same time captured by her cousin's adamant statement: We also know it's never going to happen, and why.
The way Breanna said that—with the certainty of one who knew rather than surmised—clearly, she was referring to something more concrete than the fact that she and Damen were mere acquaintances. And, given how finely attuned she and Anastasia were, given that they'd always been able to read each other's thoughts, it didn't take a genius to figure out that Breanna had sensed the attraction between her cousin and Damen.
A dozen questions hovered on Anastasia's tongue, and were silenced as she stared at the bruise on Breanna's chin.
At the moment, none of her questions mattered; not those concerning Breanna's underlying meaning, nor those pertaining to how much of the truth she'd guessed. What mattered was Uncle George—Uncle George and his violent determination to shape the future his way.
Anastasia clenched the folds of her gown, her resolve strengthening twofold. She knew how she must handle this impending confrontation, and it included keeping her bloody tongue in check. Otherwise, it wouldn't be she who would suffer. It would be Breanna.
"Don't worry," she said lightly, squeezing her cousin's arm. "You've prepared me. I can handle Uncle George. Who knows? Maybe I can even mollify him a bit."
Breanna gave her a small smile. "I wouldn't count on it. He's incensed. And he'll be more incensed once you've spoken your piece."
The girls' eyes met.
"Tell him, Stacie," Breanna said quietly. "He'll find out anyway."
Anastasia was still puzzling over her cousin's words as she approached Uncle George's study. What exactly had Breanna been urging her to disclose? That she'd opted to invest in an American bank? That she'd formed a partnership with Damen Lockewood?
Or was it more?
Sucking in her breath, Anastasia paused at the study door. She'd get her answer later. Whatever it was, it wouldn't affect her decision.
She raised her hand, rapped on the door.
"Who is it?"
her uncle barked.
"Anastasia."
A dozen purposeful strides sounded from within, after which the door was yanked open, and her uncle stood before her, his expression taut, his eyes burning with suppressed ire.
"You wanted to see me?" Anastasia asked, as nonprovokingly as she could.
"Indeed I did. Come in." He snapped out the words, gesturing for her to enter, then shutting the door firmly in her wake. He stared at the carpet for a moment—doubtless trying to curb his anger—then jerked up his head to meet her gaze. "You went to the House of Lockewood this morning while I was out. You traveled alone, unchaperoned, and you never mentioned to me that you had an appointment. Why is that?"