"Fine. Then I'm going with you."
"No." Anastasia leapt to her feet. "You're not."
"Stacie, he's my father. You're not putting yourself at risk alone."
Anastasia gave a hard shake of her head. "Breanna, listen to me. I'm not trying to be heroic. I'm trying to find answers. Thus far, I've succeeded in arranging all this without arousing Uncle George's suspicions. But if you suddenly appear by my side, insisting on learning a business you've never before expressed any interest in, all that will change. Your father's not a stupid man." Anastasia took Breanna's hand in hers. "I have to do this alone—for all our sakes, to get at the truth as soon as possible. And if our worst suspicions are confirmed, if Uncle George is indeed dangerous…" A swallow. "Then he must be dealt with before he can harm anyone."
"Anyone—meaning me."
"Yes, meaning you." Anastasia never diverted her gaze. "I asked you this once before, in a less than straightforward fashion. Now I'm asking you directly: does Uncle George strike you?"
"Strike me, yes. Beat me senseless, no. Do I sense an element of cruelty in him? Of course. But can I say I've ever feared for my safety? I … I don't think so."
"You've never given him reason to threaten your safety, or to become truly enraged, for that matter. But if you did, especially now, when he's constantly drinking, when his humor is as black as night and his temper so short that everyone cringes the minute he enters the room…" Anastasia's voice trailed off. "I can't vouch for what he might do. Nor can I vouch for his stability. The bottom line is, he's your father. That's not something you can undo. You're his responsibility until your twenty-first birthday. I can sever ties with him if need be. You can't. And I won't leave you here at his mercy." A pause. "Can you shoot a pistol?"
Breanna sucked in her breath. "What?"
"Humor me. Can you shoot?"
A nod. "At targets and pigeons, yes. But not at people." Breanna gave her cousin an incredulous look. "Do you honestly believe I'll need to defend myself to that degree?"
"I don't know what to believe. And I'm not thinking only of the possible danger Uncle George represents. If he's involved in something illegal, who knows what type of people he consorts with? Or how many of those unsavory contacts won't get paid—and, as a result, will become very agitated—because that shipment of Uncle George's went down?" Anastasia counted off on her fingers. "There are those who supplied the illegal cargo, those who awaited its arrival, investors—the possibilities are too vast too contemplate. Will any of those lowlifes show up here to retaliate? I'm not going to speculate. But I have a very uneasy feeling about all this. And I'd feel better if you kept a pistol nearby, just in case."
Breanna frowned, unable to dispute her cousin's reasoning. "Very well. As I recall, Father keeps an extra pistol in the library, to have on hand in case of a burglary. Since he never uses it, he wouldn't notice if it were to disappear, at least not for a few days. I'll go downstairs and get it after you and he leave for the office. I'll hide it in my bureau drawer." Her frown deepened. "What about you? How will you protect yourself?"
"If I sense anything out of the ordinary today, I'll slip off and go straight to the House of Lockewood. If need be, I'll borrow a pistol from Damen. But Uncle George wouldn't dare harm me in public—especially not once I casually mention that I informed Damen during yesterday's meeting that I'd be going to Colby and Sons today."
"I see your point. My father would never want to tarnish his image—not in the eyes of Lord Sheldrake." Breanna captured both Anastasia's hands, squeezed them tightly. "Please. Be careful. And try not to act too cheeky. Things will go much better with Father if you don't challenge his opinions or his authority."
A rueful smile tugged at Anastasia's lips. "I hear the message you're giving me loud and clear. I promise to do my best to keep my place and not antagonize Uncle George."
* * *
That promise wasn't going to be easy to keep, she fumed silently, after traipsing along behind her uncle for an hour, exploring the wonders of the outer office at Colby and Sons. The sum total of the room was a desk, occupied by their mild-mannered clerk Mr. Roberts, a row of chairs and a file cabinet against one wall and, against the wall adjacent to George's private offices, a settee and two end tables, before which rested a long, rectangular table. Not a sheet of paper lay exposed upon the desk or any of the tables, nor was there visible evidence of any other business-oriented material.
Did her uncle actually think she'd be content with this inane tour and then run along home like a good little girl?
If so, he had quite a surprise in store.
She'd begin with the obvious file cabinet.
"Uncle George, if it's all right with you, I'd like to start familiarizing myself with the company." She gestured toward the cabinet. "What if I begin by glancing through the files so I can acquaint myself with our current transactions, as well as the names of those suppliers we deal with most frequently."
Her uncle bristled and Mr. Roberts's head shot up as he awaited his employer's reply.
"Fine," George bit out, practically choking on his words. "I have some papers to sort through in my office." He turned to his clerk. "Roberts, give Lady Anastasia whatever she needs."
"Certainly, my lord." The poor little man whipped off his spectacles, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust before shoving the spectacles back on his nose and rising to his feet. "Why don't you have a seat, my lady? I'll bring the files to you."
"Thank you, Mr. Roberts. That would be very kind." Anastasia settled herself on the settee. Surreptitiously, she peeked at her uncle from the corner of her eye, watching him approach his private office, then extract a key from his pocket, which he used to unlock the door. That done, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
It took all her self-restraint not to dash in after him.
Leaning forward, she peered around the open doorway and caught a glimpse of a tidy room with a walnut desk and sideboard. Ledgers were neatly stacked on the far left-hand corner of the desk alongside a tray of papers—correspondence, perhaps—and what looked to be an appointment book. The sideboard was uncluttered, although she'd bet her last pound that it was stocked with liquor.
She was dying to go through those ledgers and that appointment book. But she'd have to wait, bide her time, until she could find the means to get in.
The door slammed shut.
Sighing, Anastasia resettled herself on the settee, awaiting Mr. Roberts, who was gathering files for her from the cabinet. Instinct told her she'd find nothing incriminating in what she was about to be given. Whatever her uncle was involved in, he certainly wouldn't want Roberts having access to those records. Still, she had to be sure. She also had to start somewhere.
Two hours later, she had three stacks of files piled up on the long table before her, and she'd learned nothing other than the fact that Colby and Sons had a healthy clientele and a substantial number of ongoing transactions. The only curious detail that struck her was the high prices charged by several of their shippers. If all the shipping companies' fees had been uniformly higher, she would have assumed that shipping costs in England simply exceeded those in America. But that didn't seem to be the case, not when most of the companies appeared to be charging fees that were comparable to what she was accustomed to seeing in her father's records. Further, of those few shippers who commanded a higher price, one was Mr. Lyman, whose very name sent off warning bells in Anastasia's head. This she'd have to investigate further.
She was just about to plow through yet another pile of receipts when the entrance to Colby and Sons was flung open.
"Roberts, I need to see Lord Medford right away." A stout man who looked distinctly familiar burst into the room, his pudgy cheeks bright red, whether from the exertion of hurrying or something more, Anastasia couldn't determine. But he certainly seemed agitated, and urgent about his demand to see her uncle.
Before Roberts could respond, the inner office door nearly flew off its hinges, and Uncle
George stalked out, brushing by the settee where Anastasia sat, and crossing over to join his caller. "I didn't expect you today," he greeted, his entire demeanor strained as he backed the other man toward the entranceway. "Roberts, you may go to the bank for me now," he instructed brusquely over his shoulder.
The nervous clerk jumped to his feet, and George waited, keeping his back to Anastasia and remaining silent until Roberts had excused himself and left. Then, he continued speaking to his guest, his voice, and that of his companion, scarcely audible.
Casually, Anastasia rose, twisting about to eye her uncle's now-vacant office longingly. She turned back, studying the two men and grappling over which to do: Should she sidle closer to them, try to eavesdrop on the conversation, and learn what this visit was all about? Or should she use this time to try to slip into her uncle's private domain and glance at his personal records?
Since the men's voices were so quiet that eavesdropping was a virtual impossibility, and coupled with the fact that she might never have another chance, she opted for the latter.
Slowly, she edged toward the inner office, never looking away from her uncle and his visitor. They were engrossed in heated discussion, their agitated tones escalating into hisses, both men totally unaware of her presence.
At the precise moment, Anastasia eased inside, then halted, deciding quickly where to spend the few seconds she had. Scrutinizing the room, she made an impulsive decision, and acted upon it. She rushed to the desk, snatched up the appointment book, and tucked it in the pocket beneath her skirts. Holding her breath, she inched back to the threshold, peeking outside and feeling a surge of relief when she saw the two men still talking. She slipped out, sidled over to the settee, and resumed her position.
"Uncle George, may I help myself to the next drawer of files?" she inquired brightly.
"What?" Just the sound of her voice made George's shoulders go positively rigid. "Oh, yes, yes. Mister … my guest and I will be going out for a few minutes." He turned, hurried over to lock his office door. Pausing beside Anastasia, he glanced down at what she was perusing, and looked subtly but discernibly relieved at whatever he saw. "Browse through the files as you please," he forced himself to offer. "Save any questions you have for Roberts. He'll be back within the half hour."
"Thank you. I will." She smiled, holding her breath until her uncle and his portly guest—who had retreated into the hallway to wait—had left.
She heard their footsteps fade away, and waited an extra moment to be safe. Then, she whisked the appointment book out from under her skirts, and began scanning the entries.
Rather than starting at the beginning, she focused on the 7th of August, about one week ago, hoping to see a name that would leap out at her and correspond with the timing of the shipment of that questionable cargo.
Lyman's name appeared several times, but that was no surprise. So did a few other names. Curiously, they were all the shippers whose rates were higher than their competitors.
A rather clipped entry dated two days ago caught her eye: Rouge—receive Paris shipment.
No further details were provided, an oddity, given that the other entries in the book were thorough, described in full.
And neat.
That was another thing. Unlike George's other entries, which were precisely penned, as fastidious as he, this one was uneven, its awkwardly scrawled letters crammed in the corner, almost as if he wanted them hidden.
Which he probably did.
The date on the entry was August 12th—just one day after the shipment had gone down.
Paris. Was that where that illegal cargo had been headed? And, if so, who was Rouge?
Quickly, Anastasia flipped through the appointment book, noticing two additional, equally obscured entries that indicated other occasions when this Rouge was expecting something from Uncle George—something to be delivered to Paris.
But what?
A noise in the hallway caught Anastasia's ear, and swiftly she slipped the appointment book back into its hiding place beneath her skirts. When Mr. Roberts entered an instant later, she was calmly leafing through a stack of receipts.
"Have you everything you need, my lady?" he asked timidly.
"Yes." Anastasia gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Roberts. Oh, Uncle George said he'd be back shortly. He went for a stroll with Mr. … Mr.…" She screwed up her face, seemingly searching for the name of their visitor. "I'm sorry. I've received so many introductions since I returned to England. I completely forgot the surname of that pleasant gentleman who was just here."
"Bates," Roberts supplied, nodding his understanding as he resumed his place at his desk. "Mr. Bates. The magistrate."
"Yes, that's right. Mr. Bates." Anastasia nearly leaped out of her seat as the name fell into place. Of course. Bates—the magistrate. No wonder Uncle George hadn't wanted her to get too good a look at him. He knew that if she saw him up close she'd recognize him, and wonder why a magistrate was visiting the offices of an import-export company.
Mr. Bates. Now she remembered. He'd been one of the potential backers she'd approached at her coming-out party. He was financially secure and well-connected.
And his was the name she'd overheard her uncle speak to Mr. Lyman in their meeting yesterday.
Anastasia had to keep herself from shouting aloud as that snippet of memory fell into place, and she recalled her uncle's words.
That merchandise was worth a fortune—you saw the quality Bates came up with. We would have gotten thousands for it. Thousands. And Lyman—it was our last chance. Our last bloody chance!
Bates. That had been the name that had hovered out of reach when she'd recounted the conversation to Damen.
And now that she did recall it, a whole new set of questions emerged. Why in the name of heaven was a magistrate involved in supplying goods? What stolen or illegal merchandise had he gotten his hands on that Uncle George had shipped to someone named Rouge in Paris? Valuable jewels? Opium?
She'd be willing to bet that the sunken cargo was the reason for Bates's visit today—and the reason for his unsettled state of mind. He'd probably just found out that whatever he'd provided to Uncle George was never going to reach its destination.
Anastasia massaged her temples. She had to assimilate all this information, to review it with someone she trusted—the same someone who could help her make sense of all she'd gleaned today.
Damen.
Half tempted to make some excuse and head out, she suddenly remembered the appointment book. If she left the office without returning it, her uncle would undoubtedly come back and discover it missing. Then he'd know she was up to something, which would arouse his suspicions and, consequently, undo everything she'd accomplished thus far.
She eased back on the settee. She had to have patience, to find a way to replace the appointment book before leaving the office.
How was another matter entirely—one she wished she'd given some thought to before she'd snatched the bloody thing. Then again, there hadn't been time. If she'd taken one extra minute to think things through, her opportunity to seize the book would have vanished and she never would have had the chance to read those potentially incriminating entries.
Somehow, some way, she had to await her uncle's return and accompany him into his office, then find a way to slip the appointment book back onto his desk—before he noticed it was missing.
Lord only knew what she was letting herself in for, especially given the wretched mood her uncle would doubtless be in after his heated discussion with Bates.
Well, she'd just have to contend with that, as well.
She lowered her head, resuming her perusal of the files. Being she was stuck here, she might as well make the most of it. She'd pore over as many receipts as time permitted.
Twenty minutes later, George stalked into the office, a black scowl darkening his face. His breath was coming quickly—as if he'd been running or, perhaps, arguing strenuously. He barely glanced at Roberts or Anastasia, but he
aded straight for his office door. His hand shook as he fitted the key into the lock, and it took him three attempts to get the door open.
Either he's been drinking or, more likely, he craves a drink, Anastasia mused silently.
Just the thing she needed to save her.
Moving to the edge of the settee, she waited until her uncle had taken a few steps inside his office. Then, she shot to her feet, following him in as quietly as she could.
Sure enough, he had crossed the room and was pouring himself a generous helping of brandy.
Without pause, Anastasia yanked the appointment book from beneath her skirts and placed it silently on the desk where she'd found it.
"Uncle George?" she said, pretending she'd just entered the room. "I want to thank you for giving me free rein to explore. It's been exciting to learn just how vast our company has become."