Nothing, he assured himself for the dozenth time. If Sheldrake knew the truth, or even a portion of the truth, he'd be breaking down the doors with the authorities in tow. Whatever Anastasia suspected, it had to be a vague hunch only, something she couldn't substantiate with proof.
Still, the sooner he shipped her off, the better. Because knowing Anastasia, she wouldn't rest until she found that proof.
There had to be a way to reap the benefits of her death without killing her.
There was, George determined abruptly. He had to stage her death, convince everyone she was dead when she'd really be very much alive, warming the bed of Rouge's client, while he'd be reaping the rewards.
Poor Anastasia. She wouldn't really be dead—but she'd sure as hell wish she was.
An ugly laugh escaped George's lips, all the effects of the brandy vanishing as the pieces of his plan fell into place.
Bates. He'd begin with Bates. From there, the rest would be easy…
Just before dawn, George emerged from his study, feeling more in control than he had in months. He went directly to the entranceway, summoning Wells with a wave of his hand.
"Yes, my lord?" the butler said politely, trying not to stare at Lord Medford's disheveled state.
"Wells, I need you to do something for me." He stuffed a note in the butler's hand. "Have this delivered to Bates immediately. I want him here in one hour. When he arrives, show him directly to my study." A meaningful pause. "No one else is to know about the magistrate's visit. In fact…" He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Arrange for Breanna and Anastasia to be at the stables, or in the far gardens, or somewhere equally remote when Bates arrives. Have their breakfast served there, if need be. I don't want them in this manor during Bates's visit. Is that clear?"
For a moment, Wells said nothing. Then, he nodded. "Quite clear, sir."
* * *
Anastasia hadn't slept a wink all night.
She and Breanna had talked until half after three, analyzing what Anastasia had found in that appointment book, trying to fit it together with Bates's visit and this mysterious Rouge. They were both frustrated by their lack of ability to do anything, although they saw the wisdom of leaving things in Damen's hands—for now. Still, they couldn't stop their minds from racing as they discussed the possibilities, the options, the dangers. Nor could they shake the feeling that they were hovering on the brink of something explosive, and that it was up to them to keep their eyes and ears open in order to prevent it. After all, Damen might be the wiser and safer choice to actively investigate matters, but they were the ones who were living here.
They'd retired to their separate chambers a few hours before dawn, agreeing to try to get some rest, then resume their discussion at dawn while taking a long walk through the gardens.
For Anastasia, sleep hadn't come.
She'd finally given up, climbing out of bed and taking her small, ornate strongbox out of the nightstand drawer. Opening it, she'd smiled fondly as she sifted through the mementos of her parents and the ten years of correspondence with Breanna, reaching beneath them to extract the precious gold coin her grandfather had bequeathed her a veritable lifetime ago.
What should I do, Grandfather? she pondered silently, leaving her bed and crossing over to the window, staring out across the grounds and clutching the coin in her hand. I know you perceived Papa and Uncle George's animosity, but did you ever have any idea it would come to this?
She glanced down at the coin, tracing the beloved imprint of Medford Manor, then flipping the coin over to caress the elegant seal that signified the Colby family name.
A name her uncle was bent on destroying.
"I see you couldn't sleep either." Breanna came up behind her cousin, sighing as she saw what Anastasia clutched in her hand. "I was cradling my coin for the longest time, too, hoping it would help supply the answers."
"And did it?" Stacie asked softly.
"I think we're going to have to do that on our own."
"I agree." Anastasia continued staring off into the distance, studying all the beloved places where she and Breanna had played as girls, then raising her eyes up to the heavens. "He's counting on us, Breanna," she murmured. "Somewhere up there, Grandfather is watching and counting on us to set things right."
"And we will." Breanna followed Anastasia's gaze. "He has faith in us, Stacie. Giving us the coins, leaving us that trust fund—those were his ways of making sure we'd always recall how deeply he believes in us. Just as he believes we'd never let him down."
"I know that," Anastasia replied. "I just wish…" She broke off, a fragment of memory from so long ago flashing through her mind.
You're extraordinarily special. I don't doubt you'll accomplish all your fathers didn't and more. Anastasia could hear her grandfather's voice as if he were standing there beside her, having just presented her and Breanna with their coins. I only wish I could make your paths home easier…
"'I only wish I could make your paths home easier,'" she repeated aloud. "That's what Grandfather said when he gave us our coins. It's as if he had a sixth sense of how complex the situation would become—even if he was spared having to live through it firsthand."
"It wouldn't surprise me if he realized how deep my father's hatred ran—and what he was capable of," Breanna murmured in agreement, as Anastasia's memory triggered her own. "Grandfather was an extraordinary man. He seemed to know us better than we knew ourselves."
"Indeed he did. Our faults, our virtues, even our dreams."
Hearing the tremor in Anastasia's voice, Breanna intentionally lightened the mood. "Speaking of our dreams, one thing I'm sure Grandfather is extremely pleased about is you and Damen. I don't think he could have picked a more perfect man for you—someone who might actually manage to keep you in line. Occasionally."
That elicited a grin. "When I'm not keeping him in line. But you're right. Grandfather would be pleased. He and Papa both had great respect for Damen. I'm sure they'd applaud the idea of us sharing our lives." Anastasia hesitated a moment, then turned to meet her cousin's gaze. "Breanna, I didn't mention this last night because of the gravity of our discussion. Still, I want you to be the first to know—Damen's asked me to marry him. Not now, of course," she added quickly. "Not until this nightmare is behind us."
Breanna was already hugging her. "That's just the news I wanted to hear. And it's all the more reason for us to resolve things quickly. What a beautiful bride you're going to make," she added, drawing back to dab at her eyes. "Although I do wonder if you'll be able to make it through an entire ceremony and a wedding breakfast without tearing your dress or tousling your hair."
"I doubt it," Anastasia returned, squeezing Breanna's hands fiercely. "My saving grace will be having you as my bridal attendant—which you will be, right?"
"Just try and stop me." Breanna drew a calming breath. "We have lots of planning to do. First, we've got to think up a way to help Damen find out what Father is up to. After that, we have a wedding to arrange." Her fingertips grazed Anastasia's coin. "Put that treasure away. It's time to get dressed and go for our stroll. I have a feeling we're about to come up with something."
Savoring the coin's comforting shape, Anastasia could actually sense her grandfather's presence, as if he were gifting them with his love and his strength. "You know what, Breanna? I have the same feeling."
* * *
Wells was fidgeting.
Anastasia noticed it as soon as she and Breanna caught sight of him from the other end of the hallway.
Breanna noticed it, too, for she cast a swift, curious glance at her cousin, who shrugged in reply.
Something was definitely amiss.
Wells never fidgeted.
"Wells? Are you feeling all right?" Anastasia asked as they approached the entranceway door.
The butler started, his brows drawing together as he turned to study them. "I? Yes, Miss Stacie, I'm fine. I was actually just contemplating the two of you, wondering if I'd be overstepping my bou
nds if I were to awaken you."
"You could never overstep your bounds with us. But was there some reason you needed to awaken us; something in particular you wanted?"
"No, no. It's just that it's such a lovely day, I thought you might prefer having a private breakfast served to you in the east gardens. Right now—while the sun is still making its glorious assent."
"I see." Breanna was openly regarding him as if trying to decipher the cause of his odd behavior. "Ironically, Stacie and I were just headed to that very place for a stroll. Breakfast there would be lovely. Wells, are you sure you're feeling all right?"
Pressing his lips together, the butler nodded. "Quite all right, Miss Breanna, thank you." A distinct pause. "However, I am concerned about the two of you. You look peaked."
"I suppose we are. We've been up most of the night." Breanna hesitated, shot her cousin a sidelong look.
"We have a great deal on our minds," Anastasia added. She had the oddest feeling Wells was steering the conversation in a specific direction.
"Then a walk will do you good," the butler declared, adjusting his spectacles and peering intently at a stray thread on his sleeve. "And it all works out quite well—the timing, that is. You'll be gone for several hours, which should give the gentlemen ample time to conclude their meeting."
"What gentlemen?" Anastasia jumped on the butler's words at once. "What meeting?"
Slowly, Wells raised his head, met Anastasia's gaze head-on. "I really can't say, Miss Stacie. No one is to know who our guest is or when he arrives. My job is to maintain my silence, and to assure your uncle the privacy he's requested. You're both to remain absent from the manor, starting from about a half hour from now." With that, Wells clasped his hands behind his back, all traces of fidgeting gone. "I've done as I was asked. How you two respond is entirely up to you."
Anastasia's eyes had grown round as saucers. "You're advising us to stay here," she breathed. "You think we should know who Uncle George is meeting with—and what they're meeting about."
"Your grandfather did so enjoy the earliest hours of morning," Wells declared. "He always claimed he made his best discoveries then, before the world was awake to clutter his thinking."
"That is what you're saying," Breanna concurred.
Wells's glance flickered over them, and his voice quavered ever so slightly. "You two were the light of your grandfather's life. Nothing would mean more to him than ensuring your safety. Not duty, not faithfulness, not even loyalty. Nothing."
On impulse, Anastasia stepped forward, reaching up and kissing the butler's cheek. "Thank you, Wells. Grandfather was lucky to have you. And so are we."
A hard swallow. "Be careful," he cautioned. "Both of you."
"Don't worry. We will."
Tender amusement softened Wells's features. "You two were always the very finest of eavesdroppers. I suspect you still are."
The quality of Anastasia and Breanna's eavesdropping was never in question, at least not in their minds.
Still, certain precautions had to be taken before they could begin doing what they did so well.
To protect Wells and ensure things proceeded as planned, the girls left the manor that very instant, walking off in the direction of the east gardens as if they intended to spend the morning there, milling about and having breakfast.
But the minute they were far enough away from George's study window to avoid detection, they darted back toward the manor. Except that instead of retracing their steps to the front door, they headed for the rear, slipping in through the servants' entrance.
From there, they crept down the hall and into the alcove nestled just off the main hallway. Waiting, they listened intently until they heard two sets of footsteps—one belonging to Wells, the other to their surprise guest—along with Wells's clear, polite voice instructing their visitor to follow him. Clearly, the butler was ushering someone in the direction of George's study, and alerting them to that very fact.
The footsteps faded. Minutes later, Wells's resumed, this time alone. He paused mere feet from where they stood, and pulled out his handkerchief. Folding it in two, he blew his nose loudly—once, twice—then continued on his way.
Despite the tension permeating her body, Anastasia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I believe that was our signal," she hissed.
Breanna nodded, her own lips twitching. "Let's wait another minute, make sure we've given Wells enough time to get back to his post. If anything should go wrong, I don't want him in trouble."
"Agreed."
They held their breath, counted slowly to sixty. Then, they tiptoed down the hall, rounding the corridor that led to George's study.
Outside, they halted, ears pressed close to the tightly shut door.
"No, I don't want a drink," a muffled voice was refusing. "I want an answer to my question. What in God's name possessed you to drag me here at six A.M.?"
"I know that voice," Anastasia muttered. "I've heard it recently."
"I dragged you here because I've thought up the solution to all our problems," George was replying. "With a little work on both our parts, our circumstances will be better than ever in one week's time."
"How can that be? Just yesterday you told me that the entire shipment I supplied you with is lost, with no chance for recovery."
"Bates," Anastasia determined in a low voice. "The magistrate. That's who Uncle George is talking to."
"I know what I told you, Bates," George confirmed with his next words. "But things have changed since then. Everything's changed."
"I don't care. I'm finished worrying myself to sleep every night, finished praying I'll have a job rather than a cell to go to in the morning. Whatever it is, Medford, count me out."
Footsteps, as Bates veered away, marched toward the door.
The girls tensed, preparing to bolt.
"I can't do that." George's icy statement halted the magistrate in his tracks. "And I wouldn't suggest you walk out of this study. Because if you do, I'll be forced to uncover records tying you to that final shipment, and all the others that preceded it." A pause. "Ah, I see I have your attention. Does that mean you'll be staying?"
"What choice do I have?" was the bitter response. "Tell me what you want of me. And it better not be another lot; I've exhausted my contacts."
"No, no, this time I've got my own merchandise to provide. As luck would have it, only one girl is required, not an entire crop. And I've got the perfect one picked out."
"Then why do you need me?" Bates sounded as puzzled as he did unnerved.
"Because this is going to take some creativity to pull off. And I need your cooperation to do that." The clinking of a glass … no, a cup and saucer. George wasn't drinking spirits, not this time. "As you know, I've recently ensured our friend Meade's continuing services. We'll need him for this particular assignment. He'll be our captain. Lyman will supply the ship, and the falsified records as to its destination. And I'll supply the passenger."
"What the hell are you talking about? What false destination? And where do I come in?"
"I'm just getting to that part. Unfortunately, soon after leaving England for America—which, in answer to your question, is our false destination—our ship will encounter some turbulent seas. Sadly, our homesick passenger, who will be strolling on deck when the harsh seas strike, will topple overboard and drown, despite Meade's frantic attempts to save her. Terribly upset, Meade will steer the ship back to London, bringing with him our passenger's personal effects—personal effects I can easily supply. At which point you will declare her legally dead. And the sun will, once again, shine."
"America." A nervous cough. "Where will this ship really have gone?"
"To Paris, as usual. To deliver the merchandise to Rouge."
"The merchandise. In other words, this girl isn't really going to drown. She's going to…" A long, uneasy pause—as if Bates had already guessed the answer to his question. "Who is it you're sending to Paris?"
"Why, Bates. I'm s
urprised you have to ask."
"My God, Medford. You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?" A biting laugh. "I'll get Henry's inheritance, Rouge's generous payment, and the perfect son-in-law from one swift, ingenious transaction. Who am I sending? Why, my niece, Anastasia, of course."
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
All the color drained from Anastasia's face, as she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Uncle George was selling women. And she was next.
"Oh my God," she heard Breanna gasp. An instant later, distraught hands grasped her arms, and Breanna gave her a hard, insistent shake. "Stacie, come on. We've got to get out of here. We've got to go—now."