And hell, the bitch would be gone forever.
Wouldn't that be divine justice, Anne, George mused sardonically. Destroying the one person you loved even more than you did Henry. Killing off Henry's legacy, his sole heir. Marrying Breanna off to Sheldrake, and having the Colby name to myself. Savoring the sheer joy of knowing I do.
On that thought, George stalked over to his desk, dragging open the drawer and shoving everything aside until he found the miniature portrait. He glared down at Anne's likeness, loathing her with every fiber of his being, wishing he had her in front of him, alive and well, just so he could choke her to death with his bare hands.
Savagely, he flung the portrait across the room, watched it strike the wall and topple to the carpet, not giving a damn that its clutter upset the room's perfect sense of order. Fine. Anne was dead. Perhaps it was time he accepted it.
Perhaps it was also time for Anastasia to join her.
* * *
Chapter 19
« ^ »
It was ten minutes past midnight.
Breanna shoved in her last hairpin, then tugged on the cap Wells had given her, relieved to see it was deep enough to cover all her hair, its brim reaching halfway down her forehead.
Excellent. She pivoted in front of the looking glass, grinning at the image she made. If someone didn't plant himself directly before her, they'd think she was a scrawny but wholly realistic sailor or workman.
Mentally, she reviewed what was left to do.
Her bed.
She crossed over, rearranging the bedcovers and stuffing the pillows beneath it until it looked as if someone was not only there, but deeply asleep. That way, if her maid should check on her, all would seem normal.
With a satisfied nod, Breanna completed the final detail of her attire. She slid open the nightstand drawer and extracted the pistol, shoving it into the pocket of her coat. Now she was ready.
Twelve fifteen. Almost time.
She wandered about the room, running her fingertips over her porcelain figures and reflecting back over the cryptic war of words she'd had with her father—a war that had ended with him exploding in a manner so irrational that it made her wonder if he'd truly gone over the edge. The enmity in his eyes, the trembling fury in his voice, the frenzied way he'd thrown her out… Even now Breanna shuddered.
Maybe she'd pushed him too far. She'd sensed his surprise and his anger when she freely offered him information on Stacie and Damen's feelings for each other. Clearly, he'd expected her to lie. Which also meant he had no recollection of what he'd blurted out yesterday while in a drunken rage—the reference to Stacie as Damen's partner in bed. If he'd recalled saying it, he would have known why she'd called his bluff, given him the truth she already knew he possessed.
But the rest of what she'd said to him…
Breanna frowned, unconsciously picking up the figure of the two little girls, holding it tightly in her hands. She'd known she would provoke him with that reference to people getting what they deserve. But she hadn't been able to restrain herself. It had been a stupid thing to say—she was fully aware that she'd made him suspicious of how much she knew. Nevertheless, she couldn't regret it. She hated him for what he was doing, and in some small way, she needed him to know that.
However, his control had snapped when she mentioned fate putting the right people together. She hadn't planned on telling him she knew about Aunt Anne; that had just slipped out in the heat of anger. Still, even she had never anticipated the intensity of his rage.
Well, it was too late now for regrets. She couldn't retract her words even if she wanted to. Whatever her father believed, however furious he was, the damage was done, the die cast.
As for his reaction to her statement about life-altering events, obviously he was worried about how Stacie's future would affect his. She'd be marrying Damen, joining her life with his…
Having his children.
Breanna's head shot up, the realization accosting her. Of course. That's what her father's fears stemmed from. He knew Stacie and Damen were intimately involved. He was probably terrified that she was pregnant. In his mind, that would explain why she'd run off.
It would also explain his absolute determination to find her. To find her and rid himself of her—especially if she was also carrying a child he wanted gone, its conception undiscovered. She could almost imagine her father's thoughts: If he shipped Anastasia off to Rouge quickly enough, he could pass this child off on another man and no one would ever be the wiser. But if he waited too long…
A surge of fear shot through Breanna. Her father's panic was escalating. He stood to lose more and more with each passing day. Lord only knew what lengths he would go to to find Stacie and transport her to Rouge.
She had to stop him.
Biting her lip, Breanna replaced the porcelain figure on her bureau, pausing only long enough to caress the edge of the silver coin, which was gently nudged in its slot between the little girls and the flowers. "Help me, Grandfather," she whispered aloud. "Help me find the strength to do what I must. And please—help Stacie."
She turned away from her bureau, dashed away the moisture from her lashes.
Her glance fell on the clock.
Twelve twenty-five. Time to act.
Savoring the reassuring weight of the pistol in her coat and her grandfather's presence in her heart, Breanna went to the door, eased it open.
The hallway was deserted.
She made her way to the landing, hiding in the alcove and listening for noises below—noises that would indicate her father's departure.
Three minutes later, she heard them.
Quick, purposeful strides—her father's—walked the length of the front hall to the entranceway. The door opened, then shut, its firm click echoing through the empty hallway.
Breanna counted to ten. Then, she scooted down the staircase and darted in the opposite direction, down the corridor that led to the manor's side door, and the eastern portion of the drive.
She glanced into her father's study as she ran by, shivering as she remembered the rage on his face when he'd shoved her out.
A shiny object near the threshold caught her eye.
Without the slightest notion why, Breanna stopped long enough to bend down and pick up the object. It turned out to be a small, ornate picture frame, one that housed a tiny portrait. The portrait was of a woman, one with delicate features, fair skin, and a cloud of honey brown hair.
At first glance, she thought it was her mother.
Instinct made her look more closely, and she realized her mistake in a flash.
It wasn't her mother. It was Aunt Anne.
Trepidation gripped Breanna's gut.
Her father had kept Aunt Anne's portrait all these years. Clearly, he'd been consumed for decades by a woman he adamantly believed should have been his.
But what really frightened her was that he'd chosen tonight to destroy it, as if he'd finally banished Aunt Anne from his life.
Just as he intended to banish Stacie.
Time was running out.
Stuffing the miniature into her pocket, Breanna took off at a tear, bolting down the hall and bursting out the side door.
Wells and the phaeton were waiting. Panting, Breanna climbed into the passenger seat, adjusting her cap and peering around the drive.
Silently, Wells pointed, indicating that her father's carriage was nearing the gates.
Breanna nodded.
They waited only until George's phaeton had turned the corner, disappeared from view.
Then Wells slapped the reins.
* * *
Damen's contacts were as good as their word.
By one A.M., they'd compiled and delivered personal details on every one of the five men—his four bank officers and Graff—who had access to the private offices at the House of Lockewood.
Proust brought the final papers to the sitting room, where Damen and Anastasia were already poring over what they'd received.
"That's the last of what you requested, sir," Proust announced.
"Thank you, Proust." Damen glanced at the grandfather clock, which heralded the hour as ten past one. "Go to bed. Anastasia and I can manage from here."
"Very good, sir." The valet bowed and took his leave.
"I see absolutely nothing incriminating about Booth," Stacie murmured. She was curled up on the settee, papers strewn all around her, and she frowned as she read and reread the pages on Booth. "He lives a simple life, doesn't gamble or attend parties, and resides in a modest flat several blocks from the bank. Even his savings account is adequate but not huge, although I doubt this snake would be stupid enough to deposit his illegal earnings in your bank."
"Probably not." Damen crossed over, sank into the armchair beside Anastasia. "However, you'd be surprised how arrogant some people become when they feel they've outsmarted the world. They become lax, make careless mistakes. I see it every day in business." He peered over Stacie's shoulder. "In Booth's case, though, I think we're barking up the wrong tree. I've reviewed everything three times, and I see nothing to label him as anything but a quiet, honest man."
With a frustrated sigh, Anastasia tossed the pages aside. "We've also reviewed the pages on Valldale and Lockhorn. They, too, appear to be as innocent as babes. Which means that all we have left are Graff and Cunnings. Both of whom have been with you longer than any of the others. Both of whom have handled your confidential papers for nearly a decade."
"All the more reason we have to investigate them." A muscle worked in Damen's jaw as he tore the seal of the newly delivered envelope. "I can't let sentiment interfere with learning the truth."
"Damen, I can't imagine…" Stacie broke off, waving away his oncoming rebuttal. "I know. We have to be sure. Fine. Let's be sure. But I'm beginning to wonder if this is all a waste of time."
"Someone told George about us. Someone is corresponding with Rouge. If these papers don't tell us who that someone is, we'll find another way. But I want that son of a bitch stopped."
Anastasia heard the pain in his voice, and she put aside her doubts, aching for what this part of the investigation was doing to him. "I love you," she said quietly, reaching out to caress his forearm.
Damen looked up, the tension on his face softening, although the fiercely protective light in his eyes seemed to intensify rather than diminish. "And I love you. I don't think you realize how much." He caught her palm, brought it to his lips. "I want my ring on your finger," he said fervently. "I want to flourish you before the world as my wife. I want my child growing inside you. And I mean to make all those wants realities the minute you're safe and those bastards are in Newgate. I intend to move heaven and earth to see that that happens."
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 ale-house; 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.