In short, John Cunnings was spending more than ten times what he was earning.
He was also conducting extra business with one of the House of Lockewood's couriers—business the courier believed to be sanctioned by the bank but which, upon closer investigation by Damen's contacts, showed no bank authorization whatsoever. And that business involved the delivery of messages to and from Medford Manor.
"Oh, Damen." Anastasia lifted her head, her stunned eyes meeting Damen's. "I can't believe this."
"Cunnings." Damen dragged both hands through his hair. "Of all people." A bitter laugh. "My senior officer, the man in charge of all my overseas investments. He's been with the House of Lockewood since before my father died, and he was by my side from the day I took over. I considered him to be my right-hand man, my friend. Yet it appears I don't even know him."
Anastasia interlaced her fingers with Damen's. "To some people, money means more than anything, including friendship and integrity," she reminded him softly. "I know that's foreign to you, as it is to me. But just look at Uncle George. Look at the extremes he's willing to go to for wealth and position."
"Yes. George." Damen's jaw set. "I wonder how deeply involved Cunnings is in his sick scheme. Is he just George's spy, his connection to the fastest courier? Or is he fully aware of the cargo George deals with? Worse, is he getting paid to help find you, ship you off on the next vessel to Rouge?"
"I don't know. But we'll have to…" Anastasia broke off, an odd expression crossing her face.
"What is it?" Damen asked.
"I'm not sure." She pressed her lips together, shifting restlessly on Damen's lap. "But I have the strangest feeling something's happening. Something that involves Breanna."
"You think she's in danger?"
Contemplating that possibility, Anastasia frowned, slowly shook her head. "No. At least I don't think so. I don't feel panicked. I feel … fidgety." Her gaze met Damen's. "Whatever it is, it won't be long now. My instincts tell me that this whole nightmare is beginning to unravel."
* * *
In the alehouse, Cunnings straddled his stool, lighting a cheroot and eyeing George warily. "Medford, isn't it time you told me what's going on? I know you want Sheldrake to marry your daughter. You've been doing everything you can to keep him and your niece apart. Well, now she's gone. So why aren't you celebrating?"
"Because I don't think she's gone." George's laugh was bitter. "And because 'gone' is no longer good enough."
"You're talking about your brother's inheritance."
"I'm talking about all of it: the inheritance, the company, Sheldrake. Everything. But I can't get my hands on those things as long as Anastasia's missing."
Cunnings brought the cheroot to his lips, inhaled. "I thought you had a plan."
"I did."
"But you need your niece for that plan."
"Exactly."
Cunnings took a swallow of ale. "She'd have to be dead for you to get any of what you want—including Sheldrake, at this point. I told you, he's head over heels in love with her."
George stared at his clenched hands. "If my plan had worked, the world would have believed she was dead."
"Where would she have been?"
"On a ship. En route to the Continent."
One of Cunnings's brows rose. "To Rouge?"
"Yes."
A low whistle. "That sounds like a damned good plan. How much were you getting paid?"
"It doesn't matter." George shoved aside his untouched tankard of ale, glaring at Cunnings. "What matters is, Anastasia's gone. I know she's still in England—although where, I haven't an inkling."
"And if she reappears—without your being able to grab her before she gets to Sheldrake, ship her off to Rouge—then your plan is a thing of the past. As, given your current financial situation, are you." Cunnings inclined his head. "Have you considered sending a substitute? Or is Rouge demanding only Anastasia?"
"What Rouge is demanding is a well-bred young woman who's chaste, beautiful, and highborn. And I've got five days to deliver her."
"Really." Cunnings stabbed out his cheroot. "Let me look over the bank's client list. Maybe we'll get lucky and find a lady we can send in Anastasia's place—someone who fits Rouge's specifications, and who won't be missed. How would that be? Would it be worth ten percent of whatever Rouge is paying you?"
"Fine. Fine." Whereas yesterday George would have jumped at that opportunity, today he was more preoccupied with finding Anastasia and eliminating her—permanently. "But first we deal with the problem of Anastasia. Which brings me to the other business we have to discuss tonight." He gripped the edge of the table, leaning forward to regard Cunnings intently. "That associate of yours—the one you mentioned last time—how good is he at tracking people down?"
Cunnings raised his chin, met George's stare head-on. "There's no one better."
"So he'll find her."
"No matter where she's hiding, yes. He'll find her."
"And then?"
"He'll kill her."
* * *
At the next table, Breanna bit off a cry. She grabbed her tankard of ale and pressed it to her lips, taking an enormous gulp to quell her shock.
Kill her? He was going to kill Stacie?
The bitter taste of ale burned its way to her stomach, but she scarcely noticed it.
Her horrified stare met Wells's.
"I've known him for quite some time," Cunnings was continuing. "And I'm well aware of his accomplishments. He's an expert tracker and an even better shot." A meaningful pause. "He's also expensive. Very expensive."
George waved away the warning. "That doesn't concern me."
"It should. You owe me almost a thousand pounds, plus that ten percent if I find you another girl for Rouge. You owe a fortune to your colleagues and your creditors. How the hell are you going to pay the kind of professional we're discussing? His fees are a lot higher than mine."
"You forget about Henry's inheritance." Triumph curved George's lips. "You yourself told me Anastasia only invested twenty-five thousand pounds of that money. That leaves over one hundred seventy-five thousand pounds for me. I can pay you double what I owe you, and I can pay your friend. I'll be a rich man, Cunnings. I'll also be sole owner of Colby and Sons. In fact, handle both these assignments successfully—ending Anastasia's life and securing another candidate for Rouge—and I'll give you the notoriety you've always craved. No more second place. You'll have a seat on my Board of Directors. Why, you'll be right up there with Sheldrake."
Cunnings tossed off the rest of his ale with a flourish. "I've served like a faithful dog at my rich master's feet all these years. And what has it gotten me? Nothing but an occasional pat on the head. I deserve better. And I'm going to get better. You've got yourself a deal, Medford. Give me a day. I'll dig through the bank's files and contact my associate. Your niece is as good as dead."
George's eyes gleamed. "When can I meet this gifted assassin?"
"You can't. He never meets with anyone—other than me." Cunnings shoved back his stool, aiming a pointed look at George. "Surely, given his line of work, you can understand his desire to stay anonymous."
"I suppose so." George nodded reluctantly. "How long will this take? It must happen quickly."
"If she's nearby, as you claim? A day. Two at the most. Relax. The next time you see Anastasia, it will be at her funeral."
* * *
Breanna's breath was coming in sharp rasps as she dashed down the alley and jumped into the phaeton. She'd had to dig her nails into her thighs to keep from leaping up and lunging after Cunnings. But she had to stay level-headed—for Stacie's sake. So, she and Wells had nursed their drinks, lowering their heads as Cunnings walked past them and exited the alehouse. Not long after, her father had followed suit.
They'd given it another five minutes—enough time for George to reach his phaeton—before they acted. Making their way outside, they'd peeked to the right, ensuring George was out of sight, before veering of
f 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."
* * *
Chapter 20
« ^ »
Stacie 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 r
ecoiled 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."