A muscle was working furiously in Damen's jaw. "What's Cunnings getting in exchange? A huge amount of money?"
"Several thousand pounds, plus ten percent of whatever Rouge pays Father. Oh, and one thing more." Breanna swallowed. "A seat on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons."
"Which Uncle George will have sole ownership of, if I'm eliminated." Twin spots of red tinged Anastasia's cheeks. "That monster will then have just what he wants, what he's always wanted—to triumph over Papa, and to wrest away everything Grandfather held dear: his company, his name, and everything good our family represents."
"Not to mention acquiring Uncle Henry's inheritance," Breanna reminded her. "And Damen, who Father assumes will seek solace in my arms once you're gone." A bitter gleam flashed in her eyes. "Does that course of events sound familiar?"
"It's the path he took when he married your mother," Anastasia supplied, gripping the folds of her gown as if by doing so she could stem her rage. "He's decided Damen will do the same: love a woman he can't have, and marry her closest replica."
"Exactly. Father all but admitted that to me during our argument tonight. Which reminds me…" Breanna shoved her hand into her pocket, extracted the miniature portrait. Its frame was somewhat mangled, but the image inside remained clear as day. "I found this in Father's study after he left tonight. He'd obviously hurled it at the wall." She stretched out her arm, offered the portrait to Stacie. "I believe it's self-explanatory."
Stacie took it, her eyes widening as she recognized the likeness. "Mama," she murmured, angling the picture for inspection. "He's kept a portrait of her all these years?"
"And destroyed it the very day he decided to destroy you."
"I can't listen to this another minute." Damen strode over, refilled his drink. "Not without riding to Medford Manor and choking that son of a bitch with my bare hands." He sucked in his breath, then released it, fighting for the restraint necessary to resolve things. "However, we still have one problem—the same problem we've had since the onset. Proof. Or lack thereof. What concrete evidence, other than hearsay, do we really have against George?"
"I believe we can tie the viscount to Mr. Cunnings," Wells put in, his color somewhat restored from the Madeira. "I gave Miss Breanna the address of the courier who delivers messages between the two of them. Surely that will help."
"Thank you, Wells," Damen replied, staring broodingly into his goblet. "Unfortunately, it's not enough. Oh, I have more than enough proof that Cunnings is involved in personal business with George." He gestured toward the pile of papers on the end table. "My contacts supplied me with dates and times when that courier ran personal deliveries back and forth between Medford Manor and my bank—at Cunnings's authorization. And Cunnings has been living like a prince, buying property, jewelry for women, you name it."
Damen's hands balled into fists. "The problem is, we still haven't gotten hold of documents that directly incriminate George. Nor have we closed in on any of his colleagues to the point where we could squeeze a confession out of them, one that would implicate George, as well. If we went to Bow Street
, had them seize George, he'd slip right through our fingers. They'd have only our testimony, and a few suspicious actions, to go on. Doubtless, George would have Bates exert some judicial influence—Bates, who's nearly as crooked as he is. After which, George would walk out a free man."
"What if we had a confession?" Anastasia interrupted. "A confession made directly to the authorities?" Three pairs of eyes riveted to her.
"Stacie, have you lost your mind?" Breanna responded. "Father would never confess—not when he's sober and never to the authorities."
"He might. If he didn't know he was confessing."
"You've lost me." Breanna inclined her head quizzically in Damen's direction. "Do you know anything about this?"
A dark scowl. "Only that I'm not going to like it." He set down his drink, folded his arms across his chest, and leveled his stare at Anastasia. "Let's hear your plan. And Stacie—it had better not involve you."
Her chin jutted up. "I'm already at risk, Damen. As of tomorrow, a hired assassin will be out hunting me down. How long do you think I can hide in your Town house?" She rubbed her palms together, growing more determined the more she contemplated her plan. "Breanna, did Cunnings say anything to Uncle George implying Damen played a part in my disappearance?"
"Cunnings is convinced that Damen isn't involved. He's satisfied that Damen believes you're really on your way to the States."
"Excellent. I suspected as much, given Damen's acting performance today at the bank. So whether I dropped out of sight because I'm pregnant with Damen's child or because I'm close to exposing Uncle George as a criminal, he thinks I haven't yet gone to Damen with the news." Still baffled, Breanna nodded.
"What if I found the evidence I was looking for? What if I got hold of exactly what it would take to throw Uncle George into prison?" A smile curved Anastasia's lips. "I'd share that proof with Damen immediately, wouldn't I?"
"But we don't have any proof."
"Your father doesn't know that."
Breanna's brows drew together. "Do you want me to plant a seed in Father's mind?"
"Absolutely not. He'd never believe you. Uncle George already knows your loyalty lies with me. No, we'll let Cunnings take care of that for us."
"How?"
"That's easy." Anastasia grinned. "Remember our pact. I'll go to the bank in the morning, pretending to be you. I'll insist on seeing Damen, alone, in his private office. Mr. Cunnings will be unbearably curious about the nature of my visit—pardon me, Breanna's visit. Damen and I will make sure he overhears every word of our private talk. I'll tell Damen that Anastasia contacted me, saying she found the evidence she was searching for, but that she was reluctant to deliver it to Bow Street without first getting my—Breanna's—permission. After all, turning over this evidence would mean sending Breanna's father to prison, and thereby tainting the Colby name, neither of which Anastasia felt right doing without securing Breanna's consent first. Being the moral person Breanna is, she'll fully support Anastasia's decision once she sees the evidence."
Stacie turned to Damen. "Damen, you'll gallantly refuse to have Breanna meet Anastasia alone. You'll arrange to be there with her when she reads Stacie's evidence—which will be, say, at the docks, at ten o'clock that night. You'll tell Breanna that, once this damning proof is in your hands, you'll be the one to turn it over to the authorities, sparing both her and Anastasia any potential risk. Cunnings will hear this entire plan. He'll rush off to contact Uncle George, alerting him to the fact that he'd better intercept whatever evidence Anastasia has before she shares it with you and Breanna—and you present it to the authorities. Uncle George will panic. He'll arrive at the docks at nine-fifty p.m.—he's always prompt, and this time he'll want to be early so, hopefully, he can grab Anastasia, destroying her and her proof before you and Breanna even lay eyes on it. Sure enough, you both won't have arrived yet, giving Uncle George just the advantage he needs. When I show up, as myself, we'll have a little scene. I'll provoke him into admitting what he's done. It shouldn't be hard, given his high opinion of himself and the fact that he believes we're alone."
A triumphant smile lit Stacie's face. "What Uncle George won't know is that Bow Street
has been alerted to the situation, and has men hiding behind the warehouses and listening to every word that's spoken. Once he's confessed, they can take him away. Now, are we all ready to enact my plan?"
"Absolutely not." Damen sliced the air with his palm. "Your plan neglects to take into account a few minor details. Such as, what if this assassin Cunnings hires is watching the bank when Breanna visits? What if he figures out it's you, not she, who's calling on me, and he decides to carry out his job then and there? He's a professional killer, Stacie; there's no guarantee you can fool him."
"We don't have to try." Breanna's eyes were glittering precisely like Anastasia's. "Stacie will stay here, in your home, safe. I'l
l come to the bank."
"And what will you tell your father?" Stacie demanded, hands on hips. "Before he thrashes you, that is?"
"I'll tell him nothing. I won't see him. I'll spend the remainder of the night right here. Then, I'll borrow one of your gowns, take our phaeton, and ride to the bank as soon as it opens."
Anastasia's jaw dropped. "And how will you explain your absence at Medford Manor?"
"I won't have to." Breanna's lips curved, and she explained to them how she'd stuffed her bed to make it look slept in. "My lady's maid will peek in, and think I'm still asleep. By the time she realizes her mistake, I'll have finished my business in London and be on my way home. Given the speed of your courier—Cunnings's courier—Father will have received his warning message before I return, so he'll already know where I've been. Beating me for it would be counterproductive: it would only alert me to the fact that he's aware of my plan, which would give me the opportunity to warn Stacie. So he'll save my whipping for after he deals with her." Breanna's smile widened. "But, as we all know, there won't be any 'after' for Father. He'll be en route to Newgate."
"And if he brings a weapon?" Damen demanded.
"Father's no marksman," Breanna assured him. "I'm a far more accurate shot than he is. He's also a coward. That's why he's paying an assassin to do his dirty work, rather than taking care of things himself. When it comes to violence, Father uses his fists, not a pistol."
"Which brings me back to the assassin." Damen's scowl deepened. "Obviously, Cunnings will alert him to our plan at the same time he alerts George. He'll respond by being right there at the docks waiting for Stacie to show up."
"I'm sure he will be," Anastasia concurred. "But Cunnings will also instruct him not to shoot me until Uncle George gets the written evidence he's there to collect. So I'll be safe until that happens. And once this assassin sees Bow Street
swarming about, I doubt he'll rush forward, pistol aimed and ready."
"It's bloody risky," Damen said, with a hard shake of his head. "I don't like it."
"You'll be there to safeguard me," Anastasia reminded him. "Bring your own pistol, if it makes you feel better. Give me one, as well. But this is the only way we're going to catch Uncle George. Before he makes sure I'm…" She wet her lips, not eager to finish her own sentence.
"Dammit," Damen bit out, only too well aware of Stacie's implication, and the fact that she was right.
"What about Wells?" Anastasia suddenly realized aloud. "He's been at his post every morning for three decades. If he and Breanna stay here overnight, he'll be glaringly absent at dawn. That will make Uncle George suspicious."
"That's true." Damen rubbed his chin, considering the issue thoughtfully.
"I told the viscount I felt ill," Wells protested. "He won't be surprised if I'm not up and about at dawn."
"We can't take that chance," Damen replied, studying the tired but determined butler. "Listen to me," he continued gently. "Don't be stubborn. You're exhausted. You need some rest. And Stacie's right—you'd better be at the entranceway door tomorrow morning. Even if George believes you're ill, you can't be sure he won't check on you. If he does, and finds you missing, he'll most certainly become suspicious, especially since he knows full well how deeply you care for Anastasia and Breanna. That's a risk we can't take."
Seeing the butler's oncoming protest, Damen held up his palm, warded it off. "If you want to help us, go home. I'll arrange for an appropriate change of clothes. Then my driver will take you to Medford Manor. He'll use the closed carriage, so you can get a few hours' sleep on the way. It will be later than usual when you reach your post—which is understandable, given how ill you felt the night before—but the important thing is that you'll be there. Everything must seem in place."
"That's perfect," Breanna agreed. "If Wells goes home, I won't have to face Father until ten o'clock tomorrow night. I'll stay here, drive the phaeton to the bank, then return here, spending the rest of the day with Stacie. I'll fill her in on what happens at the bank, keep her inside and out of view—" A pointed, no-nonsense look at Stacie, "—until it's time for us to leave for our rendezvous at the docks. In the meantime, Wells can tell Father I left Medford Manor right after breakfast, took the phaeton, but mentioned nothing about where I was going. Once Father receives Cunnings's message, he'll know my destination, and why I didn't disclose it to Wells."
She gazed pleadingly at the butler, appealing to him in a way she knew would ensure he went home, got the rest he so desperately needed. "Please, Wells. You'd be sparing me Lord knows how severe an argument and how painful a beating. Do it for me."
The butler's protective instincts won out, just as Breanna knew they would. "Very well, Miss Breanna. If it will shield you and help Miss Stacie, I'll do as Lord Sheldrake asks." He rose, looking tenderly from one girl to the other. "I'll do my part," he assured them, his voice quavering a bit. "And then … I'll pray."
* * *
As always, the House of Lockewood opened its doors at nine A.M.
And, as always, Cunnings was there at half after eight, doing his paperwork in preparation for the day. His first client arrived promptly at nine.
A half hour later, their business together was completed.
Leaning back in his office chair, Cunnings nodded, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Excellent. You'll take care of it, then."
A smug smile curved the lips of the man sitting on the opposite side of the desk. "For such an enormous sum and an even more enormous challenge? Of course."
"Good." Cunnings felt a surge of triumph, a premonition that, at long last, he was about to come into his own. "I've given you all the information I have. I realize it's not much, but…"
"It's all I need."
"I rather suspected as much." Cunnings rose, handing the man a sheet of paper. "By the way, here are the figures you requested. If you glance at them, you'll see…" His head snapped up as a din from the hallway accosted his ears.
"Please, Graff. Hurry. I left Medford Manor at the crack of dawn in order to get here this early. I must see Lord Sheldrake now—no matter who he's meeting with. My business simply won't wait."
It was Breanna Colby's voice, Cunnings realized. Clearly, she was standing just outside his closed office door, or rather, rushing by it. She sounded breathless, and terribly distressed.
"I alerted Lord Sheldrake to the urgency of your visit, my lady," Graff was reassuring her. "He's agreed to see you at once. I assure you, I'm walking as quickly as I can."
"Good. And please see that we're not disturbed."
Her voice moved in the direction of Damen's office, and Cunnings took an inadvertent step toward the door, wondering what the hell this was all about.
"That's Breanna Colby, Anastasia's cousin," he muttered, half to himself, half to his visitor. "I'd better find out why she sounds so flustered. Maybe she's heard from her cousin. Will you excuse me?"
"By all means. I'll wait here, in case there are developments I should know about."
"Good idea." Cunnings scooped up some paperwork. Then, he crossed over, opened his door, and wandered casually into the hall.
Graff was on his return trip, shaking his head in puzzlement as he headed back to his post.
"What was that commotion?" Cunnings inquired.
"Lady Breanna," Graff supplied. "She has some critical business to discuss with Lord Sheldrake." An exasperated sigh. "Women can be so excitable at times." He shrugged, continuing on his way until he disappeared from view.
Cunnings moved down the hall, pausing a few feet from Damen's office. He leaned against the wall, scanning his papers as if he were actually reading them, in the event someone walked by or Sheldrake abruptly emerged.
The marquess's door was shut nearly all the way, a slim crack being the only open space.
It was enough—not for observing, but definitely for eavesdropping.
"She's here? In England?" Sheldrake was asking incredulously.
"Yes," Breanna replied. "Apparen
tly, she'd uncovered information that implicates Father in some horrible crimes. But she had no proof. So she pretended to leave the country, only to stay right here and gather the evidence she needs to send him to Newgate."
"I don't believe this." Sheldrake sounded badly shaken. "Is she all right? Did you see her?"
"She's fine. And, no, I didn't see her. She sent a messenger to Medford Manor late last night, instructed him to throw pebbles at my window until he got my attention. I was lucky. Father had gone out after midnight and Wells was feeling ill and had retired early. I slipped downstairs and met the messenger at the door. He gave me Stacie's note. Then, I sent him on his way, quickly, before Father could return and ask questions. No one saw him but me."
"Did Anastasia's note tell you where she's staying?"
"Only that she's somewhere in London. Her note said that knowing her exact whereabouts might put me in danger."