"Did she tell you what proof she had?"
"Not specifically. Just that it would shock me and strip Father of everything—including his freedom. So it must be despicable. In any case, Stacie insisted that I see it with my own eyes and decide what I want her to do. She won't turn the evidence over to the authorities without my permission." Breanna drew a shaky breath. "It is, after all, my father she'd be relegating to Newgate. Not to mention the scandal this entire affair would cause our family."
"Lord," Sheldrake muttered. "Whatever George did, it must be contemptible. Otherwise, Anastasia would never ask you to betray your own father."
"Exactly."
"What do you intend to do—or need I ask?"
"I'm going to support Stacie's decision," Breanna responded instantly. "Our grandfather would want nothing less. If Father is guilty of some horrible crime, he should be punished. The Colby name will survive, and ultimately prevail." A troubled pause. "But Damen, to be honest with you, I'm terrified of what Father will do to me if he finds out I'm involved. Despite my false show of bravado—waving that pistol around as I did—I'm truly afraid of the man. I don't know why I ran to you, but the truth is, I had nowhere else to turn."
"You did the right thing." Sheldrake's voice was taut with strain. "I'll help you. Tell me when and where Anastasia expects you to meet her."
"Tonight. At the London docks—the deserted south-west section nearest the Tower. At ten o'clock."
"Fine. I'll go with you."
"What?" Now Breanna sounded panicked. "But, she's expecting only me. If she sees someone else, she might bolt."
"Not if that someone is me. I love her, Breanna. Anastasia knows she can trust me." Sheldrake paused, blowing out his breath slowly, thoughtfully. "On the other hand, you have a point. Between the night and the fog, she'll see the silhouette of a man and, unless I have time to call out and let her know it's me, she'll take off. The best thing would be if we both went. You can coax her out, and I'll be there to lend my support—to both of you."
"And what about the evidence?"
"I'll take it directly to Bow Street
. You and Anastasia will wait for me in my carriage. We won't venture back to Medford Manor until the authorities have arrested your father."
"After which we'll all be safe." Breanna emitted a shaky sigh. "I don't know how to thank you."
"No thanks are necessary." A hesitant pause. "I suggest you spend the day in Town. Feel free to use my house as your own. Shop, call on friends, do whatever you most enjoy. But don't ride back to Kent. The last thing you need is a confrontation with your father. Answering his questions was bad enough when you knew nothing. Now that you've actually heard from Anastasia, I'm not sure you'd be able to successfully lie about it. And if George should suspect…"
"Say no more," Breanna interrupted, an audible tremor in her voice. "I can't face Father. Not now, knowing what I know, planning what I've planned. I'll do just what you suggested—stay in Town, then go to your house until tonight's meeting." A rustle of material, alerting Cunnings to the fact that Breanna had risen, was heading for the door.
He edged back toward his office, head cocked as he listened to Sheldrake and Breanna's parting words.
"I'll see you tonight," she murmured.
"I'll be home in plenty of time," Sheldrake vowed. "We'll be at the docks promptly at ten." Breanna opened the door, stepped into the hallway. The area was deserted.
* * *
"How did it go?" Stacie pounced on Breanna the instant she walked into the Town house.
Her cousin grinned, slipping off her gloves as she strolled toward the sitting room. "Like a perfectly acted play."
"Cunnings was there?"
"He arrived at half after eight, just as Damen said he would. By the time I dashed into the bank, he was ensconced in his office with a client."
"You're sure he heard you?"
"Oh, he heard every word," Breanna stated confidently. "I began my speech when I was right outside Cunnings's office—the third door to the right, just as Damen instructed me. Poor Graff," she added, laughing. "He's never seen me so overwrought. I think he was torn between consoling me and choking me to death."
Anastasia's eyes sparkled. "It sounds like you were very convincing."
"Oh, I was. But then, so was Damen. Once Graff delivered me to his office—after which he darted off like a prisoner who'd been granted his freedom—both Damen and I played our parts superbly. At first, we waited."
"Three minutes, as planned?"
Breanna's brows lifted. "It only took two. We shut the door all but a crack, positioned ourselves near enough to be heard, and watched the outside wall. Less than thirty seconds later, we saw Cunnings's shadow hovering on the wall not ten feet from Damen's office. That's when I launched into a recounting of my dilemma."
"And Cunnings didn't budge?" Anastasia prodded, circling Breanna like an anxious parent. "The entire time you and Damen talked, he stayed outside and listened?"
"Up to the very last word, yes. In fact, I actually spent an exaggerated moment shaking out my skirts to give him enough time to get back to his office. When I emerged, he was gone."
"Wonderful," Anastasia breathed. "Then, by now, the note is on its way to Uncle George, and Damen is on his way to Bow Street
."
"Yes, and a paid assassin is out combing the streets of London looking for you," Breanna reminded her, all humor vanishing.
Rather than terror, Anastasia felt a surge of impending victory, a sense that the end was in sight. "Yes, but he won't find me. Not until we want him to." Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "At which time, Bow Street
will grab him."
"And if he spies them first and escapes?"
A careless shrug. "Then, after tonight, it's he who will be the hunted. With Uncle George in prison and Cunnings a cornered rat—pressured into revealing the names of his contacts—this assassin is all but captured."
Breanna nodded, trying hard to share Anastasia's optimistic appraisal.
Still, she thought, an uneasy prickle crawling up her spine. Gut instinct warned her it wouldn't be that simple.
* * *
Chapter 21
« ^ »
It was nine forty-five.
George steered his phaeton through the last of the rutted roads that led to the docks, gripping the reins more tightly as he neared the end of his journey. The fog was too thick to see clearly, but he could smell the Thames, hear the screech of gulls circling overhead. He was trembling, whether with apprehension or relief that this would finally be over, he wasn't sure.
Cunnings's message had been terse and to the point. Anastasia would be here tonight, carrying with her some unknown proof that was damning enough to send him to Newgate. Cunnings had alerted the assassin, who would be there to give her a proper farewell, after she'd relinquished the evidence to George.
How Cunnings had learned about Anastasia's impending appearance was the infuriating part.
Breanna.
George's insides clenched with rage every time he contemplated the fact that it was his daughter Anastasia was meeting with, his daughter to whom Anastasia was turning over this proof.
His obedient little Breanna meant to betray him.
She actually intended to turn him over to Bow Street
, relegate him to prison—and at her precious cousin's bidding.
Well, he'd deal with Breanna and her lack of loyalty later, after the proof was in his hands and Anastasia ceased to be a problem.
Then there was Sheldrake.
The fact that he was joining Breanna here tonight was the main reason George had arrived so early. It was imperative that Anastasia's evidence be destroyed before Sheldrake could see it. That was the only prayer George had of seeing his plan through, regaining all that was his, and still acquiring Sheldrake as a son-in-law. Oh, the marquess would never really trust him again, of that he was certain. But Damen Lockewood was a pragmatic man. And without proof,
he wouldn't do anything to ruin George, not given the strong history that existed between their families. Nor would he allow whatever indiscretions George might or might not have committed to cloud his opinion of Breanna. After all, even if her father wasn't all Sheldrake had hoped, that was in no way Breanna's doing. She was as honorable as the day was long. Sheldrake knew that firsthand. He might not love Breanna, but he most certainly liked her. Moreover, despite Anastasia's intrusive presence hovering between them, he and Breanna had grown much closer these past weeks.
And they'd grow closer still as a result of Anastasia's tragic death. Why, within a few short months, Breanna would probably become Mrs. Damen Lockewood.
The very notion eased George's rage.
But not his trepidation.
He had to carry tonight off perfectly. He'd get the proof from Anastasia, hold it high over his head so the assassin could see it, then watch Anastasia take her last breath.
With any luck, he'd be gone by the time Sheldrake and Breanna arrived. If so, the marquess would never know he'd been here, much less that he was involved in Anastasia's shooting. As her uncle, he could grieve beside Sheldrake at her funeral. After which, the marquess would need some time to mourn her death—a period of bereavement Breanna could help him through.
If things happened that way, then everything could turn out just as he'd planned.
But if not, if Breanna and Sheldrake burst into view before he had time to bolt, he'd play the scene of a lifetime. He'd rush over to Anastasia's lifeless body, lament her untimely passing, caused by a smuggler's stray bullet. Hell, he'd shed real tears if he had to. Between those tears, he'd explain how Anastasia had summoned him, expressed her regret over being too impulsive, believing him guilty of trying to wrest away her inheritance, only to find she'd been wrong. The proof she'd been so sure was incriminating had turned out to be false.
It had been her intention, he'd claim, to offer him a formal apology at tonight's meeting with Breanna meeting she'd scheduled before she realized her mistake.
But now she was gone … and it was too late … George's lips thinned into a grim line. No matter what happened here tonight, he had to convince Sheldrake or, at the very least, give him pause, make him contemplate the possibility of George's innocence. He had to.
Reaching the end of the road, George pulled the phaeton over and left it behind a warehouse.
He'd go the rest of the way by foot.
Warily, he headed toward the Thames, trying to see through the fog and make out the shape of a woman moving along the docks.
All was still.
Pebbles crunched under his feet, and the smell of the river grew stronger, the silence thicker.
The Tower of London was just on the other side of this section of warehouses, he thought, veering to his right. She had to be hiding near here somewhere.
He peered around the corner of the first building he reached, eyeing the deserted area beyond, strewn with empty bottles and a few scurrying rats.
"Breanna?" a tentative voice called. "You're early."
A slender shadow eased out of the shadows about twenty feet away from where George stood. She took a step, then halted when she saw the larger frame of her arrival. "Damen?" she tried. "Is that you?"
"Yes," George hissed back, his whisper too fleeting to be differentiated as his and not Sheldrake's.
"Where's Breanna?" Anastasia took a few more cautious steps in his direction.
It was enough.
"With Sheldrake, I presume," George replied in his normal tone. He lunged forward, grabbed Anastasia's arm. "What's the matter?" he bit out, seeing the shock register on her face. "Aren't you pleased to see your uncle?"
"What are you doing here?" she managed, struggling to free herself.
"You know the answer to that. I'm here to collect what's mine."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Stop lying, Anastasia." He dragged her to him, his eyes blazing with rage. "And don't play games with me. Whatever proof you've found, I want it. I want it now."
"And then what?" Anastasia shot back, abandoning all pretense. "Will you throw me on the nearest ship to Calais, ship me off to Rouge?"
George started, but recovered himself quickly. "You are well-informed, aren't you?" He glared at her, loathing the rebellious glint in her eyes that refused to be extinguished, despite the fact that she was obviously afraid. "So bloody defiant. I pity the man Rouge would have sold you to."
"Would have?" Anastasia stopped struggling, went very still. "Does that mean you've reconsidered? That you're not going to sell me as a whore?"
A thoughtful pause. "Perhaps not. If you give me that proof you have." He glanced about, seeing no documents in her other hand. "Where is it?"
"You're frightened," Anastasia taunted softly. "I don't blame you. Selling women as chattel to warm the beds of strangers. Stealing from the company your father founded. Plotting to stage your niece's death so you could get her inheritance. I'd be frightened, too. Especially if that same niece had evidence of my crimes. Not to mention confessions by Lyman and Bates. Why, as we speak, both those men are signing statements incriminating you. Then again, what choice did they have? With proof that Lyman accepted illegal payments from you and that Bates supplied you with workhouse girls to export to the Continent as whores, your two colleagues were desperate to save their own skin. They happily turned you over to Bow Street
in exchange for leniency."
"Shut up!" George shouted. His rage was spiraling out of control. He could feel it. "Shut up and give me that proof!"
"Why should I? I'm not stupid. Neither were Lyman and Bates. They realized that, as accomplices, their necks weren't pulled nearly as tight in the noose as yours is. You're the head of everything." Anastasia's smile was mocking. "As for their loyalty—it didn't extend as far as sacrificing their own freedom. Especially since their incentive to do so has worn a bit thin. Let me think—how long has it been since you paid them what they're owed?"
George drew back his arm, struck Anastasia across the face with such force that her head snapped back. "You lying bitch," he snarled. "Lyman and Bates would never confess. They're as involved with Rouge as I am."
"Not quite," Anastasia refuted, teeth clenched against the pain shooting through her cheek and down her neck. "Granted, Lyman supplies the ships, and Bates the women. But it's you Rouge communicates with; you who orchestrates all the exchanges. And it's you who reaps the largest profit. Also, neither Bates nor Lyman are stealing from their companies or attempting to steal from their dead brother."
"That money is mine!" George bellowed through the savage red haze coursing through him. "All of it. Henry's, the company's. I'm entitled to it. And I intend to have it—the minute I get you out of the way."
"Why are you entitled to it? As compensation—because Papa stole Mama? He didn't steal her, Uncle George. She loved him."
With a violent curse, George's free hand whipped out, wrapped around Anastasia's throat. "Your mother was a whore," he roared, his fingers biting into her tender skin. "You're a whore. Whatever Rouge had in store for you was too good. You should be thrashed until you bleed, taken until that brazen spark is snuffed out of your eyes, the life snuffed out of your body. And I intend to see that it is." He began walking, dragging her toward the warehouses with him. "Damn you, Anastasia—where is that proof? Do I have to choke you to death to get it?"
A silhouette lunged out of the shadows, and a fist shot out, slamming George in the jaw and sending him reeling. "Get your hands off her, Medford," Damen commanded, shoving Anastasia to safety and advancing toward a wild-eyed George.
"Sheldrake," he gasped.
Damen's fist shot out again, this time sending George toppling to the dirt. "You filthy bastard. I'd like to kill you here and now."
"Don't, Lord Sheldrake." A uniformed Bow Street
runner strode out, gesturing for two of his colleagues to follow. "It's not worth dirtying your hands. We'll see that the v
iscount gets what he deserves. We have everything we need to do that."
The three officers stalked forward, yanking George to his feet, then grabbing his arms, jerking them behind his back.
"You arranged this?" George managed, looking bewilderedly from Anastasia to Damen. "Both of you?"
"All of us, Father." Breanna walked forward, coming to stand beside her cousin.
"Breanna?" George's eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his head. "You?"
Her nod was emphatic, bitter tears glistening on her lashes. "How else would Mr. Cunnings have known where and when to direct you?"
George swallowed convulsively—once, twice. "You're saying … this morning … your visit to Sheldrake … your conversation…" His eyes widened in sudden realization. "The evidence Anastasia has…"