"In the meantime, I'll keep my eye on Father," Breanna said thoughtfully. "Something you just said piqued my interest—the idea of comings and goings at unusual times. Now that I consider it, Father's been guilty of that, and more so recently. I never gave it much thought, until now."
"What unusual comings and goings?" Anastasia demanded, swooping down on her cousin's words. "Why didn't I notice?"
"Because you've only lived with us since July. You wouldn't know Father's habits as well as I do." Breanna fingered the folds of her gown as she reflected. "Over the past months, he's been making late-night jaunts, usually after drinking to excess. I assumed he was going out to clear his head. Now I wonder. Could he be meeting this informant of his?"
"How frequently does he do this, Breanna?" Damen asked. "How late at night? And how long is he gone?"
"It used to be about once a fortnight. Lately, it's been more like twice a week." She frowned. "I'm afraid I never paid much attention to the hour or to the amount
of time he was gone. I was usually in bed, reading, when I'd hear him drive off. So it had to be after midnight. As to when he'd return…" A shrug. "I was asleep. Lord only knows how late it was." Breanna broke off, a triumphant smile curving her lips. "Let me rephrase that: the Lord isn't the only one who knows how late it was. Wells knows, too."
"Of course." Anastasia's eyes lit up. "Wells knows everything. He'll give you any details he can."
"I'm sure he will." Unconsciously, Breanna smoothed a wisp of hair into place. "I'll talk to Wells—right away, if I can. I'll also keep an eye on Father. Maybe I can figure out how much he knows, and how much of the truth Lyman and Meade have pieced together by now. Damen, you do your checking into the suspects at the bank. Schedule another visit to Medford Manor for the day after tomorrow. That will unnerve Father, since he's now aware of the fact that you're not calling on me, at least not in the romantic sense." A triumphant gleam lit her eyes. "That doesn't mean we don't have things to discuss—things like Stacie's whereabouts. Which I'm sure is what Father will assume we're discussing. The very notion will throw him into a tizzy. The more off-balance we render him, the better. Because with any luck, after we combine whatever information we've uncovered, we'll have enough proof to confront him. And, if he's drunk enough, intimidated enough, we might just get a confession. Which would be the perfect finishing touch to the evidence we've amassed—and the perfect end to this nightmare."
"An excellent plan." Damen looked sufficiently impressed. "You and Stacie are more alike than I realized."
"At times, yes." Breanna grinned. "Although you've rarely seen that side of me. I must admit I find it much easier to be myself around you now that I know you're to be my cousin and not my husband." She shot him an apologetic look. "At the risk of sounding too brazen—even more so than Stacie—you and I are terribly suited."
Laughter rumbled in Damen's chest. "True. But there's a lucky man out there somewhere who's going to feel very differently about the two of you. And once you meet him, you'll agree. Unfortunately, he'll have to win both Stacie's and my approval before he can win your hand. Ah, the poor fellow." Still chuckling, Damen leaned over the basket. "On that intriguing note, let's enjoy some of Mrs. Rhodes's delicious sandwiches."
"Wait." Anastasia held up her palm, halting Damen in the process of unpacking the basket.
"Why?" Damen's head came up, and he frowned as he saw the rankled expression on Anastasia's face, the indignant set of her jaw. "What's the matter?"
"I'm delighted that the two of you have successfully worked out your strategies for capturing Uncle George and his colleagues," she retorted, folding her arms across her chest. "Just how am I supposed to contribute to all this?"
The lighthearted banter of the past moments vanished in a heartbeat.
"You're supposed to remain in hiding, unseen and undetected by the men who are trying to find you—and sell you," Damen replied, his expression grim. "Or have you forgotten that unpleasant tidbit?" Warning glints flashed in his steel-gray eyes. "I'm not taunting you, Stacie. I'm dead serious. Your life is in danger. You're going to stay put until that's no longer the case. Is that clear?"
Silence.
"Anastasia…"
"It's clear," she replied, her gaze as direct as his. "For now."
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
"That's the last update, Medford. And still no luck." Lyman slapped the scribbled note on his desk, dismissing the lad who'd delivered it by tossing him a shilling, then gesturing for him to go.
He waited until the office door had shut before turning back to George, who was pacing furiously near the windows overlooking the docks. "My contacts have been at it all night, ever since I got your message. They've checked every bloody manifest. The fact is, no Lady Anastasia Colby booked passage to the States yesterday. Not in London, anyway. I won't know about Liverpool for a few days. But you and I both know how unlikely that is. Your driver said he brought her to the London docks. I doubt she found her way to Liverpool from there."
"I wouldn't put anything past Anastasia. Maybe she did that just to steer me in the wrong direction. Or maybe she boarded in London, but used another name." George halted, slicing the air with his palm. "Damn that miserable chit! Where the hell is she?"
"I don't know." Lyman looked grim. "But I don't think a false name is our answer. I had Meade and a few other men ask around at the docks. And no one matching Anastasia's description was seen boarding a ship, or even walking along the wharf or around the warehouses. So, unless she paid a coach to take her to Liverpool, my guess is your niece didn't leave England."
"Dammit. Dammit!" For the third time in the past hour, George crossed over to the sideboard and refilled his glass, taking two healthy gulps as he resumed pacing. "I've got to know for sure. There are so many ways she could have managed this—stowing away, disguising herself. You don't know Anastasia. She's the most resourceful female I've ever met."
Lyman drew a slow breath, then released it, crossing over to refill his own glass at the sideboard, then hurrying back to stand behind his desk. When Medford was in this kind of mood—drunk, irrational, angry—he was more comfortable putting some distance between them, even if it was only half a room and the comforting presence of his desk that separated them.
Because when Medford was like this, there was a dangerous quality about him, one Lyman wasn't interested in provoking.
"I don't doubt your niece's resourcefulness," he replied in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "I've seen her attempt to charm a roomful of men to finance that bank of hers. The question is, why would she go to so much trouble to keep you from finding her? She left you a note, told you where she was going and why. Why would she suddenly decide to become secretive?"