Andrea Kane (19 page)

Steeling himself, Meade ignored Medford’s command. How the hell did he know the bastard wasn’t armed? He couldn’t take that chance. No, he’d keep his blade right where it was—clutched and ready.

“I don’t wanna talk.” The privateer’s eyes glinted, his whiskered jaw tightly set. “I want me money.
All
me money. And more of it from now on.”

“So I heard. Fifty percent more.” Undeterred by Meade’s weapon, Medford never paused, walking forward until he could almost touch the gleaming blade— then halting. “The fact is, you won’t be getting your money. Not yet. I don’t have it. And your generous wage increase?
That
you won’t be getting at all.”

“Then I won’t be deliverin’ yer merchandise.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong. You
will
be delivering my merchandise—willingly and without further threats.” Medford slipped his hand into his pocket, and Meade tensed, his fingers tightening about the handle of his blade.

“I told you to put that away, Meade,” the viscount commanded.

“And let ye shoot me? Not a chance.”

“I don’t plan to shoot you.” George withdrew his hand and flourished a sheet of paper. “I won’t have to. That task will be taken care of for me.”

Meade’s eyes narrowed. “What are ye talkin’ about?”

A tight smile. “If you’ll hold this up to the light, you’ll see it’s an arrest warrant. It was issued by the magistrate himself. You’re a wanted man, Meade—a renowned privateer and smuggler. Why, if I turn you in, you’ll be in the gallows before you know it, hanging by the neck at the end of a very short, tight rope. How does that sound?”

Lowering his blade, Meade snatched the page, brought it over to the window. He swore at the official-looking seal at the bottom of the document, knowing right away what it meant.

“Now, can we renegotiate our terms?” George inquired. “Instead of your demands for an increase and your threats to expose me, why don’t we settle for keeping things just as they are? In return, I’ll pretend I never heard of you, should I be asked. I’ll simply ignore the dictates of my conscience, refrain from turning you in. I think that’s a fair arrangement, don’t you?”

Silence.

“Good. Then we understand each other. Right, Meade?”

Another long silence, during which Meade felt his heart drumming wildly in his chest. Hanging. Dying. Feeling his neck crack in two.

Nothing was worth that.

Resignation sank deep in his gut, and he saw his fortune go up in smoke. “Yeah, Medford,” he muttered bitterly. “Right.”

Triumph glittered in the viscount’s eyes. “Excellent. The next shipment will be ready in ten days. Be prepared to deliver it on time. And Meade? Don’t
ever
blackmail me again.”

T
HE VICTORY WAS LITTLE
cause for celebration.

George leaned back in his carriage, his teeth gritting as he assessed the situation.

All well and good that Meade would deliver the shipment as planned. First, the damned merchandise had to be secured, a reality that Bates was supposedly seeing to. And even if both tasks went smoothly, George had to pray that his note to Rouge had been convincing enough to inspire a modicum of patience; that, as a result of George’s threat to take his business elsewhere, Rouge would adhere to the specified terms and pay the full amount due.

And if that happened?

Even the full amount was a mere drop in the bucket compared to George’s ocean of debt.

His colleagues, his creditors, his informants.

The very thought of how many thousands and thousands of pounds he owed made him ill.

And then there was Anastasia.

Just pondering his niece, the fact that she held his fate in the palm of her hand, made his skull pound with rage. Oh, Henry’s precious brat had no idea of the power she wielded. But George did. And he loathed her for it.

What had his contact found out? he wondered bitterly. How much of Henry’s money had been committed to this wretched bank Anastasia hoped to open? And what were the details of her partnership with Sheldrake—and any other unwelcome bond that might be developing between them?

George wasn’t stupid. He knew only too well that business associations often led to personal ones. And given that it was a man and a woman who were involved in this particular partnership—well, suddenly the word
personal
took on a whole new meaning. If Anastasia and Sheldrake were to spend any substantial amount of time together … George’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Damn her. She would not rob him of that, too.

He’d have another talk with Breanna—immediately— and make his intentions for her future unmistakably clear. Then he’d find ways to throw her and Sheldrake together, and ways to keep the marquess and Anastasia apart. He needed Sheldrake in the family, not only to provide money and status, but to shed a favorable light on George’s reputation, and to ensure his silence if he were to learn anything damning about his new father-in-law.

Perhaps there was something to say for family after all.

A humorless smile twisted George’s lips. Family hadn’t been enough motivation for Henry, not when it came to including his brother as a beneficiary to his estate. Well, with the right manipulation, Henry’s funds would find their way into the right hands after all.

Whatever was left of those funds, that is.

George stared out the window, watched as the gates of Medford Manor came into view.

He had to find out how much of Henry’s inheritance had been allocated to that bloody bank. And he had to find out
now.

He was in trouble. Big trouble. His options were vanishing before his very eyes. With Anastasia controlling half of Colby and Sons, and Sheldrake acting as her trusty administrator, there was little hope of doctoring receipts to Lyman or any other supplier without getting caught. As for a more readily available source, there were only a few thousand pounds left to drain of the funds Henry had set aside for Anastasia’s coming-out.

He needed that inheritance.

Ten weeks. After which, it would be too late. Everything would blow up in his face. Rouge would find another supplier, the creditors would close in, and Anastasia would walk away with her inheritance, her half of Colby and Sons, and—Lord help her—Damen Lockewood.

No.
George sat upright, his fingers reflexively gripping the door handle, ready to twist it the instant the carriage came to a halt. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d talk to Breanna right now. Then, he’d summon his contact, learn the details of that bloody partnership.

And then, he’d do whatever he must to save his neck.

Wells stood in the open doorway, his expression nondescript as he watched the viscount stalk up the stairs and into the manor.

“Where’s Breanna?” George bit out, glaring at his butler.

“In the library, my lord. Shall I summon her?”

“No. I’ll do my own summoning. Besides, the library is as good a place as any.”

Wells stiffened a bit. “For what, sir?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” George strode down the hall, jerking open the library door and stepping inside.

“Father.” Breanna started, as she looked up from the settee upon which she was curled, thumbing through a novel. She studied her father’s expression, a certain wariness coming over her. Slowly, she shut the book. “Did you wish to see me?”

“Indeed I did.” George shut the door firmly behind him. He crossed over to the sideboard, poured himself a drink. Tossing it down in three gulps, he slammed the goblet onto an end table and walked across the room until he loomed directly over his daughter. “You and I are going to talk. Or rather,
I’m
going to talk.
You’re
going to listen. And then, you’re going to do as I say.”

Instinctively, Breanna scooted to the far corner of the settee. “What is it we’re talking about?”

“You and Lord Sheldrake.” George pressed his palms together, studying his hands as if that act could help him maintain his self-restraint. “It’s time we took definite steps to ensure your future as Mrs. Damen Lockewood.”

Color suffused Breanna’s cheeks, and she lowered her lashes, contemplating the cover of her book. “I think any steps we take would be futile,” she said at last. “In fact, I think we should both accept the fact that I don’t have a future with Lord Sheldrake.”

Her breath lodged in her throat, as George swooped down, gripping her shoulders and nearly lifting her off the settee. “I don’t think you understand. So let me make it clear. Giving up is not an option. Not in this case.” His eyes blazed with jade fire, his fingers bit into her flesh. “You
will
marry Lord Sheldrake. Soon. What I’m here to discuss is how best to speed up this courtship.”

Breanna’s eyes widened in fear, but she didn’t retreat. “What courtship, Father? There is none.”

“Then there will be one as of now.” George lowered Breanna back to the settee, his forefinger jerking up her chin to meet his gaze. “Besides, you underestimate yourself. The marquess was very attentive at the ball. He danced with you for most of the evening. Afterward, he spoke highly of you. I think all he needs is a little encouragement—not from me, from you. And you’re going to give him that encouragement.”

“Why? Why is it so important to you that I marry Lord Sheldrake? Are you hoping he’ll offer you money for my hand?”

A flicker of astonishment, after which George’s lips thinned into an angry line. “Where is this newfound impertinence coming from—having Anastasia living with us?”

Breanna swallowed. “I apologize if I sounded rude. But it’s only natural for me to have questions. After all, it is
my
life we’re discussing. And I’d like to understand what you hope to gain by wedding me to Lord Sheldrake. I know how much wealth and position mean to you. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if the marquess were poor and unrenowned. Is it that you hope to gain access to his fortune? If so, I don’t think that’s an unspoken certainty—not unless Lord Sheldrake chooses it to be. And, to be honest, I don’t think he’s so enchanted with me that he’d pay handsomely just to give me his name.”

George twisted Breanna’s chin until she whimpered, then shoved her away. “My motives, daughter, are my own. Your job is to make them a reality. Now, I’m going to invite the marquess to breakfast tomorrow. Once the meal is over, I’ll suggest that you two take a private stroll. During that time, I expect you to make it blatantly clear that you enjoy his attentions, and that you’d welcome his affections. Is that understood?”

Silence.

Renewed anger flared in George’s eyes, and he leaned menacingly over her.
“Is that understood?”

Breanna nodded, but didn’t flinch. “Yes, Father. You’ve made your expectations perfectly clear.”

“Good.” George backed away, walked over to freshen his drink. “Where is Anastasia—in her room?”

Steeling herself for the inevitable explosion, Breanna shook her head. “No, she went out several hours ago. She should be back any minute.”

Something about Breanna’s tone must have aroused George’s suspicions, or perhaps it was the fact that Anastasia rarely went out alone that made him leery.

He turned, goblet in hand. “Where did she go?”

“To the House of Lockewood.” Breanna tried not to react to the fury that twisted her father’s features. “She said something about a meeting.”

“Dammit.” George raised his arm over his head, and Breanna braced herself for the crash of the goblet striking the floor.

The crash never came.

Slowly, George lowered his arm, visibly trying to control his wrath.

“Send her to my study,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “the minute she returns. It’s time your cousin and I had a little talk, as well.”

“She’s only gone to finish settling Uncle Henry’s affairs,” Breanna defended at once, trying to ward off whatever confrontation her father had in mind. “I’m sure she would have told you about this meeting herself, but you’d already left the estate.”

“I’m sure she is and I’m sure she would have.” George’s words were as caustic as his smile. “But the fact remains that I’m her guardian. And, as such, I can’t have her gallivanting about without permission or, knowing Anastasia, without a proper chaperon. I’m concerned for her safety, and for her reputation. After all, this is England, not America.”

“Still, I don’t think …”

“Stop shielding her, Breanna. Just send her to my study. Immediately.” George’s eyes narrowed into glittering jade chips. “And remember what I said. I expect to be announcing your betrothal to Lord Sheldrake in a matter of weeks.”

Anastasia sensed something was wrong the minute she saw Wells’s drawn expression.

Glancing about, she noted the empty hall, felt the tension permeating it.

“Wells?” she murmured, inclining her head. “What is it?”

The butler didn’t mince words. “Your uncle arrived home an hour ago. He was unusually distressed.”

“Distressed,” Anastasia repeated. “You mean angry. Especially when he learned I wasn’t here—and probably where I was.” Another swift glance down the hall. “Is he with Breanna now?”

“Not anymore. He was with your cousin in the library for about twenty minutes. Then, he emerged rather briskly, and disappeared into his study.”

Anastasia’s uneasiness intensified. “What about Breanna? Is she still in the library?”

“Yes, Miss Stacie. She’s come out twice asking if you were home yet. I promised to send you down the moment you arrived.”

“I’m on my way.” Anastasia hurried down the hall, tiptoeing past her uncle’s study, and made her way to the library.

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Breanna was pacing in front of the windows.

“Stacie. Thank goodness.” She motioned for her to enter and shut the door behind her.

Anastasia complied, frowning as she studied her cousin. Breanna was noticeably upset, just as she always was after dealing with her father. But this time she was more; this time she was totally distraught.

“What happened?” Anastasia didn’t mince words. She crossed over, seized Breanna’s hands.

And went utterly cold inside when she saw the bruise on her cousin’s chin—a bruise that could have been caused by nothing but the punishing grip of a thumb and forefinger.