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"Maybe because she knows something—something that could lead to something more, and then more, and then more … all of which could eventually spell my end." George gulped down the remainder of his drink, slammed the glass down on the window ledge. "Maybe that's why she's sailing off—to protect herself while she assembles the pieces she's uncovered. Or maybe that's why she's not leaving England at all—to assemble the pieces here and now."
The shipping owner had gone very still. "Knows something?" he asked carefully. "As in, about us? What we've been doing?"
George stared broodingly across the room at the pile of papers on Lyman's desk—all letters stating that Anastasia Colby's name had not been listed on any ship's manifest. "Yes, about us," he bit out. "And what we've been doing. At first, I thought she was running off to squander more of Henry's money before I could stop her. Then, I thought about it more carefully, in light of some information that's recently been brought to my attention."
"What kind of information?" Lyman asked in a shaky voice.
"I have reason to believe Anastasia suspects I'm involved in something criminal. How many of the details she's privy to, who else she's told … all that is pure speculation, as is whether or not it ties into her reasons for disappearing."
"Christ." Lyman had gone white. "You never mentioned any of this."
"I just told you, I only recently found out. It's one of the reasons I'm so eager to find her, and to get rid of her."
"Under those circumstances, you should be glad she's gone. Instead of brooding over where she's gone, be grateful it's not to the authorities. Instead, concentrate on figuring out who she might have shared her suspicions with. They could be far more dangerous to us than Anastasia. She's your niece, for heaven's sake. Your brother's daughter. She might condemn you, but she'd never turn you in. Hasn't she proven that by running off? She wants no part of your illegal activities—or of you. Where—as someone else, someone outside your family, wouldn't hesitate to send you to the gallows." A cold shiver ran up Lyman's spine. "Getting rid of Anastasia should be secondary to…"
His mouth snapped shut as the meaning of George's words sank in, and he stared at him as if seeing a ghost. "By 'get rid of,' do you mean—kill her?"
An ugly laugh. "Yes and no. Figuratively, yes. Actually—well, actually, I mean for her to begin a brand-new life. Only not in America. And not at my expense. At my profit, as a matter of fact. My fifty-thousand-pound profit."
Realization struck, and Lyman sagged into his chair. "The ship … the falsified destination … the whole damned arrangement you're working on with Bates to supply Rouge with the girl he needs. My God, Medford, you're planning to send Anastasia?"
George shot him a disgusted look. "Stop looking so horrified. We've been sending women to Rouge for months."
"But your niece…"
"…could be our downfall," George finished for him. He strode over to the desk, gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. "Did you hear what I said?" he ground out, leaning forward to glare at Lyman. "She might know enough to send us both to prison. And you're a fool if you think she won't. My niece…" he spat, "has no loyalty to me—hell, Henry had no loyalty to me. As for selling Anastasia to Rouge, stop sounding so bloody self-righteous. You've been more than content selling women all this time."
"But they're … she's…" Sweat was beading up on Lyman's forehead.
"Ah. In other words, it's acceptable to sell strangers, workhouse girls we don't know, but you're offended by my selling the one girl who could see us both in Newgate"
"Does she know what you intend…" An inadvertent shudder. "…what you intend to do to her?"
"No. That much, she's blissfully unaware of."
"Thank God for that."
"Stop thanking God. We've got to find the little bitch before she causes any more trouble."
"She could be anywhere," Lyman put in weakly.
"Not according to your sources." Rage against Anastasia was rebuilding inside George until he could taste it. "According to your sources, she's still right here in England." His eyes narrowed. "And if she is, I intend to find her."
"How?"
"To begin with, by keeping a close eye on my daughter—something my butler is taking care of in my absence. Breanna knows more than she's telling me. Although, in her case, she'd never be stupid enough to actually help Anastasia destroy me, not unless she was privy to my plans for her wretched cousin. In that instance, she would protect Anastasia with her life." George scowled, remembering the shocking confrontation he'd had with Breanna last night. Clearly, his daughter had more pluck than he'd given her credit for. "Fortunately, Breanna hasn't any idea what I intend for Henry's brat.
"And speaking of Anastasia," he continued, "assuming she's still in England, she doesn't have that many friends, certainly not friends who'd keep her from her legal guardian. I'll start with Fenshaw, see if he's heard from her. Then, I'll stop in at the House of Lockewood, find out what Sheldrake knows." He paused, rubbed his palm across his chin. "On second thought, that's too obvious. If Sheldrake knew anything about what we're doing, he'd have sent Bow Street
over here to collect us by now. That's the only reason I'm sure Anastasia isn't with him. He's too damned ethical to ignore our crimes, even for a short while. No, she hasn't told him yet—either because she's only just figured it out or because, as I said, she's still missing pieces and dropped out of sight to do a little investigating on her own."
"Or maybe you're overreacting and she doesn't know a thing," Lyman burst out, his composure drawn taut to breaking.
"Then why did she run off?" George shot back.
"I don't know!" Lyman's control snapped. "To spend Henry's money! To see the world! Why does any young woman run off? Maybe she's with child!"
