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George recoiled as if he'd been struck. "With child?" Everything inside him went numb. "I never thought … but given their trysts … and if she is…" He could see it all dissipating before his very eyes—not just Rouge's payment now, but everything: Henry's inheritance, the balance of power from his own descendants to Henry's, not to mention Sheldrake…
Sheldrake.
White shock vibrated through George's being.
If Anastasia was pregnant, Sheldrake was the father. "Dammit." His hands balled into fists, pounded the desk with all the rage of a wounded animal. "It can't be. It can't be!"
Lyman backed away, breathing heavily. "Take it easy, Medford. I only meant…"
"Give me a quill." George's tone was lethal, a drowning man clawing his way to the surface. "I've got to get a letter off. Now."
"Fine. Here. Whatever you say." Lyman shoved a quill and some paper across the desk. "Who are you writing to?" he ventured.
"To the one person who can tell me just how Sheldrake fits into all this. Because if Anastasia knows something, if she puts the rest of the pieces together, she'll run straight to him. And if she's with child…" A bitter laugh. "She'll definitely run straight to him. Either way, I've got to get to her first. Even if it means taking a chance and passing off some substitute to Rouge. My wretched niece has got to be stopped."
* * *
In Medford Manor's sitting room, Breanna moved the heavy drapes aside, peeked out the window, and watched Damen's carriage disappear around the drive. She felt a sense of emptiness, of loss, knowing Anastasia was in there, leaving her home yet again. It shouldn't be this way. Stacie belonged here. Not just here, but safe, happy.
Breanna drew herself up, her chin set in staunch determination. It was her father who was responsible for this nightmare. And it was up to her to stop him.
"Miss Breanna?" Wells addressed her from the sitting room doorway. "Lord Sheldrake has taken his leave. You wanted to see me?"
Slowly, Breanna turned and nodded. "Come in, Wells. And please shut the door. I want this conversation to remain private."
The butler complied, looking not the least bit surprised at Breanna's request.
"I suspect you know what this is about," she began. Wells's expression softened. "I suspect I do."
Breanna cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, scanning the deserted drive.
"We have another hour or so before your father returns," Wells supplied. "So you needn't worry."
"Good." Her mind at ease, Breanna turned her attention back to Wells, who was regarding her with an expectant look on his face. "I hate involving you in this," she said honestly, her brow furrowed. "But I'm afraid we no longer have a choice."
"I'm already involved, Miss Breanna." Wells adjusted his spectacles, then stood up straight, hands clasped firmly behind him, as if stating his position on the subject. "I've been involved since the day your grandfather died. I know what he wanted. And I mean to see that he gets it."
Tears glistened on Breanna's lashes. "Thank you," she managed. "From Stacie and me. And Grandfather, as well." She composed herself, clearing her throat to steady her voice. "I don't know how much you're aware of…"
"There's something you're not aware of," Wells interrupted. "Until your father returns from London—which, as I said, should be in another hour or so—I've been assigned to keep a close eye on you, to report back if you should meet with anyone unusual…"
Breanna gripped the back of the settee. "Anyone meaning Stacie."
"Or someone who knows her whereabouts."
Her eyes widened. "Does Father suspect Damen?"
"I don't know, Miss Breanna." The butler shrugged. "I'm sure it's occurred to him that Lord Sheldrake is somehow involved. From what I've gleaned from the viscount's mutterings, he realizes Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake are … close friends."
"Yes, he does." Breanna sighed, smoothing her palm over the settee's textured cloth and polished wood trim. "Wells, I want to use this time wisely, since Father will be home soon. I need to ask you some questions about his actions. Or, more specifically, his destinations—if you know them."
"I'll tell you anything I can. But you tell me one thing first: is she all right?"
A soft smile touched Breanna's lips. "She's fine. Eager to have this ordeal over with, but fine. And Wells—" For an instant, Breanna put the unpleasantness aside to tell their lifelong friend something she knew would delight him. "When all this is behind us, there's going to be a wedding. An incredibly joyful wedding."
Wells's smile was broad, but a fine mist veiled his eyes. "Our Miss Stacie—a bride. It's hard to imagine her as a wife—the little girl who climbed trees and spoke her mind no matter what the cost."
"She still speaks her mind, only now she speaks it to Damen." Breanna's eyes twinkled. "They're perfect for each other, Wells. Grandfather would be so happy."
