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"Sir?" Wells cleared his throat, looking puzzled.
"Did the marquess say anything else?" George snapped. "Was he in a good humor?"
"We exchanged pleasantries. And, yes, he seemed cheerful enough."
"I see." George digested that fact, although sweat still broke out on his forehead. Why the hell had Sheldrake come to Medford Manor—to get answers or to provide them? What had he and Breanna discussed?
Who, he could guess.
"You say Sheldrake visited with Breanna?"
"Indeed he did, sir. They took a picnic lunch and went off for a ride in the country. Lord Sheldrake thought Miss Breanna might need some cheering up, given that Miss Stacie had to leave so suddenly."
George's eyes narrowed into slits. "So Sheldrake knew Anastasia was gone?"
"Why, yes, sir." Wells plucked out a handkerchief, coughed discreetly into it. "As I understood it, she left at his suggestion. Nonetheless, it was clear he sympathized with Miss Breanna's loneliness. I'm sure he appreciated how much she missed her cousin—how much we all miss her. But then, I needn't explain that to you, my lord."
"No, you needn't," George muttered, wishing he had more concrete information, determined to get it. "I want to see my daughter," he barked.
Almost instantly, he realized his error, as he saw Wells start, tense ever so fractionally. Dammit, he berated himself. I have to watch my tone.
The very notion made him furious. He was the master of this household, the bloody head of the family. Why the hell shouldn't he rule it with an iron hand, or any other way he chose to? Worse, why should he allow his actions to be dictated by his acquiescent slip of a daughter?
Not so acquiescent, he reminded himself, recalling yesterday's incident, as well as the reproving look on Wells's face when he'd glanced into Breanna's bedchamber, assessed whether or not she'd been hurt—by her father.
Silently, George swore. The little chit was not only bolder than he'd realized, she was also smarter. Because she was right. He couldn't afford to alienate his servants, not given the precarious state of his life right now. The staff adored Breanna; they had since she was a child. If they believed he was physically harming her…
No. He couldn't risk the kind of scandal that would ensue. It could push things over the edge, eliminate any remaining chance he had with Sheldrake. There was no choice to be had. He must curb the severity with which he approached Breanna, lest she follow through with her threats. Besides, she wouldn't tell him a damned thing if he thrashed her. But if he was civil, perhaps that would yield different results.
So be it. However, when all this was over, when Anastasia had been found and his own world had been righted, then things would return to normal. Then, he'd once again be master of Medford Manor, and of his fate. And when he was—well, God help Breanna if she upset his plans for her future.
Inspired by that thought, George drew a slow breath, sought a more acceptable approach.
"Wells," he began, this time keeping his tone composed and even. "Give me a few minutes to peruse the mail. Then, ask Breanna to come to my study. I have a few questions I'd like to ask her."
He could actually see Wells's rigid stance relax a bit. "As you wish."
"Thank you. Oh, and once Breanna and I have finished talking, I'll take my dinner in my study. Alone. I'm not to be disturbed all evening. And Wells…" George leaned forward, lowered his voice to a secretive pitch. "I'm expecting the courier. When he arrives, bring his message to me at once. That also means I'll be going out tonight. At half after midnight. Have the phaeton ready."
"Of course, my lord." Wells winced a bit, his fingers shifting reflexively to his throat. "Pardon me, sir, but may I ask permission to retire early tonight? After I've taken care of your arrangements, that is. I'm feeling a bit under the weather. Of course, I'll direct one of the footmen to attend the entranceway door, if needed."
As grateful as George was that Wells's misgivings had been appeased, he wasn't interested in hearing about the butler's health. He had more important things on his mind. "H-m-m?" he asked, distracted by the reminder of all that had yet to be resolved. "Oh, that's fine. And don't bother with the footman. Other than my dinner, I won't be needing anything more tonight. Once the courier's gone and the phaeton's been readied, you can take the night off."
"Thank you, sir. I'll go see Mrs. Rhodes now, make sure she sends your dinner directly to your study. Then, I'll return to my post and await the courier."
Wells headed off to the kitchen, acutely aware of the viscount's footsteps as they moved down the hall in the direction of his study.
By the time the study door had clicked shut, and the bolt had been thrown, Wells had finished speaking with Mrs. Rhodes and was halfway to his own quarters.
Once there, he paused long enough to yank open his bureau drawer and scoop up the smaller of the two stable hands' outfits he'd found earlier in the laundry yard and had hidden in his room. He spread the clothes out on a serving tray, then draped a fine linen napkin over them, making the overall presentation look like an elegant dinner.
With a gleam of approval, he left his room, made his way calmly to the front hallway, then up the stairs. He rounded the second-floor landing, nodding his acknowledgment to the passing servants, who bowed respectfully and hurried on their way.
Without incident, Wells knocked on Breanna's door. "Yes?"
"I have your refreshment, Miss Breanna."
A quick rustling sound, and Breanna tugged open the door. "Thank you, Wells," she said, her gaze searching his face. "Would you kindly put it on my nightstand?"
