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"Certainly." Wells walked over, placed the tray beside her bed. "I think you'll find everything to your liking," he assured her. He straightened, met her stare head-on. "Tonight. Half after midnight," he breathed, his voice nearly inaudible. "I'll bring the phaeton around and meet you on the east side of the drive, the side concealed by that awning of trees."
Slowly, she nodded, a glint of anticipation lighting her eyes. "I'll be there," she whispered. Then: "Thank you, Wells," she said in a more normal tone.
"My pleasure, Miss Breanna." The butler clasped his hands behind his back, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. "Your father w
ishes to speak with you. Please give him a quarter hour, then go to his study." A scratchy cough, followed by a meaningful look. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather, and the viscount has given me permission to retire early. But should you need anything, I'll be in my quarters."
"I appreciate that," Breanna replied, nodding her understanding. Wells had freed himself of having to man the entranceway door by claiming to be ill. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be available to her, if her father lost control. "I'll be fine," she said, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze, then shooing him toward the door. "Go. Get some rest. That way, you'll be yourself again in no time."
Waiting only till Wells had gone, Breanna retreated into her chambers, tugging the napkin off the tray and nearly laughing aloud as she viewed her "refreshment." A shoddy pair of breeches, a threadbare shirt, some scuffed but serviceable boots and—ah, bless Wells's keen mind—a cap.
Breanna gathered up the clothes, tucked them away in her wardrobe. Then, with a thoughtful glance at her nightstand, she reminded herself of the one other article she'd need to bring with her.
Her pistol.
Given the risk involved in tonight's excursion, the full extent of which she didn't dare ponder, a little protection was in order. Because if her identity were discovered, she'd need that protection—not only from her father, whose wrath would be too fierce to imagine, but from his informant, with whom she was doubtless acquainted and could therefore identify, and from any riffraff who became unruly once they realized she was a woman.
In short, discovery was unthinkable. But, should it occur, the pistol was necessary.
As for now, her father had asked to see her. Well, that came as no great surprise. By now, Wells had doubtless told him that Damen had been at Medford Manor during his absence, which would make him frantic to find out what Damen knew of Stacie's whereabouts.
And what he knew of her father's guilt.
Bitterness surged through Breanna's veins. Very well, Father. I'll come to your study. I'll play this cat and mouse game with you. But if you think you'll learn one wretched thing from me, you're wrong. Even I can't be browbeaten into helping you, not when it's lives you plan to sacrifice. Innocent lives—including Stacie's. No, not this time. This time you're going to get what you deserve.
* * *
Chapter 18
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George swore under his breath, examining each worthless letter that had been delivered today, then slapping them onto his desk. All trivial invitations and foolish announcements. Not one of them pertinent to the dilemma he now faced.
He had to find Anastasia.
Dragging a hand through his hair, he dropped into his chair, contemplating today's latest development.
Sheldrake had been here. He'd spent hours alone with Breanna. Why? Certainly not to woo her. That he knew, thanks to the information he'd received from his reliable contact. Then why? Did Sheldrake know where Anastasia was? Had he come to tell Breanna? Or was he corroborating Anastasia's story that it was he who'd sent her to America?
Tonight's meeting should yield some answers with regard to Sheldrake's involvement, not only in Anastasia's disappearance, but in whatever incriminating search she'd undertaken.
Perhaps, in the meantime, he could acquire a few of those answers from his daughter.
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the study door. "Yes?" he responded impatiently.
"You wanted to see me, Father?" Breanna called back.
George rose, crossing over and unlocking the door. He gestured at his daughter, who was hovering on the threshold, eyeing him warily. "Come in." He stood aside, waiting for her to comply.
She took a few tentative steps into the room, then halted.
"Stop staring at me as if you expect me to whip you," George ordered.
"Do you?"
George drew a slow, calming breath. "No." He shut the door, but refrained from locking it. "There. This is a private conversation, or I'd leave the door ajar. But the bolt isn't thrown. You can escape any time you fear for your safety." He paused, giving her a pointed glare. "Or did you bring your pistol as protection?"
"My pistol is in my drawer." Breanna interlaced her fingers in front of her. "I told you, I don't intend to walk around the manor armed."
