AllFreeNovel
Share Us
So where did Damen Lockewood fit into all this? What did he know, about Anastasia, about the illegal activities going on at Colby and Sons? How involved in Anastasia's investigation was he? And what life-altering results might have resulted from this liaison of theirs?
All the unanswered questions led back to Sheldrake. As did George's future. Because the minute Anastasia showed up on the marquess's doorstep, either with the news that she was carrying his child or with proof of her uncle's guilt, George's hopes, and his life, would be over.
Which meant one thing: He had to get to Anastasia before she got to Sheldrake.
And when he did…
When he did—what?
A better question would be how, he berated himself. How do I find her? How do I get rid of her when I do—especially if the time frame on Rouge's requirement has elapsed?
George scowled at the sideboard, ran his forefinger around the rim of his goblet. He'd questioned dozens of people today: from Lyman, Bates, and Fenshaw, to a slew of innkeepers in both London and Kent, not a single one of whom had an Anastasia Colby—or any young woman matching her description—staying in their establishment. George had even gone into shops, into coffee houses, and made inquiries. Nothing. And, as of his last check with Lyman, made late in the day, not one of the shipping company owner's contacts had turned up anything, nor had Anastasia's name appeared on a single ship's manifest.
The bloody chit had vanished into thin air.
Unless she was with Sheldrake.
According to the marquess's conversation with Breanna, she wasn't. Unless, of course, Breanna was lying. But she wouldn't be that stupid. Not when she knew bloody well he'd confirm the story with Sheldrake the very next chance he got.
So, if Anastasia wasn't with Sheldrake, where was she? Where had she disappeared to? And who was equipped to find her?
That question incited a flash
of recall, and George's mind darted to the conversation he'd had—the one about the professional assassin. Abruptly, he found himself considering the prospect.
A hired killer; one who'd hunt Anastasia down and end her miserable life.
It sounded more enticing by the minute—and more necessary.
Of course, it would mean forfeiting Rouge's money, but that was a moot point anyway, since if Anastasia didn't surface, there would be no fifty-thousand-pound compensation. Besides, perhaps a suitable substitute really could be found. He still had some time.
But not if Anastasia incriminated him.
Which she couldn't if she were dead.
With her demise, the threat to his freedom would be gone, Henry's inheritance would be his.
And hell, the bitch would be gone forever.
Wouldn't that be divine justice, Anne, George mused sardonically. Destroying the one person you loved even more than you did Henry. Killing off Henry's legacy, his sole heir. Marrying Breanna off to Sheldrake, and having the Colby name to myself. Savoring the sheer joy of knowing I do.
On that thought, George stalked over to his desk, dragging open the drawer and shoving everything aside until he found the miniature portrait. He glared down at Anne's likeness, loathing her with every fiber of his being, wishing he had her in front of him, alive and well, just so he could choke her to death with his bare hands.
Savagely, he flung the portrait across the room, watched it strike the wall and topple to the carpet, not giving a damn that its clutter upset the room's perfect sense of order. Fine. Anne was dead. Perhaps it was time he accepted it.
Perhaps it was also time for Anastasia to join her.
* * *
Chapter 19
« ^ »
It was ten minutes past midnight.
Breanna shoved in her last hairpin, then tugged on the cap Wells had given her, relieved to see it was deep enough to cover all her hair, its brim reaching halfway down her forehead.
Excellent. She pivoted in front of the looking glass, grinning at the image she made. If someone didn't plant himself directly before her, they'd think she was a scrawny but wholly realistic sailor or workman.
