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"Such as?"
"Such as the last want you described." Her misty gaze met his. "It's very possible our child will decide not to wait for your permission to go ahead and be conceived. Especially if he's half as impatient as his mother." Anastasia's voice quavered. "Or her mother, as the case may be."
Damen put the envelope aside long enough to pull Stacie off the settee and drag her onto his lap. "That thought … the very possibility of you carrying my child…" His eyes darkened to a smoky gray, his hand tightened around the nape of her neck as he lowered his mouth to hers. "God, you don't know what it does to me."
"I think I do." She twined her arms around his neck.
"I love you," he breathed, burying his lips in hers. "And if I had my way I'd forget these bloody papers and carry you off to bed, create our first child. Tonight. This minute." A shuddering sigh, as he brought himself under control. "But I won't. Because I intend to have all those 'wants,' Stacie, not just one. And there's only one way that can happen."
"I know." Anastasia kissed him tenderly. Then, she leaned over, scooped up the envelope, and extracted the remaining papers. "Let's find him."
* * *
The pub was a forty-minute drive from Medford Manor, tucked off a dilapidated road in a village near Canterbury.
"As I suspected," Wells muttered, pulling the phaeton into a nearby alley, nestling it in the shadows between a carpenter shop and a blacksmith shop. "A shabby ale-house; one that's close enough to get to, but far enough—and crude enough—not to be recognized in."
"I see your point." Breanna peered about, tried to see around the corner. "Is Father already inside?"
A terse nod. "His phaeton is on the far side of the pub. I saw him leave it there and make his way inside."
"Good. Then we can follow." She began to descend.
"Wait." Wells stayed her with his hand. "Give the viscount an extra minute or two to get settled. I realize you're anxious. But he's not going to elude us, not at this point. And we certainly don't want to come face to face with him."
"You're right." Breanna hovered at the edge of her seat, poised and ready.
"Miss Breanna, maybe you should stay here while I…"
"Wells, I'm going in there with you," Breanna interrupted. "I came to find out who my father is meeting and what they have planned. And I'm not leaving until I do." She leaped lightly from the phaeton. "We've given him enough time. Let's go."
Wells alit as quickly as his less youthful bones would allow. Then, he walked around the phaeton, studying Breanna intently and ensuring, for the tenth time, that her identity and her gender were totally concealed. "I'll do the talking," he instructed. "I have only to remember to speak in a less refined manner. Whereas you'd have to do that and lower your voice to a much deeper pitch."
"I can manage."
A troubled frown creased Wells's forehead. "Miss Breanna," he said unsteadily. "If anything should happen to you, your grandfather would never forgive me." A deep swallow. "I would never forgive myself."
"Nothing will happen to me, Wells." Breanna squeezed his arm. "I promise. As for Grandfather, he's with us. I can feel his presence. Besides," she added, trying to soothe Wells's misgivings. "We'll fit right in. We both look like common workingmen." She patted the worn sleeve of his coat. "And our shillings will qualify us as patrons."
Accepting, however uneasily, her unwavering decision, Wells nodded. Together, they strolled out of the alley and toward the pub.
"We've got to act natural, as if we're used to frequenting alehouses," Breanna instructed. "The less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. We'll find Father, sit as near to him and his colleague as we dare. And remember…" She tapped her pocket. "If necessary, I have my pistol."
The butler's lips thinned into a grim line. "I haven't forgotten. I only pray you won't have to use it."
The pub was smoky and dim, the latter of which Breanna was thankful for. She scanned the room, scrutinizing the darkest corners first—the tables where it made the most sense for anyone trying to avoid detection to sit.
Sure enough. There he was. He and another man, whose back was turned toward them.
Silently, Breanna nudged Wells, jerking her chin in that direction so he could follow her gaze.
Wells's eyes narrowed as he saw the viscount and his associate, and he pointed to a table just beside theirs—one that was equally concealed by darkness, but that was close enough to attempt eavesdropping.
Pausing only to order two ales—which they paid for at the counter to avoid any immediate interruptions—Wells and Breanna carried their tankards to the table, lowering themselves to the rickety stools.
"You're sure Sheldrake acted normal? He didn't slip off during the day or receive any suspicious missives?"
It was her father's voice, audible even over the thrum of voices, clanking of glasses, and occasional bursts of raucous laughter.
