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Breanna's breath was coming in sharp rasps as she dashed down the alley and jumped into the phaeton. She'd had to dig her nails into her thighs to keep from leaping up and lunging after Cunnings. But she had to stay level-headed—for Stacie's sake. So, she and Wells had nursed their drinks, lowering their heads as Cunnings walked past them and exited the alehouse. Not long after, her father had followed suit.
They'd given it another five minutes—enough time for George to reach his phaeton—before they acted. Making their way outside, they'd peeked to the right, ensuring George was out of sight, before veering of
f to the left.
Wells hadn't come close to keeping up with her pace. Breanna huddled in the phaeton, watching the elderly butler hurrying toward her, blood pounding in her veins. There was never a doubt what she had to do.
"Miss Breanna…" Wells hoisted himself into the phaeton. "Are you all right?"
The poor man was sheet-white, and Breanna lay her hand over his. "No," she replied honestly. "Are you?"
Mutely, he shook his head.
"Wells, listen to me. I've got to get to Stacie. I know how exhausted you are, not to mention you're reeling with shock. I'd never ask this of you, but…"
Jaw set, Wells snatched up the reins. "I assume Miss Stacie is with Lord Sheldrake?"
"Yes."
"I recall the address. We're on our way."
It was still dark when the phaeton sped up to Damen's Town house.
* * *
Inside the sitting room, Stacie's head shot up, and she gently disengaged herself from Damen's arms, climbing off the chair and trying not to awaken him. He'd nodded off less than an hour ago and, after the emotional upheaval of the night, she was determined not to disturb him until it became absolutely necessary.
It was about to become necessary.
She'd expected something significant to occur ever since that feeling had come over her. She didn't know what, but the very knowledge had precluded her from relaxing into sleep.
Well, she was about to get her answer.
She peered out the window, tensing as she saw two shoddily dressed men climb out of a phaeton and dart up the Town house stairs.
Whatever she'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. "Damen…"
He was awake and beside her before she'd finished uttering his name. His jaw clenched as he scrutinized their two surprise visitors. "Who the hell…?"
"You don't know them, then?"
"No. I don't know who they are or what they want. But I'm sure as hell going to find out." He stalked over to the small corner desk, unlocked the top drawer, and extracted a pistol. Clutching the weapon in his hand, he headed off, pausing only to glare at Stacie. "Stay here—out of sight," he ordered. "These men might work for your uncle."
She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "All right. But be careful."
"I will."
Stacie listened as Damen strode down the hall and yanked open the front door. She couldn't keep herself from venturing as far as the sitting room threshold, peeking around the corner to watch.
"Who are you?" Damen was demanding. He flourished his pistol, blocking the doorway, and whoever was standing at it. "What are you doing here at this hour?"
"Damen." Breanna's voice was muffled but urgent. "It's us."
* * *
Chapter 20
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