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"Cunnings did," Damen echoed, a vein throbbing at his forehead. "How?"
"By making some adjustments to my father's original plan. He offered to find Father a substitute for Rouge—one of the bank's female clients who, as he put it, won't be missed. That way, Father can collect his huge fee and get his hands on those things he'd need Stacie dead to acquire."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this."
Breanna nodded bleakly. "I don't believe I'm saying it."
Damen rubbed the back of his neck, trying to come to terms with everything he was learning. "You said George is hiring an assassin. How is he managing that?"
"He's not." There was genuine pain in Breanna's eyes, spawned by the realization that she was about to deliver a cruel blow. "Cunnings is."
Shock jolted through Damen's body, and he r
ecoiled from its impact. "Cunnings?"
"Yes. I'm sorry, Damen. But Cunnings is the one with this particular contact. Father instructed him to make the arrangements."
"How the hell is an officer at my bank acquainted with a paid killer?"
Breanna spread her arms helplessly. "He didn't say. In fact, he was very secretive about the matter. When Father asked to meet with this man, Cunnings said no, that this assassin would do business only through him."
A muscle was working furiously in Damen's jaw. "What's Cunnings getting in exchange? A huge amount of money?"
"Several thousand pounds, plus ten percent of whatever Rouge pays Father. Oh, and one thing more." Breanna swallowed. "A seat on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons."
"Which Uncle George will have sole ownership of, if I'm eliminated." Twin spots of red tinged Anastasia's cheeks. "That monster will then have just what he wants, what he's always wanted—to triumph over Papa, and to wrest away everything Grandfather held dear: his company, his name, and everything good our family represents."
"Not to mention acquiring Uncle Henry's inheritance," Breanna reminded her. "And Damen, who Father assumes will seek solace in my arms once you're gone." A bitter gleam flashed in her eyes. "Does that course of events sound familiar?"
"It's the path he took when he married your mother," Anastasia supplied, gripping the folds of her gown as if by doing so she could stem her rage. "He's decided Damen will do the same: love a woman he can't have, and marry her closest replica."
"Exactly. Father all but admitted that to me during our argument tonight. Which reminds me…" Breanna shoved her hand into her pocket, extracted the miniature portrait. Its frame was somewhat mangled, but the image inside remained clear as day. "I found this in Father's study after he left tonight. He'd obviously hurled it at the wall." She stretched out her arm, offered the portrait to Stacie. "I believe it's self-explanatory."
Stacie took it, her eyes widening as she recognized the likeness. "Mama," she murmured, angling the picture for inspection. "He's kept a portrait of her all these years?"
"And destroyed it the very day he decided to destroy you."
"I can't listen to this another minute." Damen strode over, refilled his drink. "Not without riding to Medford Manor and choking that son of a bitch with my bare hands." He sucked in his breath, then released it, fighting for the restraint necessary to resolve things. "However, we still have one problem—the same problem we've had since the onset. Proof. Or lack thereof. What concrete evidence, other than hearsay, do we really have against George?"
"I believe we can tie the viscount to Mr. Cunnings," Wells put in, his color somewhat restored from the Madeira. "I gave Miss Breanna the address of the courier who delivers messages between the two of them. Surely that will help."
"Thank you, Wells," Damen replied, staring broodingly into his goblet. "Unfortunately, it's not enough. Oh, I have more than enough proof that Cunnings is involved in personal business with George." He gestured toward the pile of papers on the end table. "My contacts supplied me with dates and times when that courier ran personal deliveries back and forth between Medford Manor and my bank—at Cunnings's authorization. And Cunnings has been living like a prince, buying property, jewelry for women, you name it."
Damen's hands balled into fists. "The problem is, we still haven't gotten hold of documents that directly incriminate George. Nor have we closed in on any of his colleagues to the point where we could squeeze a confession out of them, one that would implicate George, as well. If we went to Bow Street
, had them seize George, he'd slip right through our fingers. They'd have only our testimony, and a few suspicious actions, to go on. Doubtless, George would have Bates exert some judicial influence—Bates, who's nearly as crooked as he is. After which, George would walk out a free man."
"What if we had a confession?" Anastasia interrupted. "A confession made directly to the authorities?" Three pairs of eyes riveted to her.
"Stacie, have you lost your mind?" Breanna responded. "Father would never confess—not when he's sober and never to the authorities."
"He might. If he didn't know he was confessing."
"You've lost me." Breanna inclined her head quizzically in Damen's direction. "Do you know anything about this?"
A dark scowl. "Only that I'm not going to like it." He set down his drink, folded his arms across his chest, and leveled his stare at Anastasia. "Let's hear your plan. And Stacie—it had better not involve you."
Her chin jutted up. "I'm already at risk, Damen. As of tomorrow, a hired assassin will be out hunting me down. How long do you think I can hide in your Town house?" She rubbed her palms together, growing more determined the more she contemplated her plan. "Breanna, did Cunnings say anything to Uncle George implying Damen played a part in my disappearance?"
