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"You're sure he heard you?"
"Oh, he heard every word," Breanna stated confidently. "I began my speech when I was right outside Cunnings's office—the third door to the right, just as Damen instructed me. Poor Graff," she added, laughing. "He's never seen me so overwrought. I think he was torn between consoling me and choking me to death."
Anastasia's eyes sparkled. "It sounds like you were very convincing."
"Oh, I was. But then, so was Damen. Once Graff delivered me to his office—after which he darted off like a prisoner who'd been granted his freedom—both Damen and I played our parts superbly. At first, we waited."
"Three minutes, as planned?"
Breanna's brows lifted. "It only took two. We shut the door all but a crack, positioned ourselves near enough to be heard, and watched the outside wall. Less than thirty seconds later, we saw Cunnings's shadow hovering on the wall not ten feet from Damen's office. That's when I launched into a recounting of my dilemma."
"And Cunnings didn't budge?" Anastasia prodded, circling Breanna like an anxious parent. "The entire time you and Damen talked, he stayed outside and listened?"
"Up to the very last word, yes. In fact, I actually spent an exaggerated moment shaking out my skirts to give him enough time to get back to his office. When I emerged, he was gone."
"Wonderful," Anastasia breathed. "Then, by now, the note is on its way to Uncle George, and Damen is on his way to Bow Street
."
"Yes, and a paid assassin is out combing the streets of London looking for you," Breanna reminded her, all humor vanishing.
Rather than terror, Anastasia felt a surge of impending victory, a sense that the end was in sight. "Yes, but he won't find me. Not until we want him to." Her eyes glittered with anticipation. "At which time, Bow Street
will grab him."
"And if he spies them first and escapes?"
A careless shrug. "Then, after tonight, it's he who will be the hunted. With Uncle George in prison and Cunnings a cornered rat—pressured into revealing the names of his contacts—this assassin is all but captured."
Breanna nodded, trying hard to share Anastasia's optimistic appraisal.
Still, she thought, an uneasy prickle crawling up her spine. Gut instinct warned her it wouldn't be that simple.
* * *
Chapter 21
« ^ »
It was nine forty-five.
George steered his phaeton through the last of the rutted roads that led to the docks, gripping the reins more tightly as he neared the end of his journey. The fog was too thick to see clearly, but he could smell the Thames, hear the screech of gulls circling overhead. He was trembling, whether with apprehension or relief that this would finally be over, he wasn't sure.
Cunnings's message had been terse and to the point. Anastasia would be here tonight, carrying with her some unknown proof that was damning enough to send him to Newgate. Cunnings had alerted the assassin, who would be there to give her a proper farewell, after she'd relinquished the evidence to George.
How Cunnings had learned about Anastasia's impending appearance was the infuriating part.
Breanna.
George's insides clenched with rage every time he contemplated the fact that it was his daughter Anastasia was meeting with, his daughter to whom Anastasia was turning over this proof.
His obedient little Breanna meant to betray him.
She actually intended to turn him over to Bow Street
, relegate him to prison—and at her precious cousin's bidding.
Well, he'd deal with Breanna and her lack of loyalty later, after the proof was in his hands and Anastasia ceased to be a problem.
