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George started, but recovered himself quickly. "You are well-informed, aren't you?" He glared at her, loathing the rebellious glint in her eyes that refused to be extinguished, despite the fact that she was obviously afraid. "So bloody defiant. I pity the man Rouge would have sold you to."
"Would have?" Anastasia stopped struggling, went very still. "Does that mean you've reconsidered? That you're not going to sell me as a whore?"
A thoughtful pause. "Perhaps not. If you give me that proof you have." He glanced about, seeing no documents in her other hand. "Where is it?"
"You're frightened," Anastasia taunted softly. "I don't blame you. Selling women as chattel to warm the beds of strangers. Stealing from the company your father founded. Plotting to stage your niece's death so you could get her inheritance. I'd be frightened, too. Especially if that same niece had evidence of my crimes. Not to mention confessions by Lyman and Bates. Why, as we speak, both those men are signing statements incriminating you. Then again, what choice did they have? With proof that Lyman accepted illegal payments from you and that Bates supplied you with workhouse girls to export to the Continent as whores, your two colleagues were desperate to save their own skin. They happily turned you over to Bow Street
in exchange for leniency."
"Shut up!" George shouted. His rage was spiraling out of control. He could feel it. "Shut up and give me that proof!"
"Why should I? I'm not stupid. Neither were Lyman and Bates. They realized that, as accomplices, their necks weren't pulled nearly as tight in the noose as yours is. You're the head of everything." Anastasia's smile was mocking. "As for their loyalty—it didn't extend as far as sacrificing their own freedom. Especially since their incentive to do so has worn a bit thin. Let me think—how long has it been since you paid them what they're owed?"
George drew back his arm, struck Anastasia across the face with such force that her head snapped back. "You lying bitch," he snarled. "Lyman and Bates would never confess. They're as involved with Rouge as I am."
"Not quite," Anastasia refuted, teeth clenched against the pain shooting through her cheek and down her neck. "Granted, Lyman supplies the ships, and Bates the women. But it's you Rouge communicates with; you who orchestrates all the exchanges. And it's you who reaps the largest profit. Also, neither Bates nor Lyman are stealing from their companies or attempting to steal from their dead brother."
"That money is mine!" George bellowed through the savage red haze coursing through him. "All of it. Henry's, the company's. I'm entitled to it. And I intend to have it—the minute I get you out of the way."
"Why are you entitled to it? As compensation—because Papa stole Mama? He didn't steal her, Uncle George. She loved him."
With a violent curse, George's free hand whipped out, wrapped around Anastasia's throat. "Your mother was a whore," he roared, his fingers biting into her tender skin. "You're a whore. Whatever Rouge had in store for you was too good. You should be thrashed until you bleed, taken until that brazen spark is snuffed out of your eyes, the life snuffed out of your body. And I intend to see that it is." He began walking, dragging her toward the warehouses with him. "Damn you, Anastasia—where is that proof? Do I have to choke you to death to get it?"
A silhouette lunged out of the shadows, and a fist shot out, slamming George in the jaw and sending him reeling. "Get your hands off her, Medford," Damen commanded, shoving Anastasia to safety and advancing toward a wild-eyed George.
"Sheldrake," he gasped.
Damen's fist shot out again, this time sending George toppling to the dirt. "You filthy bastard. I'd like to kill you here and now."
"Don't, Lord Sheldrake." A uniformed Bow Street
runner strode out, gesturing for two of his colleagues to follow. "It's not worth dirtying your hands. We'll see that the v
iscount gets what he deserves. We have everything we need to do that."
The three officers stalked forward, yanking George to his feet, then grabbing his arms, jerking them behind his back.
"You arranged this?" George managed, looking bewilderedly from Anastasia to Damen. "Both of you?"
"All of us, Father." Breanna walked forward, coming to stand beside her cousin.
"Breanna?" George's eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his head. "You?"
Her nod was emphatic, bitter tears glistening on her lashes. "How else would Mr. Cunnings have known where and when to direct you?"
George swallowed convulsively—once, twice. "You're saying … this morning … your visit to Sheldrake … your conversation…" His eyes widened in sudden realization. "The evidence Anastasia has…"
"All fabricated," Breanna supplied. "At least until we get into your private files to confirm it. We simply set the trap. You walked into it." She signaled to the Bow Street
men to take him away. "Maybe now Grandfather can rest in peace."
She turned her back to him, his furious verbal assault falling on deaf ears, growing more indistinct as Bow Street
dragged him off.
Her head held high, Breanna turned her attention to Stacie, who was standing in the circle of Damen's arms.
"Are you all right, sweetheart?" he was asking, tracing the red marks on her cheek with gentle fingers.
