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Anastasia pivoted in her chair, watching as the marquess rose, regarding her from beneath hooded lids.
"I have two meetings I'm already late for," he informed her in a crisp, businesslike tone. "Before I leave, I'd like to set up that appointment regarding your inheritance. Would tomorrow at eleven be convenient?"
Feeling dwarfed by his height and less than pleased by that decided disadvantage, Anastasia stood as well, tilting back her head to meet his gaze. "Tomorrow?" A rush of irrational resentment surged anew. What was the man's hurry? Did he hope to quickly rid her of all financial responsibilities, take over full authority of her financial investments?
If so, he was going to be in for the surprise of a lifetime. "I admire your initiative, my lord," she replied coolly. "You're certainly eager to assume your role as my business adviser. By the way, how is it possible to be late for two meetings at the same time?"
He looked more amused than put off. "The House of Lockewood has its main offices right here in London. The building runs almost the full length of Bishopsgate Street
. Inside are many offices in which I confer with clients. Sometimes I meet with one while another reviews documents I've prepared." His lips curved. "I assure you, I give my full attention to each and every person I advise. You won't be neglected."
Anastasia had a strong urge to strike him. "Trust me, my lord, being neglected was the least of my worries. As for our meeting, it will have to wait. I can't possibly impose upon Uncle George to return to London again tomorrow."
"Understandable." The marquess acknowledged the obstacle she'd erected, never breaking stride as he scaled it. "Fine. I'll ride to Kent, then. Expect me tomorrow morning at eleven."
The more insistent he became, the deeper Anastasia dug in her heels. "That's very considerate of you. But I have no need of your assistance. Rest assured, I won't squander my funds away by morning. And I don't want to inconvenience my uncle."
"Ah, of course not. Let's address that issue, shall we?" Without awaiting her reply, the marquess glanced over her head, assessing George's fervent conversation with Mr. Fenshaw and interrupting it with the slightest lift of his brows. "Pardon me, George. I need to meet with your niece about her inheritance. Would it be possible for me to drop by Medford Manor at eleven o'clock tomorrow?"
"H-m-m? Why, yes, I suppose so." George's forehead was still deeply furrowed, his lips thinned in a tight line of annoyance as he contemplated the morning's revelations.
Abruptly, Damen's request sank in, and George whipped out his timepiece, blinking in surprise when he saw it was nearing three o'clock.
"Actually your visiting tomorrow morning would work out nicely," he announced with a frown. "As I mentioned earlier, I have another meeting this afternoon—one I'm already an hour late for, and which I suspect will go on for some time. Your riding out in the morning would ease my time constraints. If it's agreeable with you, I'll have my driver take Breanna and Anastasia back to Kent directly from here, while I stay on to conduct my business. After that, I can spend the night in Town and ride home with you tomorrow."
Lord Sheldrake nodded. "That's perfectly acceptable."
"Good." For the first time since entering Mr. Fenshaw's office, Uncle George looked pleased by an outcome. "We'll arrive at Medford Manor by eleven o'clock. You'll stay for lunch, of course."
"How can I resist one of Mrs. Rhodes's fine meals?" the marquess responded, gathering up his portfolio and putting a purposeful end to the discussion. "So, on that pleasant note, I'll be on my way. Fenshaw, I'll be in touch. George, Breanna—I'll see you both tomorrow. And Lady Anastasia—" He bowed, a corner of his mouth lifting as his gaze found hers. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Oh, and by the way," he added in an offhanded tone—although Anastasia could swear she saw a baiting look flash in those steel-gray eyes—"I wasn't concerned about your squandering your funds, at least not for the next three months. You can't. You'd need my signature to do so."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
The Thames was bustling as the business day came to a close.
Iron cranes loaded and unloaded cargo from the various ships tied up in the harbor, and a stream of workers shuttled freight into the slew of waiting warehouses.
This surge of activity was clearly visible from the offices of Lyman Shipping Company. Overlooking the river, the company's spacious front room window provided a lovely view of Westminster Bridge and of the dignified cluster of buildings surrounding Westminster Hall.
The charm of the view was lost on George Colby. Scowling, he peered into the gathering dusk, feeling choked by fate and its unexpected limitations.
"I expected to be paid today, Medford," Edgar Lyman reminded him for the second time, his voice fraught with tension. Abandoning his chair, the stocky man with the square jaw and watery blue eyes paced about his office, palms sweating as he rubbed them together. "I need that money."
"I know. I thought I'd have it." George ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the nape of his neck in frustration. "Unfortunately, the cash I expected to come into will be delayed—temporarily."
"Then the shipment will have to be delayed—temporarily."
"The hell it will." George's head whipped around, his eyes darkening with anger. "Don't threaten me, Lyman. You won't like the results."
"I wasn't threatening you." Lyman recoiled from George's menacing tone, taking a precautionary step backward. "I'm just stating a fact. Expenses are mounting. So are risks. Meade's pressuring me. He wants higher wages. Says there's more at stake now."
"Then deal with him," George snapped. "Meade's your problem, not mine. But that merchandise is expected. Arrangements have been made to receive it. It will go out—on schedule. I don't care if you have to use your personal funds to get it there. I've certainly spent enough of mine. You'll make your profit. You always do. So does Meade—more than that browbeating son of a bitch is worth. Now get that shipment out by week's end."
A resigned nod. "Fine. I'll take care of it. But with regard to payment…"
