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"I said, I'm working on it. An unexpected obstacle's been thrown in my path."
"An insurmountable obstacle?"
George's lips thinned into a grim line. "No obstacle is insurmountable. I'll either bypass it or remove it. Just as Meade is your problem, this is mine. And I'll resolve it. Soon." He walked to the door. "Contact me when the shipment reaches port."
Alone in his London Town home, George abandoned the facade of self-assurance. Cursing under his breath, he poured himself a brandy, tossing it off in three swallows.
Damn life and its ugly, unforeseen twists. Damn Anne for giving birth to that little chit. Damn Henry for his exasperating stipulations. And now, the most stunning twist of all—damn their father for leaving a bloody fortune to two stupid girls who hadn't a notion what to do with it.
Six hundred thousand pounds. Six hundred thousand pounds. Every pence of which should have been his. Instead, he hadn't even known of its existence. And, now that he did know, he'd been advised—in the very same breath—that he couldn't touch a single pound of it. Not now. Not ever.
Furiously, he refilled his goblet, his thoughts jumping fr
om his father to his brother.
Henry's estate wasn't worth a third of their father's unexpected trust fund, but it was a sizable estate nonetheless. More important, it was money George had counted on having access to. Why else would he have invited his niece to come live at Medford Manor? Oh, he'd expected Henry to have found a way to limit his power, probably by directing Fenshaw to keep an eye on things, possibly even assigning the solicitor some say in the management of Anastasia's inheritance. Neither of those restrictions would have amounted to a major stumbling block. The situation would simply have required a touch of creativity—something George was more than capable of providing. But for Henry to snatch his inheritance away entirely? To leave full control of it to a non-family member, no matter how trusted? That was a blatant slap in the face—and a major impediment to his plan.
Which brought him to the man Henry had entrusted his funds to: Damen Lockewood.
Having the marquess in charge was indeed a double-edged sword. On the one hand, George felt confident that his own relationship with Sheldrake was good—good enough that he might be able to use it to make inroads to Henry's money. On the other hand, Sheldrake was smart as a whip and ethical—especially when it came to financial matters. So how the hell could George avail himself of Henry's estate without alerting the marquess to his intentions?
Then there was the additional matter of Colby and Sons, which George had fully anticipated having to himself after today's will reading. Not directly, of course. He'd second-guessed Henry's decision to bequeath his shares of the company to Anastasia. Nevertheless, that wouldn't have posed a major problem. After all, George's grieving niece was living under his roof now. And things being what they were, he was confident he could have convinced her, with relative ease, to let him represent her interests in the family business. But now, with Sheldrake managing her shares? George would have to tread very carefully. As it was, the marquess was integrally involved in their company. This new duty would make his role that much more pivotal—and the profits that much more difficult for George to skim.
He had to get his hands on those profits—fast.
That realization brought him full circle, back to the ultimate shock: his father's six hundred thousand pounds. The old man had always been too bloody sentimental. But to leave a fortune of that size to a pair of women? Mere girls at that, he reminded himself. The pathetic old fool must have snapped altogether.
George's fist struck the sideboard. None of this was doing him any good. The bottom line was that his hands were tied. He had no access to his father's trust fund and—thanks to Henry—he'd also be hard-pressed to get at the remaining Colby resources. Dammit, he needed that cash. And he needed it now.
But how to get it, without answering any questions or arousing any suspicions … now that was his dilemma. He'd have to go about things slowly. And the logical approach was to begin with what was legally available to him.
Anastasia's coming-out funds.
True, it was only ten thousand pounds. But it was a start. And a start was all he needed—for now.
* * *
Late morning sunlight trickled into Anastasia's bedchamber, a sticky summer breeze heralding yet another July day.
Breanna sat, perched at the edge of the carved armchair, watching as Anastasia brushed her hair at the dressing table. "Stacie, what is it?" she asked. "You've been frowning since we left Mr. Fenshaw's office yesterday. What's troubling you so much?"
"H-m-m?" Anastasia looked up, realizing Breanna had spoken to her. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"The same thing I said to you last night before we went to bed. You're obviously upset. Is it grief? Are you missing your parents? Did yesterday's will reading worsen the pain? If so, tell me. I'd like to help."
Anastasia lowered her eyes, staring at the handle of her brush with a wistful expression. "If anyone could help, it would be you. And, yes, I miss Mama and Papa. I always will. That's what's weighing on my heart. But my mind—now that's another story."
"And what story is that? Is it the money Grandfather left us? Are you worried over how he'd want us to spend it?"
"Oddly enough, no. I have a feeling we'll know just what to do with that money when the time comes. I think Grandfather believed that, too."
"I agree." Breanna fell silent, waiting expectantly.
Anastasia chewed her lip, met her cousin's gaze in the looking glass, and sighed. "Actually, it's the money Father left me that's on my mind. Or, more specifically, the man who'll be overseeing how I spend it." She lay down her brush, turning to face Breanna. "It's nearly eleven o'clock," she blurted. "Before I force myself to go downstairs and attend this meeting, tell me more about Damen Lockewood."
"Ah." Breanna propped her chin on her hand, regarding her cousin with amused interest. "Damen Lockewood. That was my third guess. He really rankled you, didn't he?"
"Why do you say that?"
