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"Oh, I don't know—probably because you sprang up and confronted him like a hissing cat about to strike."
A rueful grin. "Was I that obvious?"
"Let's say you weren't subtle."
"Wonderful." Anastasia rolled her eyes. "Now I'll not only have an arrogant, opinionated overseer, I'll have an arrogant, opinionated overseer who dislikes me."
"I didn't say he dislikes you," Breanna refuted, tucking a stray ringlet back into her smooth knot of upswept hair. "In fact, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say he was more fascinated by you than annoyed. You are unique, Stacie. What's more, I doubt many women challenge Lord Sheldrake's authority, much less his skill."
"I didn't challenge his skill." In one impatient motion, Anastasia gave up trying to arrange her own auburn waves, letting them tumble unimpeded down her back. "I'm sure he's every bit the financial genius Papa claimed him to be. But that doesn't mean I want him as a guardian—monetary or otherwise."
"So I gathered." Breanna gave a quizzical shrug. "Why not? Surely you can benefit from his knowledge."
"I'm sure I can. But I'm not sure I want to." Rising, Anastasia shook out the folds of her lime green day dress. "What do you know of him—besides the fact that he's brilliant, wealthy, and, if Uncle George has his way, your future husband?"
A flush stained Breanna's cheeks. "I wouldn't place much faith in the last. As for the rest, yes, he's both brilliant and wealthy. He's also charming, handsome, and polite. I'm not sure how much more I can tell you. From what little I saw during my sole London Season, I suspect he's never at a loss for female companionship. On the other hand, I truly believe business is his primary passion—and his primary pastime. While he did attend a few balls that Season, he didn't seem particularly enthused and he didn't stay long. I only danced with him twice. As for other women…"
"What type of investor is he?"
Breanna blinked. "Pardon me?"
"When he invests your father's money, is he narrow-minded in his choices, rigid in his approach? Or is he willing to try new things, hear new ideas?"
"How on earth would I know?"
Anastasia's hand balled into a frustrated fist, her arm helplessly slicing the air before falling to her side. "I suppose you wouldn't. But I need to. I have specific ideas for how that money should be invested—how Papa would want it to be invested. And I must know if…"
A knock on the door interrupted them.
"Come in," Anastasia called.
"Pardon me." Kate, the rotund, smiling, middle-aged woman who'd been assigned—in whatever limited capacity her new mistress would allow—the role of Anastasia's lady's maid, entered the room. "The viscount and Lord Sheldrake have arrived," she informed Anastasia. "They're awaiting you in the yellow salon." A concerned, motherly look. "Shall I fix your hair, m'lady? I can put it up like Lady Breanna's, or weave some pearls through the crown and…"
"Thank you, no, Kate." Anastasia waved away the suggestion. "I'll just tie it back. That should suffice. After all, I'm going to a meeting, not a ball." So saying, she snatched up a satin ribbon, tugging it into place as
she walked. "Very well. Let's get this over with." She glanced at Breanna. "Are you coming?"
Her cousin stood, a spark lighting her eyes. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Both George and Lord Sheldrake rose to their feet when Anastasia and Breanna entered the salon. Anastasia's gaze bypassed her uncle altogether, going straight to the man who, for the next three months, held her financial future in his hands.
The marquess was as impeccably groomed and mannered today as he had been yesterday, his commanding presence—those bold good looks and that profound self-assurance—seeming to fill the room. Alongside his chair was propped the same portfolio he'd carried to Mr. Fenshaw's office yesterday, only this morning it was twice as thick as it had been then.
"Excellent," George pronounced, nodding his approval at the girls' promptness. "You're both here." His glance flickered from Anastasia to Breanna and back again—and Anastasia had the distinct impression he hadn't a notion which of them was his daughter.
"Ah, Breanna." Clearly, Lord Sheldrake didn't suffer from the same affliction. He stepped forward and walked straight to Breanna, bowing and kissing her hand. "Good morning. You look lovely, as always." He turned to Anastasia, his expression altering from cordial to assessing. "Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well and are ready for our meeting?"
Staring into those probing silver-gray eyes, Anastasia wondered if he was taunting her or merely making light conversation. "I slept soundly, my lord," she assured him. "I'm quite rested and ready to discuss my inheritance."
"Good. Then let's get started." The marquess turned to George. "Where can your niece and I meet in private?"
The viscount's jaw dropped. "In private? I don't think…"
"You know very well how I do business, George," Lord Sheldrake broke in quietly. "My discussions with my clients are confidential. As of yesterday, Lady Anastasia is my client. Now, where can she and I meet?"
George inhaled sharply, then gave a terse nod. "Why don't you stay right here? Breanna and I will busy ourselves elsewhere and meet you in the dining room in, say, an hour."
"Fine." The marquess moved back to his chair, gathered up his portfolio and removed some papers, placing them on the end table alongside the sofa. That done, he drew himself up, hands clasped behind him, and shot George an expectant look.
