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"You'll study the list with me, and tell me who's who. I need you to distinguish which guests could be potential backers." Anastasia waved away Breanna's anticipated protest. "I realize you don't involve yourself in Uncle George's business, but surely you know who his colleagues are, and who are the most successful of the bunch. Then, on the night of the ball, you'll point those particular gentlemen out to me, and make the proper introductions. I'll do the rest. By the time my coming-out is complete, my venture will be fully funded."
Breanna couldn't help but chuckle at her cousin's enthusiasm. "Tell me, are you going to enjoy a single hour of this party? In the traditional sense, that is. You know—chatting, meeting interesting people, even dancing. Or are you going to spend the entire time doing business?"
Anastasia's grin widened. "That depends on how quickly I accomplish my goal."
* * *
Accomplishing his goal
, George reflected bitterly one short week later, was a damned, bloody nuisance—one he resented with every fiber of his being.
Fixing a polished smile on his face, he assessed the grand ballroom, which, a mere hour ago, had been empty. Now, it was bursting at the seams, a profusion of color and movement as streams of arriving guests made their entrance, while those already in attendance whirled about the dance floor, chatted in ever-growing groups, or made their way over to the refreshments.
The typical onset to an extravagant house party. Clasping his hands behind his back, George resumed his role as host. He milled about, dropping a smile to his left and a greeting to his right, all the while mentally tabulating how much this wretched affair had wound up costing. Oh, he'd padded the receipts as best he could, adding fifty pounds here and a hundred pounds there. But he hadn't dared get too carried away. Not with Sheldrake's watchful eye overseeing every pence of Henry's money. As a result, George had scarcely been able to squeeze out enough profit to make this whole bloody affair worth his while. In fact, he'd be willing to bet that, once the final numbers were tallied up, he'd be lucky to come out a thousand pounds ahead.
And what would a thousand pounds buy him? A two- or three-week reprieve, perhaps. No more. It certainly wouldn't restore his business to its necessary peak.
Dammit.
George paused as he heard Wells announce Lord and Lady Dutton, and cursed under his breath as he watched them make their entrance. So, the pompous windbag had convinced his tyrant of a wife to leave Bath for the occasion after all. That was hardly an inspiring discovery. It wasn't as if he and Dutton were doing business at the moment. The problem was, that could change at any time. The man was too damned influential to snub, and he had enough money to keep himself that way. Fine, George decided. He'd go over there and do his duty. Then, he'd take a moment or two to find the man he needed to see and set his own dealings back on track.
Resignedly, George headed for the doorway, raising his chin in greeting, and steeling himself for a quarter hour of annoying chatter.
"Good evening, Lady Dutton." George bowed, kissing her gloved hand and wondering idly how her husband's protruding belly was going to allow room for the other two hundred guests. "Dutton," he added, stepping back to welcome the man without slamming into his stomach.
"Medford. Good evening. This is a splendid party," Dutton proclaimed, nodding his approval as he assessed the other attendees. "I give you credit. You've managed a fine gathering on very short notice. And at a very inconvenient time of year. As you know, Penelope here had to be coaxed away from Bath. I'm relieved to see it was worth my efforts in doing so…" A swift man-to-man look together with a subtle roll of the eyes. "…or she'd never let me forget it."
Ignoring the poisonous glare Lady Dutton threw at her husband, George nodded his understanding. "I'm delighted you could both come." He gestured for them to enter, half-hoping he could cut the conversation short. "Please, enjoy yourselves."
"Which young lady is your niece?" Dutton pressed, dashing George's hopes of an abbreviated chat by remaining where he was, peering over as many heads as his stubby height would allow. "Ah," he interrupted himself. "I see a familiar face: your Breanna. She's over there by the French doors—alone, surprisingly. It's been quite some time, but I'd know her anywhere. Although I do believe she's grown even lovelier; she's a veritable vision in yellow."
Tensing, George pivoted, followed Dutton's line of vision, and visibly relaxed. "You're mistaken, Dutton. My daughter is among the crowd enjoying the strings." He waved his arm in the direction of the musicians. "Her gown is blue, not yellow. And she's dancing with Sheldrake. The young lady you spied is my niece, Anastasia."
Dutton's jaw dropped, and he stared from one girl to the other. "My goodness, they could be sisters. Twins, actually."
"They've been mistaken as such." George was in no mood to pursue this particular line of conversation. In fact, he'd had about all he could stand of Dutton. Having made the requisite amount of small talk, and having assured himself that Breanna was, indeed, where she was supposed to be—at Sheldrake's side—he had more important business to attend to than answering this buffoon's nosy questions. "I'll be officially presenting Anastasia to everyone once the majority of guests have arrived. In the interim, if you'll both excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to. Please—partake. My home is yours."
"Yes. Most gracious of you, Medford." Dutton licked his chops, easing his wife—and his belly—farther into the room, doubtless toward the refreshments, George thought in disgust.
"Hello, Medford."
George had scarcely taken a step when Lyman appeared at his elbow, nursing a cup of Regent's punch and speaking in an undertone. "This ball is elegant—and expensive. I'm relieved to see that your financial reverses have righted themselves."
George stiffened. "Not now," he muttered under his breath. Without sparing Lyman another look, he moved deeper into the crowd.
He was more determined than ever to conduct his business.
* * *
Just inside the double doors leading onto the balcony, Anastasia watched the short, chunky man leave Uncle George's side and steer his wife into the room. Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, willing the minuet to end so Breanna could perform the introductions. From the description her cousin had provided, Anastasia was almost certain that the new arrival was Lord Dutton. Based on what Breanna had said, Lord Dutton was an affluent nobleman who owned several enormous estates, a shipbuilding company, and a string of smaller businesses. And that made him an ideal candidate to finance her bank.
She frowned, her gaze—with a will all its own—shifting back to the same place it had traveled a dozen times: to the dance floor where Lord Sheldrake was gliding Breanna about. Not for any personal reason, she assured herself hastily. Only to see if they were concluding their dance so she could proceed with her plan.
Even as she assured herself of that fact, she knew it was a lie.
The truth was, she couldn't stop staring at Damen Lockewood. He was easily the most compelling man in the room, his dynamic presence seeming to overshadow everyone around him. He looked devastating in his formal evening clothes, a fact that was evidenced by all the admiring glances cast his way by women of all ages.
Breanna looked breathtaking at his side. She was poised, graceful, incredibly beautiful; her upswept hair—a shimmering crown of auburn laced with pearls—as perfectly in place as if she were reposing rather than dancing. She was refined, captivating, the consummate lady, and Anastasia felt incredibly proud of her.
