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"Very well." Lyman appeared to be relieved. Still, he hesitated, lingering in the hallway as if he had something more to say.
"Is there something else?" George snapped, eager to bring this conversation to a close.
"Frankly, yes." A frown creased Lyman's forehead, and he blurted out, "Do you actually approve of your niece's behavior—involving herself in business, investing in, of all things, an American bank, seeking backers right here at her own coming-out party?"
The questions struck George like a series of blows. "What in the name of heaven are you babbling about?" he demanded.
"Your niece. Anastasia. You mean you don't know? She's intent on starting a bank in the colonies. And she's asking Lord knows how many of your guests to finance this venture."
Silence.
"I didn't think you'd approve of it," Lyman concluded, seeing George's livid expression. "Not only Anastasia's choice of ventures, but the very idea of her being actively involved in business. And using this ball to acquire her…"
"Are you certain about this?" George interrupted.
"Of course I am. She approached me directly, requested my backing. She also approached Landow, Crompton, Bates…"
"Where is she?" George broke into Lyman's explanation, whipping about to scrutinize the ballroom from the entranceway door, only to find his niece was nowhere in sight. "Where's Anastasia now?"
"With Sheldrake. I assume she's soliciting his help as well."
"That's impossible. Sheldrake is with…" George's mouth snapped shut as he spied Breanna, chatting with a group of girls near the punch. "Dammit," he muttered. He turned to glare at Lyman. "You say Anastasia is with Sheldrake?"
"Yes. On the balcony. They've been out there for quite some time. Then again, as I understand it, the man is her financial overseer. Perhaps he's trying to talk some sense into her. I hope he succeeds."
George's hands balled into fists at his sides. Bad enough that Sheldrake wasn't with Breanna, as planned. But this? This was disastrous. It had never occurred to him that Anastasia might have made plans with regard to her father's money. But he'd obviously underestimated her. And if she squandered that inheritance before he got his hands on it…
Slowly, he sucked in his breath. Ludicrous. In order to spend her money, Anastasia needed Sheldrake's permission, something the marquess would never provide, not for a stupid venture such as this. And as far as getting other backers to finance her endeavor, that was equally preposterous. Not one man in this room, even the most outlandish of gamblers, would agree to do business with a woman. On the contrary, the stupid chit had probably succeeded in alienating every member of the peerage, a likelihood that posed an entirely different set of problems.
It was time to contain the damage.
"Excuse me, Lyman," George told his colleague. "All the guests have now arrived. I'm going to summon Anastasia and make her formal introduction."
"A wise idea."
George wasn't interested in Lyman's blessing. He weaved his way through the ballroom, forcibly restraining himself from plowing his way to the balcony. He had to look unconcerned, to avoid arousing suspicions. No one must think anything was amiss, that he was at all distressed by his niece's outrageous behavior. Oh, he didn't doubt the room was abuzz with gossip. But he'd deal with that later, address the comments, one by one. As for now, as host of an elaborate party, all that mattered was saving face.
Schooling his features, he edged closer to the open French doors, mentally rehearsing how he'd introduce Anastasia, diffuse the gossip, and find a way to stifle his niece's campaign for funds long enough to get through this house party, after which he'd deal with her privately.
He paused and, in a tone that echoed loud and clear, ordered the footmen to refill everyone's glasses. He was well aware that by doing so he was alerting the whole ballroom to the fact that an announcement was about to be made.
Satisfied, he strolled out onto the balcony.
Anastasia and Sheldrake stood near the railing, engaged in heated debate. George couldn't hear their actual words, but it was obvious his niece was uttering something decisive, her gloved hand slicing the air in emphasis. Sheldrake responded with an adamant shake of his head, refuting her position in no uncertain terms, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his baritone firm, uncompromising.
Thank goodness.
George could actually feel a bit of the tension drain from his body. But only a bit. Because he had an excellent memory. And if his now-grown niece bore any similarity to the willful child she'd once been, it would take sheer wizardry to alter her intentions.
Wizardry or a heavy hand.
He'd decide later which of the two to employ.
"Anastasia." George bore down on her, determined to aid Sheldrake's efforts and divert Anastasia's attentions—at least temporarily—before she decided to seek support elsewhere in the room. "I've been looking for you. It's time for your formal presentation."
Anastasia inclined her head and blinked, looking as
if she had forgotten the whole purpose of this bloody ball. "Oh—yes. Of course. I'm coming, Uncle George." She gathered up her skirts, giving the marquess a measured look. "You'll have to excuse me."
