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"Well, you don't now; not at this particular minute. Breanna is surrounded by a large crowd of admirers. You can see for yourself after we round the next corner of the dance floor. Just look over my shoulder, to the left of the musicians." So saying, Damen whisked Anastasia about, angling her so she could see her cousin, who was, indeed, chatting with three or four gentlemen, obviously having a wonderful time.
"If you ask me, she's catching up on the Seasons she never had," Damen continued quietly. "She's enjoying all the newfound attention. Which is why it's too soon for her to be dancing with the same partner all night, and far too soon for her to be tied down to just one suitor. She knows I'm dancing with you. In fact, she urged me to go. Especially when she saw the predicament you were in. She was nearly as eager as I to rescue you from Percy Gilbert's lascivious hands."
Anastasia's eyes twinkled. "You just got to me first."
"Exactly."
"Tell me, Damen, how is it you know so much about Breanna and me? According to her, you've spent little time in her company. And I met you less than a fortnight ago. So where do these accurate perceptions come from?"
He drew her a tad closer. "Come riding with me and I'll tell you."
"What?" Anastasia was so surprised that she missed a step.
"Tomorrow. Before breakfast." Damen's grip about her waist tightened, steadying her on her feet. "I heard you tell Gilbert that you love to race. As it happens, so do I. We can take Medford's course at a rushing gallop. The winner gets to decide the order of surnames in our new partnership: Lockewood and Colby, or Colby and Lockewood. He or she also gets to choose the name of our new bank. Remember? That was what we were arguing about on the balcony when your uncle interrupted us."
"I remember." Anastasia wondered if she'd ever breathe again. This man affected her more powerfully than she ever would have believed possible. She was actually trembling, and she wasn't even sure why. "You have yourself a deal, my lord. We'll race at dawn. And when you lose," her eyes sparkled, "I want to hear how you come upon your insights into my cousin and me. Then I'll name our bank."
"Agreed." Damen's eyes were smoldering clouds of smoke. "I look forward to it—to the ride, to the conversation, and to whatever follows."
* * *
Across the room, Lord Dutton finished his fourth pastry and tapped George on the shoulder.
"Your niece and Sheldrake appear to be getting on famously," he noted, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin and pointing. "It seems that he's spent half the evening with her and the other half with Breanna." A chuckle. "Then again, perhaps he's lost track of which one is which."
"Yes. Perhaps," George muttered, watching intently as Sheldrake swept Anastasia about the room. They were too far away to make out their expressions, and he found himself fervently hoping that Sheldrake's sole purpose in sharing this prolonged waltz with Anastasia was to shake some sense into the outspoken chit.
Because if not…
"Pardon me, sir."
Wells came up behind him, and cleared his throat before continuing. "I apologize for interrupting, but this message just arrived from the Continent. It's marked urgent."
George pivoted, glancing down at the envelope and recognizing the familiar hand. "Thank you, Wells," he said, taking the message and giving Dutton a terse nod. "Pardon me, Dutton. There's some business I must attend to.
"Of course, of course." Dutton waved him away, hungrily eyeing the new platter of food that had just been carried in. "Business first."
"Right." George weaved his way through the room, again reminding himself to behave calmly, not to alert anyone to the urgency that was swelling inside him with each passing step.
He made his way to the hall, veering left, then striding purposefully down the corridor.
At last, he crossed the threshold to his study, shutting the door behind him.
Swiftly, he tore open the envelope, palms sweating with anticipation as he extracted the single sheet of paper and unfolded it.
It was inside the note.
George scanned the draft, then swore under his breath.
The payment might have been anticipated, but the amount was not.
Determined to find answers, he turned his attention to the note.
Your last shipment was of poor quality and insufficient quantity, it read. As a result, the agreed upon price of three thousand pounds is reduced to fifteen hundred pounds. Draft enclosed. Next shipment best arrive in a fortnight, prompt and up to previous standards, or no payment will be made and our association will be terminated.—M. Rouge
"Goddammit." George crumpled the note into a ball and flung it into the fireplace. Broodingly, he watched it fray, then burn, turning to ashes before his eyes.
Raking a hand through his hair, he began pacing the room, sweat beading on his brow.
