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That said it all. Clear, direct, and without revealing any of the worry that gripped his gut.
With a terse nod, George folded the note in two, slipping it into the envelope he'd addressed beforehand and sealing it.
Two could play this game of threats.
Unfortunately, only one could win.
Pressing his lips tightly together, George yanked open his drawer and returned his writing paper to its proper home. He hated leaving things out of place. In fact, he hated disorder of any kind.
In the process of shutting the drawer, he paused, extracting the miniature portrait he kept hidden in back.
Staring at the delicate features and flawless skin, captured so perfectly on the tiny canvas, he scowled, the familiar rage starting to churn in his blood. Damn her. Damn them both. Things could have been so different. If only this part of his life had fallen neatly into line, everything else would have followed suit. His life, his family, his business—everything would have been in perfect order.
Well, it hadn't. And now chaos was everywhere.
With that, he shoved away the picture, shut and locked the drawer, and snatched up his letter. There was no time for brooding. He had work to do.
Purposefully, he strode down to the entranceway door, signaling for Wells as he did.
"I need this delivered immediately for dispatch to the Continent," he instructed the butler.
"Of course, sir." Wells glanced at the envelope as he took it. "Is it going to the customary address in London?"
"Yes."
"I'll see to it at once, my lord."
"Good." George glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. "It's after ten. Have the first guests awakened yet?"
"A few have made their way in for breakfast. A dozen or so of the gentlemen went out early, some to fish, others to hunt. All the ladies are still abed." A tender smile. "With the exception of Miss Stacie, of course."
"Anastasia? Is she in the dining room?"
"No, my lord. Although I should think she'd be ravenous. She was up and out before the sun, and returned to the manor, along with Lord Sheldrake, before eight."
"Returned?" That brought George up short. "Returned from where?"
"Why, from their ride, sir."
George stiffened. "You're sure it was Anastasia and not Breanna who went with Sheldrake?"
"Quite sure, sir. According to Miss Stacie, she and the marquess had some business to discuss."
"They left together?"
"No. Lord Sheldrake left the manor first, Miss Stacie about a quarter hour later." Wells frowned. "They were only gone a few hours, my lord."
"And then what?"
Wells's frown deepened. "Then they returned, each requesting that hot water be sent up to their respective bedchambers. After that, they went their separate ways. Lord Sheldrake came downstairs for breakfast and left the manor again about a half hour ago. And Miss Stacie is upstairs, waiting for Miss Breanna to awaken. She wants to have breakfast with her cousin."
"Did the marquess mention where he was going?"
"No, he didn't, my lord. He sent a message off to Mr. Cunnings at the bank, then headed out. I didn't get the impression he'd be gone long. Perhaps he joined the other gentlemen at the stream."
"Perhaps," George muttered, his lips thinning into a tight line of disapproval. "Then again, perhaps not."
* * *
