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Triumph glittered in the viscount's eyes. "Excellent. The next shipment will be ready in ten days. Be prepared to deliver it on time. And Meade? Don't ever blackmail me again."
* * *
Chapter 9
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The victory was little cause for celebration.
George leaned back in his carriage, his teeth gritting as he assessed the situation.
All well and good that Meade would deliver the shipment as planned. First, the damned merchandise had to be secured, a reality that Bates was supposedly seeing to. And even if both tasks went smoothly, George had to pray that his note to Rouge had been convincing enough to inspire a modicum of patience; that, as a result of George's threat to take his business elsewhere, Rouge would adhere to the specified terms and pay the full amount due.
And if that happened?
Even the full amount was a mere drop in the bucket compared to George's ocean of debt.
His colleagues, his creditors, his informants.
The very thought of how many thousands and thousands of pounds he owed made him ill.
And then there was Anastasia.
Just pondering his niece, the fact that she held his fate in the palm of her hand, made his skull pound with rage. Oh, Henry's precious brat had no idea of the power she wielded. But George did. And he loathed her for it.
What had his contact found out? he wondered bitterly. How much of Henry's money had been committed to this wretched bank Anastasia hoped to open? And what were the details of her partnership with Sheldrake—and any other unwelcome bond that might be developing between them?
George wasn't stupid. He knew only too well that business associations often led to personal ones. And given that it was a man and a woman who were involved in this particular partnership—well, suddenly the word personal took on a whole new meaning. If Anastasia and Sheldrake were to spend any substantial amount of time together… George's hands balled into fists at his sides. Damn her. She would not rob him of that, too.
He'd have another talk with Breanna—immediately—and make his intentions for her future unmistakably clear. Then he'd find ways to throw her and Sheldrake together, and ways to keep the marquess and Anastasia apart. He needed Sheldrake in the family, not only to provide money and status, but to shed a favorable light on George's reputation, and to ensure his silence if he were to learn anything damning about his new father-in-law.
Perhaps there was something to say for family after all.
A humorless smile twisted George's lips. Family hadn't been enough motivation for Henry, not when it came to including his brother as a beneficiary to his estate. Well, with the right manipulation, Henry's funds would find their way into the right hands after all.
Whatever was left of those funds, that is.
George stared out the window, watched as the gates of Medford Manor came into view.
He had to find out how much of Henry's inheritance had been allocated to that bloody bank. And he had to find out now.
He was in trouble. Big trouble. His options were vanishing before his very eyes. With Anastasia controlling half of Colby and Sons, and Sheldrake acting as her trusty administrator, there was little hope of doctoring receipts to Lyman or any other supplier without getting caught. As for a more readily available source, there were only a few thousand pounds left to drain of the funds Henry had set aside for Anastasia's coming-out.
He needed that inheritance.
Ten weeks. After which, it would be too late. Everything would blow up in his face. Rouge would find another supplier, the creditors would close in, and Anastasia would walk away with her inheritance, her half of Colby and Sons, and—Lord help her—Damen Lockewood.
No. George sat upright, his fingers reflexively gripping the door handle, ready to twist it the instant the carriage came to a halt. He wouldn't allow it. He'd talk to Breanna right now. Then, he'd summon his contact, learn the details of that bloody partnership.
And then, he'd do whatever he must to save his neck.
Wells stood in the open doorway, his expression nondescript as he watched the viscount stalk up the stairs and into the manor.
"Where's Breanna?" George bit out, glaring at his butler.
"In the library, my lord. Shall I summon her?"
"No. I'll do my own summoning. Besides, the library is as good a place as any."
