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Breanna started. "What?"
"Mama told me the whole story several years ago." Anastasia leaned her head against the bedpost. "Evidently, she was introduced to Uncle George during her very first London Season. He began courting her, intent on winning her hand. A month later she and Papa met. It was by sheer chance. She was coming out of a shop on Bond Street
when she saw a man—whom she presumed to be Uncle George—leap from the path of a speeding carriage. He fell against a lamppost, twisting his ankle in the process, after which he crept to a nearby bench to nurse the swelling. Naturally, Mama hurried over to help—only to discover that the victim was not Uncle George, but his twin brother. They fell in love during that first chance encounter. Papa tried everything to make Uncle George understand, but to no avail. He never forgave either of my parents."
"Nevertheless, they married," Breanna murmured, the pieces falling rapidly into place. "And Father's hatred festered. That explains so much: why he always acted so strained around Aunt Anne; why he never stayed in the room with her unless he had to." A quizzical tilt of her head. "Did he love my mother? Or did he marry her as a substitute for Aunt Anne?"
Anastasia chewed her lip. "I honestly don't know. Your parents got married a few months after Mama wed Papa."
"Our mothers were sisters. They looked so much alike. They were only a year apart. And Father married my mother right after he lost Aunt Anne to Uncle Henry. Surely that can't all have been a coincidence."
"Knowing Uncle George, I'd have to agree." Anastasia frowned, intent on clarifying what she did know. "I've hesitated telling you this because I didn't want to upset you. But, Breanna, please believe this: you were wanted. Quite fiercely, from what Mama told me. Aunt Dorothy was a gentle, caring person. She yearned with all her heart for a child—possibly so she could share her love with someone who craved it, given that her husband undoubtedly didn't. If she were still alive, I'm sure…"
"Stacie, don't." Breanna waved away her cousin's assurances. "I don't doubt that my mother wanted me. Aunt Anne told me stories about her, too—as did Wells. Enough so that I know what kind of a person she was, and how eagerly she awaited my birth. As for my father, I also recognize what kind of a person he is. Still, it's crucial that I know all the details of the past so I can comprehend why Father hated—hates…" she corrected herself. "…Uncle Henry so vehemently. What you just divulged saddens me, but it doesn't shock or wound me."
"I'm glad." Anastasia felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, until she remembered why she'd told Breanna the truth in the first place. "Surely now you realize why Uncle George is so hell-bent on winning this battle to see you become Mrs. Damen Lockewood. It's not just about ensuring that you end up with Damen, but about ensuring that I don't. I shudder to think how he'd react if the reverse were to occur. Couple that with the fact that he seems to need Damen's wealth and influence so badly…" Anastasia gave a hard shake of her head. "…and the thought of telling him the truth becomes untenable. I refuse to put you in that position."
"You're not putting me in that position. I am. And since it's my fate in question, I'm the one to decide whether or not I'll walk into the lion's den…" Abruptly, Breanna broke off, a sudden, reminiscent spark lighting her eyes. "Let me amend that," she murmured, the spark igniting to a full-fledged glow as her idea took hold. "There is a way for you to explore this fascination between you and Lord Sheldrake without arousing my father's wrath."
"And just how am I going to accomplish that? It's you Uncle George wants to see with Damen."
"Then that's precisely what he'll see. Beginning tomorrow morning, when Lord Sheldrake comes for breakfast, as per Father's invitation." Breanna stood, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, shaking the tresses free. "You said once that a day might come when you'd need to be me. Well, that day has arrived." She smiled triumphantly. "Come, Breanna. It's time to tousle my hair and restore your accent to its former clipped tones. Tomorrow morning we reinstate our pact."
* * *
The pub was small, dark, almost unnoticeable from the main road. Its walls were chipped and peeling, but the ale was cheap—a factor that was most crucial to those who frequented the establishment. And nobody asked questions, not if your money was good.
Which made it the perfect place for these meetings.
George rubbed his palms distastefully down the front of his coat, as if by doing so he could dispel the odious feel of the room. He hovered in the entranceway, wincing at the filth and clutter, and trying to ignore the raucous laughter that exploded as drunken sailors sank deeper into their cups. It took every ounce of his self-control not to gag at the offensive smells accosting his nose.
But right now he had more important things on his mind.
Swiftly, he perused the room, eager to conduct his business and be gone.
At last, he spied the telltale flare of light from the pub's far corner.
He crossed over, slipped into his seat.
"What did you find out?" he demanded.
His companion lit a cheroot, gazed calmly back at him. "The partnership's real. The terms are standard. They each invested twenty-five thousand pounds."
"Twenty-five thousand … dammit!" George nearly forgot himself and slammed his fist to the table.
"Easy, Medford. That's going to get you noticed. Which is the one thing you don't want."
A terse nod. "What about my niece and Sheldrake? What can you tell me?"
"Your niece is beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as your daughter."
"I didn't ask for your opinion. I asked you what was going on between her and Sheldrake."
"Nothing I could see. Then again, they were alone in his office for about a half hour. I have no idea what went on during that time. But otherwise, it was only business."
"Make sure it stays that way," George hissed. "And if it changes, let me know. Immediately." He scowled. "Any word on that damned trust fund my father set up?"
"I had the terms checked into. They're solid as steel. Forget that money, Medford. You won't be touching it—ever."
