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Chapter 11
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The next few weeks were fraught with tension.
Some of it was internal, coiled deep within Anastasia's gut—tension incited by the deception she and Breanna were fostering each time Damen visited Medford Manor. Despite the sheer joy that pretending to be Breanna afforded her—namely, spending long hours alone with Damen—Anastasia couldn't escape the worry that her uncle would discover the truth: that his plan to snare Damen Lockewood as a son-in-law was doomed to failure and that he was being tricked and defied by his daughter and his niece. And if he were to uncover that truth, Anastasia knew very well who would bear the brunt of his rage: Breanna.
Still, regardless of all that, she sensed that the tension was being triggered by something far more vast than her own personal apprehension. She just didn't know what that something was.
But she knew very well who was at its center: her uncle.
George was drawn taut as a bowstring these days, barking at everyone, snapping at the servants, and generally slamming about the manor as if nursing a barely controllable rage. Every day, he'd closet himself in his study for hours, muttering loudly to himself—loud enough for his voice, if not his words, to be heard in the hallway. That only served to arouse Anastasia's curiosity, compelling her to try to decipher the muffled sounds. Several times a day, when no one else was about, she'd hover outside the locked study door and eavesdrop intently, pressing her ear to the doorway and straining to listen. But the wood was thick, and all she could make out was her uncle's tone, which was undeniably agitated, vacillating from bitter to apprehensive to sullen.
To make matters worse, he'd been drinking heavily, commencing each day with a full goblet of brandy, then steadily increasing his intake until, by midafternoon, he was actually slurring his words, so deep in his cups was he.
Clearly, it wasn't Breanna's relationship with Damen that was instigating these drinking bouts. In fact, quite the opposite was true. Given Damen's seemingly avid courtship of Breanna, George had ceased pressuring Breanna, and appeared to be satisfied with the way things were going—at least on that score.
No, it was something else that was tormenting her uncle, something that eclipsed even acquiring Damen as a son-in-law.
One thing was certain. Whatever was plaguing him, he was like a cannon waiting to explode.
Tucking her legs beneath her, Anastasia settled herself more comfortably on the sitting room window ledge and gazed across the grounds. The head gardener was manicuring the shrubs that lined the length of the drive, but she scarcely noticed him, so preoccupied was she with pondering her uncle's state of mind.
Especially after hearing all that Damen had relayed to her yesterday during their meeting at the House of Lockewood.
She'd gone there—presumably—just for business purposes: to receive an update on the status of their joint venture. But only a portion of their conversation had been allocated to Damen's recounting of how things in America were progressing, including an estimated forecast on when the doors of Fidelity Union and Trust would open for the first time. By mid fall, he speculated. Excellent timing indeed.
The rest of their meeting had been about George, as Damen told Anastasia about what his contacts had unearthed and just how deep a financial hole her uncle had dug himself.
That hole was pretty damned deep.
George owed thousands of pounds to his creditors. On top of that, he'd invested thousands more in foolish, unsuccessful ventures and, in the process, had lost every last shilling. In short, he was a man facing monetary ruin. The only thing in his favor was the continued success of Colby and Sons. But even that success he seemed to be destroying, in Damen's judgment.
"I don't understand. Aren't the profits of the business enough to sustain him?" Anastasia had asked.
"They might be, if he managed them wisely," was Damen's reply. "The problem is that all signs indicate he hasn't. He certainly never deposited any recent profits at the House of Lockewood, which is where he keeps the bulk of his savings, or whatever's left. Nor have those profits turned up at any other reputable institution, according to my contacts. In my mind, that means George probably squandered them away. What's more, he probably did so carelessly, based on his original expectation that your father would bequeath his half of the business to him, rather than to you."
"Yes," Anastasia had agreed dryly. "Uncle George didn't exactly hide his indignation at Papa's will reading, did he?"
"He wanted Henry's half of the business—badly," Damen responded. "In that way, he would have had a greater amount of profits to gamble with, and would hopefully have recouped some of his losses."
"Only to lose them again," Anastasia had pointed out. Dam
en had given her a terse nod.
Well, that explained why George was so desperate for Breanna and Damen to wed. He was frantic to get his hands on Damen's wealth. But it didn't explain the magnitude of his growing anxiety—given the fact that, in his mind, Breanna's relationship with Damen was secure. Based on the frequency of Damen's visits and the obvious attraction that existed between him and the woman George thought to be Breanna, their union was on the verge of becoming a reality. But instead of the relief Anastasia expected her uncle to display, it was almost as if he were waiting for something pivotal to occur—something that could either restore or destroy him.
What was it?
Or was she just dramatizing things in her mind? Was her uncle's strain simply the cumulative effects of a downward monetary spiral?
Somehow she didn't think so.
A flash of motion from outside caught her eye, and Anastasia sat up straighter, peering more closely at the drive just in time to see a carriage come to a screeching halt.
A familiar-looking man—middle-aged, stocky, with a square jaw—emerged, speaking sharply to his driver and eyeing the house nervously before sucking in his breath and hastening up the steps.
Anastasia watched him, racking her brain as she tried to put a name to the familiar face. She'd met hundreds of people at her coming-out party, but this one she recalled. He was one of the gentlemen she'd approached with her business proposition, one of the men who'd turned her down. He was an affluent businessman, not titled, but prominent nonetheless. He owned a shipping company, she remembered in a rush. Lyman. That was it. Mr. Edgar Lyman.
