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From Wells. Yes, Wells held a special, affectionate place in his heart for her and Breanna. He might be willing to help—if she managed to convince him how vital his part in her plan might be. Of course, she'd have to accomplish that without revealing too much or betraying her uncle—both of which would compromise Wells's integrity and perhaps even threaten his position in the household. She'd simply ask him straight out—without providing any details.
That decided, Anastasia walked over to the window, shifting the curtain just enough so she could peek out without being seen. Her guess—if the purposeful footsteps she'd heard within her uncle's study had been any indication—was that Mr. Lyman would be making his exit any moment now.
Sure enough, the door opened and their agitated visitor hurried down the steps and into his waiting carriage. The carriage rounded the drive and sped off.
For a long minute Anastasia waited, peering outside to see if any further activity would ensue.
She was greeted with nothing but stillness.
Stepping away from the window, she rubbed her temples, trying to imagine what her uncle was doing right now—or more importantly, where he was. Clearly, he wasn't rushing off to meet anyone. What that suggested, given his recent behavior, was that he'd bid Mr. Lyman good-bye, then retreated back into th
e refuge of his study, where he'd promptly drowned himself in more brandy.
On the other hand, he could be making provisions to go out, perhaps getting some papers in order or composing himself enough to ride off and deal with this Meade person he blamed for the loss of his cargo.
If that was the case, Anastasia could very well come face-to-face with her uncle in the entranceway door. Fine. That was a chance she'd have to take. And if it happened, she'd have to pray that Wells would sense her dilemma and choose to follow her lead.
Sucking in her breath, Anastasia smoothed her gown, tucked a few loose tendrils of hair behind her ear, and left her bedchamber. She paused outside Breanna's door, wondering if her cousin was inside. Her fingers automatically reached for the door handle, then, just as quickly, fell away. It didn't matter whether or not Breanna was in her room. She couldn't be involved in this. In fact, the less she knew of Anastasia's intentions, the less vulnerable she'd be to Uncle George's outrage. That way, when interrogated by her father, Breanna could honestly declare she'd been totally unaware of her cousin's last-minute decision to travel to Town.
Staunchly, Anastasia continued on her way, descending the stairs while forcing herself to appear as casual as possible.
The ground floor was deserted.
Slowly, nonchalantly, Anastasia headed toward the entranceway door, half expecting her uncle to spring out at her and demand to know where she was going and why.
No such confrontation occurred.
Wells looked up as she approached, inclining his head in question. "Miss Stacie." He determined her identity upon seeing the loose waves of hair that tumbled about her shoulders. "Are you going out?"
"Yes, Wells, I am." Stacie glanced about quickly, ensuring that they were alone. "I need your help," she confessed in a whisper. "And, unfortunately, in this case that means lying to Uncle George. I wouldn't ask it of you unless the matter was critical."
The butler cleared his throat, appearing less surprised by her request than she'd expected. "What sort of lie is it you require?"
"A minor one," Anastasia assured him. "It's crucial that I speak with Lord Sheldrake—at once. And since the marquess isn't due here today, I need a reason to go to the House of Lockewood. I'd like you to advise Uncle George that the marquess contacted me with regard to our investment; that his message said something had come up—something that required my immediate attention—and my immediate presence at his bank. Can you do that without feeling disloyal?"
"Crucial, you said." Wells's gaze remained steady. "May I assume you're choosing me to provide this lie in order to protect Miss Breanna?"
"You may."
A flicker of resolve. "In that case, I can manage to live with my guilt. Consider your favor granted." He pivoted, tugging open the door. "Go. If your uncle asks, Lord Sheldrake summoned you to his bank. You left immediately thereafter. We won't expect you back until late this afternoon." The barest hint of a smile. "In fact, you were in so much of a hurry that you dashed off without your lady's maid."
Anastasia's head snapped up, and she studied Wells's face, wondering if the astute butler understood even more than she'd suspected. "Thank you," she murmured, recognizing that now was not the time for questions. "That explanation would be ideal."
"You're quite welcome, Miss Stacie." Wells's expression turned sober, and a note of concern crept into his voice. "Good luck. And be careful."
Solemnly, Anastasia nodded. "I will."
* * *
The House of Lockewood was buzzing with activity when she burst in several hours later.
Graff spotted her immediately, and strode rapidly to her side. "Lady Breanna," he greeted her. A quick scan of the doorway told him that she was unaccompanied by the Viscount Medford. "Or is it Lady Anastasia?" he amended, with a questioning lift of his brows. "Forgive me, but I still can't seem to tell you two apart."
Anastasia grinned. "And since you saw I was unchaperoned, you made an educated guess as to which cousin I was—a correct guess, I might add. Very good, Graff. Lord Sheldrake is lucky to have you in his employ."
A bow. "Thank you, my lady." He pursed his lips. "Is the marquess expecting you?"
"No, but it's imperative that I see him." For the first time, the untenable possibility that Damen might not be at the bank occurred to her. "Is he available?"
