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"He's in his office, meeting with a client. But let me tell him you're here. I'm sure he'll make time to see you."
With a crisp bow, he headed off toward the private section of offices.
Anastasia paced about the lobby of the bank, plucking at her gloves as she awaited Graff's return. She hoped he'd be persistent enough to yank Damen off to a side, at least long enough to tell him not only who was here, but how anxious she was to see him.
"Why, hello."
A masculine voice, faintly familiar, brought her head around, and Anastasia found herself looking up into Mr. Booth's round face and thoroughly pleased expression.
"My lady." He bowed, lifting her hand to his lips. "I had no idea you and your father were expected today. It's a pleasure to see you."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Booth." Anastasia shifted a bit, thinking there was something about this man that made her feel vaguely uneasy. Perhaps it was his obvious captivation with Breanna, and now with her. "It's no surprise you weren't expecting me," she added. "My visit to your bank wasn't planned. It just came up. By the way, I think you've confused me with my cousin."
Booth had clearly come to that conclusion on his own, given Anastasia's easily detected, diminished accent. "Lady Anastasia," he corrected himself. "Forgive my error." He offered her a small, apologetic smile. "It's hard to believe that two such lovely young women exist, much less how identical in appearance they are."
"I … thank you for the compliment," she replied, more self-conscious than flattered. "But I assure you, Breanna and I are anything but identical, other than in our appearance."
"Anastasia."
Before she could elaborate—in whatever as-of-yet undetermined manner she intended to do that—Damen came up behind her, his tone clearly commanding her full attention. "Is everything all right?"
She whipped about, met his penetrating gaze, and nodded. "Yes. I apologize for interrupting your meeting. But I needed to see you right away."
He scrutinized her for another long, probing minute, then nodded, lifting his head and fixing his hard stare on Booth. "Crompton's in my office. You'll have to take over for me—at least until John gets back from his meeting at Lloyds."
"I'm here, Damen." As luck would have it, John Cunnings happened back at that moment, reaching his employer's side in ample time to deduce what was going on. "I'll handle Crompton. The investment he's contemplating extends to several European countries as well as to Singapore. I'm familiar with the risks and rewards of the transaction."
"Excellent. I'll send him to your office." Having resolved the matter to his satisfaction, Damen gestured to Anastasia, careful to maintain the aloof, professional air they'd established between them in public. "Come, my lady."
Anastasia preceded Damen to his office, pausing only to greet Mr. Crompton as he gathered up his portfolio, nodding his agreement to join John Cunnings.
"I see you found a backer," Crompton noted in that crisp, military way he had. "Good for you, dear girl."
"Thank you." Anastasia didn't bother correcting him about Damen's role in her venture. She was far too preoccupied to concern herself with how Lord Crompton perceived her business acumen. "I'm grateful to be working with the marquess."
"As well you should be. He and his officers are among England's finest." Crompton smoothed his waistcoat, then tugged each finger of his gloves snugly into place. "Sheldrake," he continued, snapping his lean body into formal erectness. "I appreciate your preliminary advice. Cunnings can handle things from here. I'll stop by your office after he and I have conducted our business. I assume by then you and Lady Anastasia will have completed yours."
"That will be fine." Damen held the door ajar, waiting politely until the older man had left. Then, he shut the door and turned the key in the lock.
An instant later, he was across the room, gripping Anastasia's shoulders, his eyes boring into hers. "What's wrong? You're white as a sheet."
She swallowed, realizing for the first time how unnerving this day had been. "I overheard something. A conversation. Frankly, I don't know what to make of it."
"What kind of conversation? Between whom?"
Carefully, Anastasia recounted whatever snatches she could recall of her uncle's discussion with Edgar Lyman.
"Dammit," Damen hissed when she'd finished. "I was afraid something like this might be going on." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "You're sure neither of them saw you? That they had no idea you were there?"
"I'm sure. I was gone before they opened the study door." She made a helpless gesture. "Damen, obviously whatever my uncle is involved in is illegal. The question is, what? And who else—besides Mr. Lyman—is involved in this sordid scheme?"
"This Meade person, for one." Damen frowned. "But my guess is he'
s just some unsavory seaman who works for Lyman. He might not even know what the hell it is he's carrying aboard his ship. If we go to the trouble of finding and confronting him, it's very likely we'll learn nothing, and risk exposing ourselves in the process."
Anastasia nodded. "Meade would doubtless tell Mr. Lyman about our visit. And he, in turn, would tell Uncle George. After all, that's where Meade's loyalties—and his wages—lie."
"Exactly." Damen pressed his lips together. "Did your uncle or Lyman mention any other names?"
