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"I'm not sure. It's possible." Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall every word of the conversation. A nagging feeling plagued her, the vague awareness that she was forgetting something—something important. Whatever it was, it hovered just beyond the periphery of her memory—tangible, but out of reach. "I was so overwhelmed by what my uncle is doing—not to mention his cold-blooded attitude about the loss of all those lives—that I had trouble focusing on the rest of what he and Mr. Lyman were saying. Also, their voices were muffled. The study door is thick."
Damen nodded his understanding. "If there's something more, you'll remember it. In the meantime, whatever goods George is transporting, they're obviously damned valuable. Otherwise, he'd never take this kind of risk. Then again, I don't know how desperate he is. Maybe his finances have deteriorated to the point where he'll do anything just to recoup a portion of his losses."
Anastasia inhaled sharply, then blew out her breath. "We need answers. And to get them, we need proof. Without it, there's nothing we can do, except put ourselves—and most of all, Breanna—at risk."
"I have scores of contacts, Stacie. But even my resources can reach just so far, especially when it comes to unethical dealings. I'm not exactly an expert on those."
"I know."
With an exasperated sound, Damen scowled, racking his brain as he sought the right avenue to pursue. "Meade is inconsequential. For that matter, so is Lyman. He'd never tell us a thing, not when talking would incriminate him as much as it would your uncle. No, what we need is someone who can get us concrete evidence. Someone who can gain access to actual records—written documentation of these dealings your uncle is involved in. Those records have got to exist, even if they're disguised as innocent exchanges of money for merchandise. If I could get my hands on them, I could figure out what George's arrangement is, and with whom—possibly even what they're transporting. But who's close enough to your uncle to gain that sort of access? Wells?"
Anastasia gave a definitive shake of her head. "No. Asking Wells to betray Uncle George would be dangerous and unfair. Besides, Wells knows the household like the back of his hand, but he hasn't an inkling how Uncle George conducts his business. Nor would my uncle agree to share that sort of information with a servant. No, whoever does this bit of detective work has to delve beyond whatever sketchy records Uncle George most likely keeps in his study. They have to have access to…"
Breaking off, Anastasia met Damen's gaze, the obvious choice exploding in her mind like fireworks. "Me." She gripped the lapels of Damen's coat. "Why didn't I think of it before? I've been so fixed on the fact that our answers lie at Medford Manor, that I overlooked the obvious—the place where records could more easily be hidden: Colby and Sons."
A dark scowl blackened Damen's face. "I don't like the sound of this."
"I'm sure you don't." She chewed her lip, her mind racing as she followed her idea through to completion. "But it's the logical choice—the only choice. Damen, you yourself said that Uncle George's sole source of income seems to be coming from the profits of Colby and Sons. Couple that with what we've just learned, and the fact that no one else has the key to his private office." A smug smile. "Yet," she amended. "All that's about to change. I now own all Papa's shares of Colby and Sons. It's only natural that I show an interest in the running of our family business. I'll tell Uncle George I want to visit the offices, to see the ledgers, the receipts, all the records of our recent profits. I'll ask to meet our suppliers—all of them—one of which you and I know to be Mr. Lyman. Uncle George will have no choice but to comply. Not unless he wants me to discuss his lack of cooperation with Mr. Fenshaw."
Damen's jaw had dropped, a look of disbelief slashing his features. "You must be joking. Do you honestly believe your uncle would willingly, and without suspicion, share the details of his business operations with you?"
"It's not his business. It's our family's. He won't have a choice. And, knowing me as he does, he won't suspect anything but that I'm being my usual audacious, blue-stocking self. It would never occur to him that I'm actually searching for something incriminating, nor that I'm clever enough to find it. I am a woman, after all." She shot Damen an impish grin. "I assume you noticed."
"Oh, I noticed, all right." Damen's scowl deepened. "I also noticed you're reckless and over-confident. What you're planning—it could be incredibly dangerous."
"Or incredibly informative." Anastasia's resolve was strengthening more with each passing instant. "Damen, my uncle is bitter and greedy. As we've just learned, he's also unlawful. My worry is that he's dangerous, as well. Any man who would do what he's doing, speak as he spoke…" A distasteful shudder. "My concern is Breanna."
"It should also be you." Damen dragged her against him, tucking her head beneath his chin and stroking the tumbled waves of her hair. "Stacie, if your uncle is the criminal we suspect, you represent a major obstacle in his path. If he should suspect…"
"He won't." Anastasia drew back, offered Damen an appealing look. "Give me a few days. That's all I ask. Let me poke around the offices at Colby and Sons. If I don't stumble on anything, or if I sense I'm walking into any sort of danger, I'll stop. You have my word. I'll come straight to you, and we'll think up another tactic. Agreed?"
"Two days," Damen clarified. "Beginning tomorrow. And at the end of each of those two days, I'll be riding to Medford Manor for dinner. To call on Breanna," he added with a meaningful look. "She and I will take two very long walks on those nights. After which, we'll determine our next step. Now are we agreed?"
Something warm and wonderful unfurled in Anastasia's chest. "Yes," she murmured, reaching up to kiss his chin. "Agreed."
Damen tugged back her head, lifted her face to his for a profound, lingering kiss. "You and I have things to discuss," he muttered against her lips. "You know that, don't you?"
She nodded, not daring to allow herself the sheer joy of contemplating what those things might be.
"We've put off this conversation far longer than I care to contemplate—weeks longer." He drew back, threaded his fingers through her hair. "But no more. These feelings between us—feelings that started that first day in Fenshaw's office and have intensified every moment since—they're very real. Very real and very permanent. And the instant this dilemma with your uncle is resolved…"
"Yes. That instant." Anastasia pressed her fingertips to his lips, silencing his declaration. "But until then…" She shivered, her eyes sliding shut as Damen drew her fingers into his mouth, caressed them with his tongue.
"Until then?" he prompted.
"Oh, Damen, I'm falling in love with you," she confessed breathlessly. "Surely you know that."
He pulled her against him, covered her mouth with his.
"Yes, I know that," he murmured huskily. "But I had to hear it. Because I'm so in love with you I can hardly think."
He sealed his vow with a kiss that both cherished and consumed her, wrapped itself around her heart with a force that nearly made her legs give out.
A knock sounded at the door, interrupting their precious moments of discovery, and Damen gave a disgusted grunt deep in his throat. "We could ignore it," he said, his voice rumbling against her lips as he continued to kiss her.
"We could." Anastasia sighed. "But we'd only arouse suspicions. And that's the last thing we want."
"Is it?"
