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Perhaps that's what this late-night meeting was about, he thought with a surge of panic. Perhaps Rouge had already sent him a message terminating their association, and he was about to receive it. But no, he decided, commanding his frayed nerves to quiet. His contact never accepted or delivered messages in person. He hired a courier to do that, for the obvious purpose of protecting his own identity.
Then what the hell was tonight about?
The note had said it was important.
What could possibly be important when his entire life was falling apart?
Damn Meade. Damn the storm. And damn the fates for once again shattering his life. The fates—and Anne. Nothing had been right since she betrayed him.
Squelching that unwelcome thought, he straightened, sharpening his search of the darkened pub.
From the far corner, a telltale flicker of light caught his eye, and he strode toward it.
"I'm not in good humor," he bit out, dragging out his chair and dropping heavily into it. "So make this brief."
"Fine." His contact lit his customary cheroot, assessing George curiously as he blew out a ring of smoke. "Are you all right?"
"I didn't hire you to inquire about my health," George snapped back. "Just tell me why the hell you needed to see me so I can go home."
An offhanded shrug. "Very well. I thought you should know that your niece was at the House of Lockewood today. It was a most unexpected visit."
"That's what you dragged me out here for—to talk about my wretched niece?" George shoved back his chair, ready to stagger to his feet and leave. "The only good news you could give me about Anastasia is that she'd been struck by a carriage and killed."
"I was under the impression you wanted me to keep an eye on her, at least with regard to Sheldrake."
"I did." George gave a dismissive wave. "But a visit to the bank hardly constitutes a tryst. Besides, I already knew about her little excursion. My butler gave me the message right after she left Medford Manor. He said Sheldrake sent for her about some nonsensical matter. I think he needed to review some details of that contemptible venture of theirs."
"Did he?" Another slow draw of the cheroot. "That's not the way it seemed to me. To me, it seemed like Sheldrake was as surprised by Lady Anastasia's visit as I was—and even more pleased than he was surprised."
George went still. "You're saying this visit wasn't at Sheldrake's initiation?"
"It certainly didn't look that way. What's more, they were in his office for nearly an hour, with the door locked. After which, their physical appearance was … shall we say, distinctly mussed."
"Mussed." George scowled. "You're crazy. Sheldrake's been at the manor three or four times a week, hovering at Breanna's side like a hawk circling its prey. There's nothing between him and my niece. He scarcely acknowledges her, except for some polite conversation over dinner."
"Whatever you say. But when that office door opened it didn't look to me as if he and Lady Anastasia had been discussing business of any kind. Sheldrake was brusque and out of sorts, while your niece's hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed…"
George gave a derisive laugh. "Anastasia is perpetually disheveled. She has been since childhood. If looking rumpled was deemed grounds for punishment, she would have been thrown in prison long ago." A pause. "Did you actually see the two of them in a compromising state?"
"No. As I said, the door was locked. And in public, well, in public they behave like business associates."
"Then there you have it." A worried frown creased George's brow as a sudden, untenable thought struck. "This business meeting—Anastasia isn't planning on squandering any more of Henry's inheritance, is she?"
"I've seen no papers to indicate that. So far, it's been only the American bank."
"Good." George felt only a minor surge of relief, the most current dilemma still weighing heavily on his mind. "And your courier's brought you no messages for me from the Continent?"
"If so, you'd already have received them."
"I suppose I would have." A wave of futility swept over George. "It doesn't matter. It
's inevitable anyway. Damned, bloody inevitable. All of it. Except Sheldrake. He's my last hope. He—and whatever I can recover of my brother's funds before that miserable bitch invests it all away." George teetered to his feet. "In any case, this whole meeting's been a waste of time. I'm going home for a brandy."
The other man studied George thoughtfully, simultaneously grinding out his cheroot. "You can get a drink here."
George eyed him as if he were insane. "I don't drink the swill they serve in this place." He buttoned his coat, missing the second buttonhole twice. "Good night." He paused, blinking to make the room right itself, reflecting on what he'd just said. An inner voice penetrated his foggy state, warning him that he couldn't afford to be too lax, too sure of himself, when it came to Sheldrake. Marrying the marquess off to Breanna might very well turn out to be his last hope, his last chance of survival.
"Whether or not you're imagining things, I want you to continue as you were," he instructed his contact. "Keep your eye on these meetings between my niece and Sheldrake. Make sure all they share is that bank. Because if it's more…" Rage momentarily twisted his features. "Just make sure it's not."
