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Chapter 12
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George's late-night brandy was just burning its way down to his stomach when a knock sounded on the study door.
He scowled, staring down at the miniature portrait of Anne and willing whoever was summoning him to go away.
His wishes went unheeded.
A second knock sounded, this time more firmly.
"What is it?" he barked, carefully replacing the portrait and rearranging the drawer before sliding it shut.
The study door opened and a young woman who was either Breanna or Anastasia stepped inside. The girl's hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her bold gaze flickered from the near-empty goblet to the neatly stacked desk to George's bloodshot eyes, blatant disapproval registering in her own.
Anastasia.
"What do you want?" George snarled.
"I need to speak with you, Uncle George."
"Not tonight." He waved her away, fuming at the intrusion. The last thing he wanted to deal with tonight was this outspoken bitch—a bitch who was the living embodiment of Anne's betrayal. "I'm too tired. Whatever it is can wait."
"No, it can't." Anastasia walked toward him, her unwavering stare meeting his head-on. "Uncle George, it occurs to me that I'm neglecting my role as Papa's heir. I've been so caught up with my own coming-out party and my reunion with Breanna, that I've completely overlooked my responsibility to Colby and Sons."
George went rigid. "What are you talking about?"
"Our company. I own half of it now. In America, Papa spent long years teaching me about the family business. He'd want me to continue with my education, to share with you the full responsibility of running Colby and Sons. I intend to do that. Starting tomorrow."
Bile rose in George's throat, and he quickly washed it down with another gulp of brandy. "I must be misunderstanding you."
"I don't think so," she countered brightly. "What I've planned is to visit our London offices tomorrow. I'll go through our current list of business associates, our suppliers, our contacts throughout the Continent. I'm sure most of those names will be familiar to me—after all, we dealt with them from our American offices, too." She inclined her head quizzically. "Would you like to join me? Or shall I just take the plunge on my own?"
George felt as if his head was about to split in two. How dare this impertinent little bitch walk in here and announce that she was assuming a role in his company? How dare she presume she had the right?
His knuckles whitened around the periphery of his glass. The trouble was, she did have the right.
"Uncle George?" she pressed. "Shall I tell Wells that I'll be traveling to London alone, or…"
"No," he ground out, fighting the vise of panic that gripped him at the thought of Anastasia having access to his doctored receipts, his veiled correspondence. Stop it, he commanded himself. She'll never see through it—not if you don't condemn yourself by acting guilty. "I'll go with you," he continued, in as calm a voice as he could muster. "I'll show you around the office. I'll ask my carriage driver to wait, so you can run along home immediately there-after."
"Oh, I don't want to run along," Anastasia declined with a reassuring smile. "I want to stay—to read through the ledgers, the ongoing contracts, everything." Her smile faded, and she gave him an apologetic look. "I know you find the prospect of a woman in business outrageous. But I think you'll be surprised to see how quick my mind actually is. I suppose I take after Papa. I find the import-export business fascinating." With that, she glanced at her uncle's half-empty brandy bottle, and backed away. "Anyway, I won't keep you. You mentioned you were tired. And I, too, had best get a good night's rest. I want to be especially alert tomorrow."
George stared after her as she left, watching blindly as the door shut in her wake. A fury like he'd never known surged inside him, pulsed through his veins. Violently, he seized his bottle of brandy, hurling it at the now-closed door, staring at the dark splotches of color that splattered the walls, stained the carpet.
If only it was Anastasia he'd shattered, her blood he'd spilled. Then maybe retribution could blot out adversity.
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It was just past dawn when Breanna knocked on her cousin's bedchamber door.
"Stacie, are you awake?"
Anastasia opened the door, a surprised expression crossing her face. "Awake and dressed," she assured her cousin. "Is everything all right?"
"You tell me." Breanna walked into the room, shutting the door and leaning back against it. "I tossed and turned all night. I couldn't shake the feeling that you're in some kind of trouble. Are you?"
