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A nod. "At targets and pigeons, yes. But not at people." Breanna gave her cousin an incredulous look. "Do you honestly believe I'll need to defend myself to that degree?"
"I don't know what to believe. And I'm not thinking only of the possible danger Uncle George represents. If he's involved in something illegal, who knows what type of people he consorts with? Or how many of those unsavory contacts won't get paid—and, as a result, will become very agitated—because that shipment of Uncle George's went down?" Anastasia counted off on her fingers. "There are those who supplied the illegal cargo, those who awaited its arrival, investors—the possibilities are too vast too contemplate. Will any of those lowlifes show up here to retaliate? I'm not going to speculate. But I have a very uneasy feeling about all this. And I'd feel better if you kept a pistol nearby, just in case."
Breanna frowned, unable to dispute her cousin's reasoning. "Very well. As I recall, Father keeps an extra pistol in the library, to have on hand in case of a burglary. Since he never uses it, he wouldn't notice if it were to disappear, at least not for a few days. I'll go downstairs and get it after you and he leave for the office. I'll hide it in my bureau drawer." Her frown deepened. "What about you? How will you protect yourself?"
"If I sense anything out of the ordinary today, I'll slip off and go straight to the House of Lockewood. If need be, I'll borrow a pistol from Damen. But Uncle George wouldn't dare harm me in public—especially not once I casually mention that I informed Damen during yesterday's meeting that I'd be going to Colby and Sons today."
"I see your point. My father would never want to tarnish his image—not in the eyes of Lord Sheldrake." Breanna captured both Anastasia's hands, squeezed them tightly. "Please. Be careful. And try not to act too cheeky. Things will go much better with Father if you don't challenge his opinions or his authority."
A rueful smile tugged at Anastasia's lips. "I hear the message you're giving me loud and clear. I promise to do my best to keep my place and not antagonize Uncle George."
* * *
That promise wasn't going to be easy to keep, she fumed silently, after traipsing along behind her uncle for an hour, exploring the wonders of the outer office at Colby and Sons. The sum total of the room was a desk, occupied by their mild-mannered clerk Mr. Roberts, a row of chairs and a file cabinet against one wall and, against the wall adjacent to George's private offices, a settee and two end tables, before which rested a long, rectangular table. Not a sheet of paper lay exposed upon the desk or any of the tables, nor was there visible evidence of any other business-oriented material.
Did her uncle actually think she'd be content with this inane tour and then run along home like a good little girl?
If so, he had quite a surprise in store.
She'd begin with the obvious file cabinet.
"Uncle George, if it's all right with you, I'd like to start familiarizing myself with the company." She gestured toward the cabinet. "What if I begin by glancing through the files so I can acquaint myself with our current transactions, as well as the names of those suppliers we deal with most frequently."
Her uncle bristled and Mr. Roberts's head shot up as he awaited his employer's reply.
"Fine," George bit out, practically choking on his words. "I have some papers to sort through in my office." He turned to his clerk. "Roberts, give Lady Anastasia whatever she needs."
"Certainly, my lord." The poor little man whipped off his spectacles, wiping at an imaginary speck of dust before shoving the spectacles back on his nose and rising to his feet. "Why don't you have a seat, my lady? I'll bring the files to you."
"Thank you, Mr. Roberts. That would be very kind." Anastasia settled herself on the settee. Surreptitiously, she peeked at her uncle from the corner of her eye, watching him approach his private office, then extract a key from his pocket, which he used to unlock the door. That done, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
It took all her self-restraint not to dash in after him.
Leaning forward, she peered around the open doorway and caught a glimpse of a tidy room with a walnut desk and sideboard. Ledgers were neatly stacked on the far left-hand corner of the desk alongside a tray of papers—correspondence, perhaps—and what looked to be an appointment book. The sideboard was uncluttered, although she'd bet her last pound that it was stocked with liquor.
She was dying to go through those ledgers and that appointment book. But she'd have to wait, bide her time, until she could find the means to get in.
The door slammed shut.
Sighing, Anastasia resettled herself on the settee, awaiting Mr. Roberts, who was gathering files for her from the cabinet. Instinct told her she'd find nothing incriminating in what she was about to be given. Whatever her uncle was involved in, he certainly wouldn't want Roberts having access to those records. Still, she had to be sure. She also had to start somewhere.
Two hours later, she had three stacks of files piled up on the long table before her, and she'd learned nothing other than the fact that Colby and Sons had a healthy clientele and a substantial number of ongoing transactions. The only curious detail that struck her was the high prices charged by several of their shippers. If all the shipping companies' fees had been uniformly higher, she would have assumed that shipping costs in England simply exceeded those in America. But that didn't seem to be the case, not when most of the companies appeared to be charging fees that were comparable to what she was accustomed to seeing in her father's records. Further, of those few shippers who commanded a higher price, one was Mr. Lyman, whose very name sent off warning bells in Anastasia's head. This she'd have to investigate further.
She was just about to plow through yet another pile of receipts when the entrance to Colby and Sons was flung open.
"Roberts, I need to see Lord Medford right away." A stout man who looked distinctly familiar burst into the room, his pudgy cheeks bright red, whether from the exertion of hurrying or something more, Anastasia couldn't determine. But he certainly seemed agitated, and urgent about his demand to see her uncle.
Before Roberts could respond, the inner office door nearly flew off its hinges, and Uncle
George stalked out, brushing by the settee where Anastasia sat, and crossing over to join his caller. "I didn't expect you today," he greeted, his entire demeanor strained as he backed the other man toward the entranceway. "Roberts, you may go to the bank for me now," he instructed brusquely over his shoulder.
The nervous clerk jumped to his feet, and George waited, keeping his back to Anastasia and remaining silent until Roberts had excused himself and left. Then, he continued speaking to his guest, his voice, and that of his companion, scarcely audible.
Casually, Anastasia rose, twisting about to eye her uncle's now-vacant office longingly. She turned back, studying the two men and grappling over which to do: Should she sidle closer to them, try to eavesdrop on the conversation, and learn what this visit was all about? Or should she use this time to try to slip into her uncle's private domain and glance at his personal records?
Since the men's voices were so quiet that eavesdropping was a virtual impossibility, and coupled with the fact that she might never have another chance, she opted for the latter.
Slowly, she edged toward the inner office, never looking away from her uncle and his visitor. They were engrossed in heated discussion, their agitated tones escalating into hisses, both men totally unaware of her presence.
