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At the precise moment, Anastasia eased inside, then halted, deciding quickly where to spend the few seconds she had. Scrutinizing the room, she made an impulsive decision, and acted upon it. She rushed to the desk, snatched up the appointment book, and tucked it in the pocket beneath her skirts. Holding her breath, she inched back to the threshold, peeking outside and feeling a surge of relief when she saw the two men still talking. She slipped out, sidled over to the settee, and resumed her position.
"Uncle George, may I help myself to the next drawer of files?" she inquired brightly.
"What?" Just the sound of her voice made George's shoulders go positively rigid. "Oh, yes, yes. Mister … my guest and I will be going out for a few minutes." He turned, hurried over to lock his office door. Pausing beside Anastasia, he glanced down at what she was perusing, and looked subtly but discernibly relieved at whatever he saw. "Browse through the files as you please," he forced himself to offer. "Save any questions you have for Roberts. He'll be back within the half hour."
"Thank you. I will." She smiled, holding her breath until her uncle and his portly guest—who had retreated into the hallway to wait—had left.
She heard their footsteps fade away, and waited an extra moment to be safe. Then, she whisked the appointment book out from under her skirts, and began scanning the entries.
Rather than starting at the beginning, she focused on the 7th of August, about one week ago, hoping to see a name that would leap out at her and correspond with the timing of the shipment of that questionable cargo.
Lyman's name appeared several times, but that was no surprise. So did a few other names. Curiously, they were all the shippers whose rates were higher than their competitors.
A rather clipped entry dated two days ago caught her eye: Rouge—receive Paris shipment.
No further details were provided, an oddity, given that the other entries in the book were thorough, described in full.
And neat.
That was another thing. Unlike George's other entries, which were precisely penned, as fastidious as he, this one was uneven, its awkwardly scrawled letters crammed in the corner, almost as if he wanted them hidden.
Which he probably did.
The date on the entry was August 12th—just one day after the shipment had gone down.
Paris. Was that where that illegal cargo had been headed? And, if so, who was Rouge?
Quickly, Anastasia flipped through the appointment book, noticing two additional, equally obscured entries that indicated other occasions when this Rouge was expecting something from Uncle George—something to be delivered to Paris.
But what?
A noise in the hallway caught Anastasia's ear, and swiftly she slipped the appointment book back into its hiding place beneath her skirts. When Mr. Roberts entered an instant later, she was calmly leafing through a stack of receipts.
"Have you everything you need, my lady?" he asked timidly.
"Yes." Anastasia gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Roberts. Oh, Uncle George said he'd be back shortly. He went for a stroll with Mr. … Mr.…" She screwed up her face, seemingly searching for the name of their visitor. "I'm sorry. I've received so many introductions since I returned to England. I completely forgot the surname of that pleasant gentleman who was just here."
"Bates," Roberts supplied, nodding his understanding as he resumed his place at his desk. "Mr. Bates. The magistrate."
"Yes, that's right. Mr. Bates." Anastasia nearly leaped out of her seat as the name fell into place. Of course. Bates—the magistrate. No wonder Uncle George hadn't wanted her to get too good a look at him. He knew that if she saw him up close she'd recognize him, and wonder why a magistrate was visiting the offices of an import-export company.
Mr. Bates. Now she remembered. He'd been one of the potential backers she'd approached at her coming-out party. He was financially secure and well-connected.
And his was the name she'd overheard her uncle speak to Mr. Lyman in their meeting yesterday.
Anastasia had to keep herself from shouting aloud as that snippet of memory fell into place, and she recalled her uncle's words.
That merchandise was worth a fortune—you saw the quality Bates came up with. We would have gotten thousands for it. Thousands. And Lyman—it was our last chance. Our last bloody chance!
Bates. That had been the name that had hovered out of reach when she'd recounted the conversation to Damen.
And now that she did recall it, a whole new set of questions emerged. Why in the name of heaven was a magistrate involved in supplying goods? What stolen or illegal merchandise had he gotten his hands on that Uncle George had shipped to someone named Rouge in Paris? Valuable jewels? Opium?
She'd be willing to bet that the sunken cargo was the reason for Bates's visit today—and the reason for his unsettled state of mind. He'd probably just found out that whatever he'd provided to Uncle George was never going to reach its destination.
Anastasia massaged her temples. She had to assimilate all this information, to review it with someone she trusted—the same someone who could help her make sense of all she'd gleaned today.
Damen.
