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A heavy silence descended, during which his companion traced the rim of his mug thoughtfully.
"Actually, I might be able to help you," he offered in a low, intense tone. "I know someone who does just what you require. He's very proficient at it, and very much in demand."
George felt the ale burn its way to his stomach. It was potent, yes, but it hadn't dulled his senses that much. "You know an assassin?"
"As luck would have it—yes."
"How?"
"That doesn't matter. The point is, I can contact him, if you're serious about wanting your niece dead, that is."
"Serious?" Pure venom glittered in George's eyes. "I've never been more serious in my life. She should never have been born in the first place. I want nothing more than to erase her very existence, to make her vanish…" He broke off, his own words triggering the ultimate solution to his problem. Swiftly, he yanked out Rouge's letter, scanning the already memorized words. "I can," he muttered aloud. "I can make her vanish, rid myself of her forever—and get rich in the process. It'll be tricky, given the limited amount of time I have, and the number of people I'll have to convince—most especially Sheldrake—but I'll find a way. I have to." A triumphant laugh. "It's the ultimate vengeance."
His contact frowned. "What are you talking about? What do you intend to do?"
A brittle smile lingered on George's lips. "I intend to take care of everything in one fell swoop—to recoup my losses, to regain my company, my brother's inheritance, and Breanna's position in Sheldrake's life … and to condemn my niece to the very hell she deserves."
"It sounds complicated. A lot more complicated than my suggestion."
"But a lot more rewarding." George shoved back his chair and rose, stuffing Rouge's letter back into its envelope. "Thank you for the information. I'll be in touch."
Slowly, his contact came to his feet, eyeing George as if he were unsure whether or not he was in his right mind. "I assume you know what you're doing," he said at last. "But if you should change your mind…"
"I'll advise you immediately." Folding the envelope in half, George tucked it into his coat pocket. "Good night."
* * *
It was the ideal plan.
Unfortunately, there were obstacles mocking him at every turn.
Closeted in his study, George paced away the long hours of night, alternately drinking and swearing at the portrait of Anne.
It had seemed so simple when he thought it up in the pub—ship Anastasia off, claim what was his, and savor the revenge of a lifetime.
Since then, however, he'd examined the plan from every angle, pondered it when he was sober, then again and again as he sank deeper into his cups. It didn't matter whether he was drunk or clearheaded. There was no resolution that covered everything, made all the pieces fit.
Originally, George had intended to announce that Anastasia had grown restless here in England, sailed off to see more of the world. The problem was, he'd never convince Breanna and Sheldrake that she'd leave so abruptly, and without a word of good-bye. To further complicate the matter, even if Fenshaw were more easily convinced than they, even if he believed that Anastasia had just up and gone, the solicitor's hands would still be tied about transferring Henry's inheritance to George. That would only be possible if Anastasia was dead.
Had it not been for Rouge's offer, George would have been thrilled to make that happen.
But not now.
If he hired that assassin, arranged to have him kill Anastasia, that would eliminate any chance of fulfilling Rouge's request—an idea that was equally as untenable as forfeiting Henry's money. And not only because of the fifty thousand pounds he'd earn or his renewed association with Rouge.
B
ut because of what it would do to Anastasia.
For the umpteenth time, George grasped Anne's portrait, stared bitterly at the beautiful features that gazed back at him. How fitting that Anne's daughter should become a whore. Just like her mother—the woman who'd claimed to care for him, then left him for his brother. Well, history was about to repeat itself. In more ways than one. Because just as he'd had to settle for Dorothy—the lesser sister, the one he didn't want—so Sheldrake would do the same with Breanna. Once Anastasia was gone, he'd turn to her cousin for comfort and, ultimately, for marriage.
Sheldrake.
George slammed down the portrait, dragged a hand through his hair. How much did the marquess know? More important, how much did he believe of what Anastasia had said?
Nothing, he assured himself for the dozenth time. If Sheldrake knew the truth, or even a portion of the truth, he'd be breaking down the doors with the authorities in tow. Whatever Anastasia suspected, it had to be a vague hunch only, something she couldn't substantiate with proof.
Still, the sooner he shipped her off, the better. Because knowing Anastasia, she wouldn't rest until she found that proof.
