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The quality of Anastasia and Breanna's eavesdropping was never in question, at least not in their minds.
Still, certain precautions had to be taken before they could begin doing what they did so well.
To protect Wells and ensure things proceeded as planned, the girls left the manor that very instant, walking off in the direction of the east gardens as if they intended to spend the morning there, milling about and having breakfast.
But the minute they were far enough away from George's study window to avoid detection, they darted back toward the manor. Except that instead of retracing their steps to the front door, they headed for the rear, slipping in through the servants' entrance.
From there, they crept down the hall and into the alcove nestled just off the main hallway. Waiting, they listened intently until they heard two sets of footsteps—one belonging to Wells, the other to their surprise guest—along with Wells's clear, polite voice instructing their visitor to follow him. Clearly, the butler was ushering someone in the direction of George's study, and alerting them to that very fact.
The footsteps faded. Minutes later, Wells's resumed, this time alone. He paused mere feet from where they stood, and pulled out his handkerchief. Folding it in two, he blew his nose loudly—once, twice—then continued on his way.
Despite the tension permeating her body, Anastasia had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I believe that was our signal," she hissed.
Breanna nodded, her own lips twitching. "Let's wait another minute, make sure we've given Wells enough time to get back to his post. If anything should go wrong, I don't want him in trouble."
"Agreed."
They held their breath, counted slowly to sixty. Then, they tiptoed down the hall, rounding the corridor that led to George's study.
Outside, they halted, ears pressed close to the tightly shut door.
"No, I don't want a drink," a muffled voice was refusing. "I want an answer to my question. What in God's name possessed you to drag me here at six A.M.?"
"I know that voice," Anastasia muttered. "I've heard it recently."
"I dragged you here because I've thought up the solution to all our problems," George was replying. "With a little work on both our parts, our circumstances will be better than ever in one week's time."
"How can that be? Just yesterday you told me that the entire shipment I supplied you with is lost, with no chance for recovery."
"Bates," Anastasia determined in a low voice. "The magistrate. That's who Uncle George is talking to."
"I know what I told you, Bates," George confirmed with his next words. "But things have changed since then. Everything's changed."
"I don't care. I'm finished worrying myself to sleep every night, finished praying I'll have a job rather than a cell to go to in the morning. Whatever it is, Medford, count me out."
Footsteps, as Bates veered away, marched toward the door.
The girls tensed, preparing to bolt.
"I can't do that." George's icy statement halted the magistrate in his tracks. "And I wouldn't suggest you walk out of this study. Because if you do, I'll be forced to uncover records tying you to that final shipment, and all the others that preceded it." A pause. "Ah, I see I have your attention. Does that mean you'll be staying?"
"What choice do I have?" was the bitter response. "Tell me what you want of me. And it better not be another lot; I've exhausted my contacts."
"No, no, this time I've got my own merchandise to provide. As luck would have it, only one girl is required, not an entire crop. And I've got the perfect one picked out."
"Then why do you need me?" Bates sounded as puzzled as he did unnerved.
"Because this is going to take some creativity to pull off. And I need your cooperation to do that." The clinking of a glass … no, a cup and saucer. George wasn't drinking spirits, not this time. "As you know, I've recently ensured our friend Meade's continuing services. We'll need him for this particular assignment. He'll be our captain. Lyman will supply the ship, and the falsified records as to its destination. And I'll supply the passenger."
"What the hell are you talking about? What false destination? And where do I come in?"
"I'm just getting to that part. Unfortunately, soon after leaving England for America—which, in answer to your question, is our false destination—our ship will encounter some turbulent seas. Sadly, our homesick passenger, who will be strolling on deck when the harsh seas strike, will topple overboard and drown, despite Meade's frantic attempts to save her. Terribly upset, Meade will steer the ship back to London, bringing with him our passenger's personal effects—personal effects I can easily supply. At which point you will declare her legally dead. And the sun will, once again, shine."
"America." A nervous cough. "Where will this ship really have gone?"
"To Paris, as usual. To deliver the merchandise to Rouge."
"The merchandise. In other words, this girl isn't really going to drown. She's going to…" A long, uneasy pause—as if Bates had already guessed the answer to his question. "Who is it you're sending to Paris?"
