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With that, Damen released her, slapped the reins, and urged the horses forward.
The phaeton sped toward London's west end.
Damen's home was masculine and spacious, its heavy walnut furnishings richly appointed and refined, the rooms commanding yet unpretentious—much like Damen himself. His staff was small but incredibly effective, every one of them the essence of discretion. Not a question was asked when he ushered her inside, announced that Lady Anastasia would be staying here for a few days, and instructed them that no one outside the house was to learn a word about this arrangement.
Within minutes, Damen's housekeeper had arranged a bedchamber for Anastasia's use, his cook had begun preparations for dinner, and his butler had sent a footman up with Anastasia's bags and a serving girl to bring tea to the sitting room. Once that had been done, all the servants tactfully disappeared—including the marquess's valet—having assessed the situation with the realization that Lord Sheldrake's guest was far more than just a casual acquaintance.
"Your servants must think I'm a harlot," Anastasia noted, settling herself on the settee and sipping at the welcome cup of tea. "A harlot," she repeated in a hollow voice, staring into the delicate china. "How ironic. I almost was one."
Damen muttered an oath under his breath, began pacing about the room. "Don't talk that way. Don't even think that way." He stopped, slamming his fist against the sideboard. "Tell me everything you and Breanna overheard—slowly, word for word. We're going to assemble all the pieces. And then we're going to see your uncle rot in prison."
Anastasia placed her cup and saucer on the table, then folded her hands rigidly in her lap. "Bates was at the manor this morning. He and Uncle George had a conversation—one Breanna and I weren't supposed to overhear."
"But you did."
"Yes. We made sure of it, thanks to a few subtle hints from Wells. And it's a good thing we did, or I shudder to think what my fate would be."
A muscle in Damen's jaw began to work. "How did George intend to manage this … this … atrocity of his?"
Thoroughly, in as much detail as possible, Anastasia recounted the plan her uncle had shared with Bates. "He was going to stage my death—doubtless, so he could get his hands on Papa's inheritance—while actually selling me as a whore, earning a hefty profit from Rouge. Oh, and getting you in the bargain."
"Pardon me?" Damen's voice became deadly quiet. Anastasia never averted her gaze. "Uncle George was quite clear on that point. He obviously assumed that whatever threat I represent to Breanna's and your future would be eliminated at the same time as I. His exact words were: 'I'll get Henry's inheritance, Rouge's generous payment, and the perfect son-in-law from one swift, ingenious transact
ion.'"
Fury slashed Damen's features. "The deluded son of a bitch actually thought I'd just accept your disappearance without question?"
"I assume so. Remember, he has no idea how much we mean to each other."
"I don't give a damn. Even if our relationship was strictly business, I'd never believe you'd run away like that. Certainly not after just having been reunited with Breanna after ten long years. And not with your grandfather having placed so much faith in yours and Breanna's ability to rebuild your family ties…" Damen made a harsh sound, dragged a hand through his hair. "What am I rambling on about? George is clearly unbalanced—unbalanced, immoral, and corrupt. Why would I expect him to think rationally?" A probing look. "How deep is Bates's involvement? From what I managed to dig up yesterday, his jurisdiction was definitely expanded as a result of your uncle's influence. And, just as I thought, his financial situation is moderate at best. So increased power was the bait George used to lure him in."
"And blackmail is what he's using to keep him there," Anastasia added. "Uncle George was quite clear in his threats this morning. Which is what kept Bates from walking out the door. As for the depth of his involvement, I'm not sure. Truthfully, I didn't stay to hear the rest of their conversation. I bolted as soon as I realized what Uncle George intended to do to me. But obviously Bates supplies the women—from where, I don't know. And Rouge, well, he's at the other end to receive them."
"And I'd be willing to bet that Lyman supplies the ships, and maybe even lowlifes like Meade to captain them. That would explain the inflated receipts you found."
Anastasia considered that, and nodded. "That makes sense. But it's all supposition. I don't know who else is involved, or how the payments are divided up. We'll need proof to determine that, and to guarantee they're all locked up, especially my uncle. What I do know is that in Uncle George's mind this is about more than money. He wants to punish me, to punish my parents."
"For what?" Damen approached the settee, dropped down on the cushion beside Anastasia, and angled her face toward his. "Isn't it time you told me what caused this deep-seated grudge your uncle bears?"
"It's not that big a mystery," Anastasia replied softly. "In fact, I'm sure you've guessed what it concerns."
"I suspect it has something to do with your parents, with how deeply they loved each other," Damen replied, not even feigning ignorance. "I sensed that the day I asked you about them, and about George's feelings for your aunt."
"He wanted my mother. She fell in love with my father instead. Uncle George never forgave either of them. His hatred festered over the years, turned into an obsession. After Grandfather died, Papa decided that putting distance between himself and his brother would be for the best. Perhaps he even hoped Uncle George would soften with time. He never did."
"I see." Damen pursed his lips, contemplating Anastasia's revelation. He wasn't shocked. He'd guessed that something like this was at the root of George's bitterness. But to carry it to this extreme?
"I'm sure this factored into your grandfather's decision," he murmured. "Since I imagine he was privy to all the reasons behind George's animosity—not only his greed and thirst for power, but his antagonism over losing Anne to Henry. That's why your grandfather was so adamant about leaving the coins—and the inheritance that was tied to them—only to you and Breanna."
"Yes." A fond smile touched Anastasia's lips—the same fond smile that always accompanied mention of her grandfather. "Grandfather knew the facts. He also knew his sons. Thus, he concluded that any chance of seeing them bury the past and act like brothers was hopeless." Her smile faded, and that stunned disbelief returned to her eyes. "But I doubt he ever imagined Uncle George would stoop to the abduction and selling of women—including his niece."
With a rough sound, Damen drew her against him, buried his lips in her hair. "That's not going to happen. You're with me, and you're safe. I'll kill him before I let him near you." As he spoke, a fierce rush of protectiveness surged through his blood, heightened the all-encompassing emotion he already felt for this woman. "Marry me, Anastasia. Now. Today."
Anastasia started, leaning back to gaze up at him. "I can't," she whispered. "My birthday's still nearly two months away. I'd need Uncle George's permission—or Mr. Fenshaw's agreement to assign me another guardian, after which I'd need that guardian's permission."
"We'll ride to Gretna Green. We can be married in a matter of days." Damen's fingers tangled in her hair. "Dammit, Stacie, don't you see it's the only way I can protect you?"
"What I see is that you love me." She reached up, caressing his jaw with her palm. "Oh, Damen, I wish it were that simple. I want to be your wife. I want that more than you can imagine. But not under these circumstances." Her eyes begged for his understanding. "You said I was a romantic. Well, when it comes to marriage, I am. When you and I take our vows, I want it to be the most wonderful moment of our lives, not a rushed ceremony cluttered by worry and fear. Think about it. If we gallop off to Gretna Green, we'll be gone for nearly a week, leaving Breanna alone with that monster. I was reluctant to abandon her even for today, and I did so only after she promised to keep her pistol nearby. Lord only knows what Uncle George will do when he realizes I've gone. But whatever he does, he'll do it to Breanna. We've got to stay in London, find the proof we need, and bring this madness to an end. We've got to."
