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"I notice you don't speak of investing the money."
Anastasia's chin shot up and she gave an adamant shake of her head. "No. That's not what Grandfath
er wanted. He didn't regard the inheritance as an impersonal avenue through which to increase our funds. He regarded it as a uniting force, a means to entwine Breanna's and my futures, and the futures of our children. Allocating it to a business venture, or worse, to several different business ventures, is out of the question. If we divide it, it loses its impact. And if we invest it, however wisely…"
"…all you could reap is more money," Damen finished for her. "When what you're really determined to secure is something far more valuable." He kissed the pucker between her brows. "I think you've just begun to answer your own question. The rest will come with time. You and Breanna will see to it."
Absorbing Damen's words, Anastasia recognized not only the truth they held, but Damen's part in helping her arrive at that truth. Emotion formed a tight knot in her chest, emotion inspired by his innate understanding of—
The knock startled them both.
Anastasia jolted out of a light doze, automatically reaching for the bedcovers as Damen sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, a black scowl darkening his face.
"Who could it be?" Anastasia whispered.
"I don't know. But I intend to find out."
He yanked on his trousers, striding to the door and opening it just enough to address whoever was on the other side of the threshold.
"What is it, Proust? I thought I made it clear that I wasn't to be disturbed."
Proust. That was Damen's valet. Anastasia popped her head out from beneath the bedcovers, straining her ears to learn what the servant wanted.
"Forgive me, sir. I wouldn't have intruded, but you said to advise you the instant your response from the Paris office arrived. The courier just delivered it." He slipped a letter through the partially open doorway. "I took the liberty of bringing it up. I hope that was the right decision." A tactful silence.
Damen snatched the sealed correspondence, his entire demeanor having altered from infuriated to relieved. "It was absolutely the right decision. As usual, you know me well."
"I try, sir." Proust cleared his throat. "If that's all, I'll leave you to your privacy."
"Yes, that's all. I appreciate your diligence, Proust." Anastasia heard the servant's footsteps fade away. Simultaneously, Damen shut and bolted the door, tearing open the envelope as he walked across the room. "It's from Dornier," he informed her, perching on the edge of the bed and angling the correspondence toward the window to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. "He runs my Paris office."
By now, Anastasia had guessed that this letter concerned Damen's inquiries about Rouge, and she leaned forward eagerly, watching his face as he smoothed out the single sheet of paper. "What does it say?"
Damen scanned the letter, then reread it carefully, his brows knitting more severely with each passing word. "This makes no bloody sense," he muttered. "Dornier says he's totally baffled by my questions about Rouge and his background, given that I'm the one conducting extensive business with Rouge—business that's highly confidential in nature."
"What?" Anastasia sat bolt upright.
"According to Dornier … here, I'll read it to you: 'Some months ago,' Dornier writes, 'I received specific instructions from you advising that the Paris office would be receiving numerous sealed communications to one M. Rouge. Those confidential communications, you directed, were to be set aside and held while a note was immediately dispatched to a specific address…"'
Damen paused, reading the address aloud as if hoping that by doing so he would trigger some memory of its significance. "'4 Rue La Fayette.'" A blank shrug. "'In that note'—" He resumed reading Dornier's words. "—'I was to state that a message addressed to M. Rouge had arrived and was waiting at the bank's main office. Soon after that, I was to expect a courier to appear, presenting my note for identification purposes. At that time I was to give the courier Rouge's envelope, no questions asked.
"'Conversely, should a courier arrive at the Paris office bringing correspondence addressed to the House of Lockewood in London, with the designation, To Lord Sheldrake, confidential—M. Rouge, I was to dispatch that letter immediately, again no questions asked.'"
Damen looked up, an odd expression on his face. "Dornier closes by assuring me that he's followed my instructions to the letter, and asks whether my latest inquiry means I've decided to alter these arrangements. If so, I should advise him immediately. He's awaiting my reply. Dammit!" Bolting to his feet, Damen raked a hand through his hair and began pacing about the room. "Do you have any idea what this means?"
Anastasia's mind hadn't stopped racing since Damen had begun relaying the contents of the letter. Now, she nodded, feeling utterly sick—not only for the situation, but for Damen. "It means that someone is using the House of Lockewood as a conduit for sending information to and from Rouge." She pursed her lips. "Could it be my uncle?"
"No." Damen shook his head emphatically. "Although I'm sure whoever it is is working with your uncle. But there's no way George would have access to the bank's correspondence, most particularly to any letters addressed privately to me. Whoever sent Dornier those instructions has to work at the House of Lockewood." Damen stared at Anastasia, his expression pained. "Someone at my bank is using his position to undermine me and to help your uncle in his sick endeavors with Rouge. Well, I intend to find out who that is. And when I do, I pity him."
He stalked over to the writing desk, yanking out a quill and paper.
"You're writing back to Dornier," Anastasia deduced.
"Indeed I am."
"What are you planning?"
"I'm planning to beat this M. Rouge at his own game."
