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Anastasia inclined her head, considered Damen's statement. "How? By having the French police storm 4 Rue La Fayette? I doubt Rouge lives there. My guess is that it's just a meeting place."
"I'm sure you're right." Damen dipped his quill and started writing.
"Then what are you advising Dornier to do—snatch the courier when he arrives at the bank? Damen, there's no guarantee the lad turns the letters directly over to Rouge. In fact, there's no guarantee he's even met Rouge. Nor, for that matter, is there reason to believe that Rouge sends the same messenger each time. Anyone who's clever enough to buy and sell women without getting caught is certainly clever enough to cover his tracks with the couriers he uses."
"Again, your logic is excellent. Grabbing the messenger would be futile." Damen paused, his features taut with concentration. "The only way to beat a man like Rouge is to catch him by surprise. I'm going to tell Dornier to continue business as usual. The next letter that arrives from me addressed to Rouge is to be handled precisely the way it's been handled up until now. With two exceptions…"
His jaw set. "One, that I'm to be notified immediately of the letter's arrival by a courier waiting to leave for London at a moment's notice. And two, that a private investigator—one hired by Dornier the instant he receives this reply—is to follow Rouge's messenger from the bank to wherever he takes the correspondence I supposedly sent. Even if Rouge himself doesn't meet up with his messenger, another of his paid lowlifes will. I don't care if this investigator has to follow a chain of gutter rats through Paris and all the way up to Calais—which is where I'm sure the shipments of women first dock. He's going to unearth Rouge. And when he does, we'll grab him and implicate your uncle. Correction—further implicate your uncle. By then, I'll have had George arrested on charges of theft, kidnapping, and Lord knows what else. I'm just getting started."
Anastasia pursed her lips thoughtfully. "How are you going to manage that? With what proof? Never mind," she added quickly, supplying her own answer. "I can guess. You intend to find out who the traitor is at the House of Lockewood and link his activities to Uncle George. I should have known you'd never wait long enough for Rouge to be captured and supply you with his informant's name. You want him now."
"You're bloody right I do. I'm going to expose that bastard myself." Damen stared at the tip of his quill. "My father started the House of Lockewood, Stacie. He opened
our very first bank. He also invested a good portion of his money and all his heart and energy into making us the thriving merchant bankers we are today."
A small smile touched Anastasia's lips. "I think you're being a bit modest. From what Papa told me, you're the family genius—the one who made the House of Lockewood the most influential merchant bankers in England, maybe even in the world. Your business acumen, your powerful connections—why, every European nation seeks your advice and counsel. You might not have opened the bank's first doors, but I'd say you had a hand in establishing the House of Lockewood's reputation."
Damen waved away the compliment. "My financial insights enhanced our bank's reputation. But they didn't establish it. What established it was what brought people in initially, what convinced them to entrust us with their money, their investments. And that something was integrity. My father's integrity. He fostered loyalty and trust in our clients, and he did it by being a fine, decent, and honorable man. Shrewd investing might have increased our number of clients, expanded our number of contacts, but it was the knowledge those clients and contacts had—the knowledge that they could count on us, count on our honesty and dedication—that built our reputation. Well, no one's going to take that reputation away, certainly not some miserable scoundrel who's using his position in my bank to achieve his own crooked ends."
Anastasia watched Damen's face as he spoke, seeing, feeling his fervor, and realizing for the first time just how it was he understood so much about family loyalty and commitment.
His allegiance to his family ran as deep as her own. "You've never spoken of your father," she said softly. "Were you close?"
Darren gave a vague lift of his shoulders. "Not in the way you mean. Not like you and your parents. In all fairness, we didn't spend very much time together. I was away at school most of the time, and he was either building up the bank or traveling abroad with my mother. When she died, he threw himself into the House of Lockewood. When I came home on holiday, I worked alongside him. He wasn't a demonstrative man, nor was he given to conversation. But he was a good man, a decent man. So were we close? Not tangibly. But we shared the same principles, maybe even part of the same dream."
"Expanding your bank."
A nod. "The House of Lockewood was a symbol of who my father was, what he believed in. I shared that commitment. The difference is that my father was driven solely by his dedication and integrity. Whereas I…" Damen shrugged, considering how best to explain. "Dedication and integrity are at the core of every good man, every worthwhile endeavor. But they're not the only factors that drive me. I revel in what I do. Running the House of Lockewood is a perpetual challenge, one that stimulates my mind and fires my excitement. It's so bloody fascinating—taking a sum of money, analyzing the possibilities of where it can be invested, choosing the right place to invest it. Then, watching that investment as it increases and thrives. That's where my father and I were different. He savored the end result, because it benefited people. I savor that, too. But I also savor the process of getting there." Damen quirked a brow in Anastasia's direction. "Do I make any sense?"
"Oh, a great deal of sense." She grinned. "You're talking to the one woman in England who finds business, investments and earning profits riveting—even if that does get me labeled a bluestocking."
Damen's chuckle was husky. "A very beautiful, very passionate, very brilliant bluestocking." His smile faded, as his attention returned to the matter at hand. "In any case, perhaps now you can understand why I can't let that traitor at my bank go undetected—or worse, unpunished."
"I understand completely," Anastasia responded, pride welling up inside her. "You needn't explain. And, Damen, we'll figure out who that snake is. I promise you that. He and Uncle George will both be locked up at Newgate—soon."
* * *
For the tenth time, George reread the note Wells had given him earlier that day, muttering each word aloud as if to confirm it. Then, he crumpled the page and shoved it into his pocket, crossing the study to pour himself a much needed brandy.
Anastasia was gone. Anastasia had left England and gone home to America to supervise the opening of her new bank. And she'd gone at the request of Lord Sheldrake.
With a bitter oath, George tossed back the contents of his goblet and refilled it.
Who was the little bitch trying to fool?
She'd no more left England at Sheldrake's urging than he had. Damen Lockewood handled his own business matters; he didn't send a woman to manage them for him—even a woman as astute in business as Anastasia. No, if she'd left England, it was for another reason.
But what?
And given her sordid affair with Sheldrake, their supposed attachment for each other, why would she leave England at all?
On the other hand, why would she lie? Was she planning something, plotting something at his expense?
Another vicious oath escaped George's lips, and he dismissed his own stream of useless questions.
What the hell difference did it make why Anastasia had gone? The fact was, he had to get her back. Now. Because without her staged death, without her transport to Paris, there would be no payment from Rouge, no inheriting Henry's money, no Sheldrake as his son-in-law.
No future.
