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"I mean it, Father. I won't be used as a whipping post."
"Why, you presumptuous little…" He took a step toward her, then hesitated as her fingers tightened, her jaw set in harsh, unyielding lines.
"Don't doubt that I'll use this," Breanna assured him. "I will—if I have to."
"You're not a killer, daughter." George's statement was absolute, but his voice held the tiniest shred of uncertainty. "You don't have it in you."
A shrug. "Perhaps not. At least not under these particular circumstances. Then again, I wouldn't have to kill you. I'd simply have to wound you. Just enough to incite an investigation—and the ensuing scandal that would occur. A daughter, so brutalized by her father that she'd be forced to shoot him to protect herself. That would do irrevocable damage to the reputation you're so eager to preserve. Or to restore."
Twin spots of red stained Breanna's cheeks as she watched the stunned amazement on her father's face. "I may be reserved, Father, but I'm not stupid. I've always understood your motivations. More often than not, I've bowed to them. But not this time. I won't be beaten to satisfy your belief that Stacie is anywhere except where she claims to be, or that I know more than I'm telling you. So it's up to you. Are you going to promise not to strike me again, or shall I shoot?"
Again, George hesitated. He massaged his temples, grappling with this insane twist of events, wondering if he was imagining this whole encounter, if it was really just some absurd nightmare—a product of his liquor-clouded mind.
He refocused, saw Breanna aiming the pistol at him, and realized this was no nightmare. It was real. Very real.
Disbelief surged to the forefront, penetrated his besotted state. "You'd threaten your own father?" he sputtered. "With bodily harm?"
"Only if he threatened me with the same. If you don't strike me again, you have nothing to fear—not a bullet or a scandal."
George dragged a shaky hand through his hair, wishing like hell he was sober. "I just want to know…"
"I have no information for you," Breanna interrupted. "Stacie's gone to Philadelphia. She'll be away several months." A tiny smile. "Perhaps she'll be back in time to help me celebrate my twenty-first birthday; it's less than four months away. And then Stacie and I will both be independent women."
Splotches of color suffused George's face as the reminder found its mark.
"What's more, I don't know why you're so upset about Stacie's leaving," Breanna added dryly. "We both know you're hardly fond of her."
Another swift glance at the pistol. "Regardless of my personal feelings, Anastasia is my responsibility."
"Not any longer, she's not. When she returns, she'll be of age. You'll no longer have to look out for her. Why, I should think you'd be celebrating."
George's jaw set, his gaze flickering to the nightstand as he considered his options, and how to effect them.
"You're right," Breanna acknowledged, reading his mind aloud. "I won't always have my pistol handy. But if you should try to strike me when I'm unarmed, I'll simply scream loud enough to alert the servants, then make it look as if you were beating me senseless. The staff is very fond of me, so they'll be more than willing to support my story. And if you're wondering how that could possibly harm your reputation, I'll explain. Hard as it is for you to believe, there are some noblemen out there—Lord Sheldrake, for one—who'd be appalled to learn how violent a man you are, how unduly cruel you and your strap are to me. Appalled enough to reconsider their alliances—both business and personal. Are you willing to take that risk, just to gain information I don't have?"
A choked sound of frustration and anger emerged from George's throat.
Simultaneously, a knock sounded on the bedchamber door. "Miss Breanna?" Wells's voice called out. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
Breanna inclined her head, staring down her father. "It's your choice," she prodded.
Drunk or not, George couldn't deny the truth of Breanna's logic. He'd obviously underestimated her; she'd anticipated his course of action, and developed tactics to combat it. And though he loathed her for putting him in this position, he was lucid enough to realize that to push her any further could yield disastrous results. It was also possible that Anastasia had acted without telling anyone her real plans, that Breanna was indeed speaking the truth, as far as she knew it.
And a scandal, at this particular time—he shuddered to think what damage that would do. No, livid or not, his best recourse was to back away, to let Breanna be. Then, he'd keep an eye on her, go through her mail each day to make sure she had no contact with Anastasia. And, in the meantime, he'd find that bitch himself.
"Miss Breanna?" Wells knocked louder. "Are you all right?"
"Answer him," George snapped.
"I'm not sure what to say," Breanna replied. "You tell me—am I all right?"
George shot her a dark look. "Physically, yes. But your behavior—I don't know what's happened to you. You're no longer my obedient, dutiful daughter." His eyes glittered with resentment. "But I do know who prompted the change: Anastasia."
"No, Father, Stacie didn't prompt my behavior. You did." Breanna never averted her gaze. "Just a minute, Wells," she called out. Another pointed look as she awaited her father's decision.
"Fine," George conceded, taking a symbolic step backward. "I'll do as you ask—even if it is my right as your father to discipline you as I see fit."
"Not any longer, it isn't," Breanna retorted. "I'm a grown woman, not a child. I've endured all the discipline I intend to from you."
