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“That's not what I meant,” Breanna interrupted, inclining her head in puzzlement. “I know why you're happy. And I'm as thrilled as you—that you're home, that you like what I've done. But you never cry. At least you never used to.”
“That was then,” Stacie informed her ruefully, dabbing at her eyes. “This is now. I seem to be doing a fair amount of crying these days. Crying and swooning and retching. It's completely unlike me.”
Their gazes met.
“You're with child.” Breanna's words were a statement, not a question, and she seized Stacie's hands again, staring insightfully at the spot where her mantle covered her abdomen, as if she could see through to the changes beneath. “I knew it. Oh, Stacie, I'm so happy for you.” She hugged her cousin, then Damen, tears glistening on her own lashes. “I'm going to be an aunt. Not a second cousin, mind you, because as far as I'm concerned, you're my sister, not my cousin. So, this babe will call me Aunt Breanna.” She grew serious for a moment. “Are you all right—you and the babe?”
“We are . But Damen's not.” Anastasia shot her husband a teasing look. “He's been overwrought the en tire trip home. The ship's doctor nearly tossed bin overboard several times. Not to mention that the doctor was the first one to disembark when we docked He nearly knocked down three elderly women in hi; haste to get away. By now, he's probably at some out of-the-way alehouse, in a drunken stupor and planning how to avoid the House of Lockewood for the next six months.”
Breanna laughed—a small, strained sound. “I'll take that as a warning. Wells will make sure Damen has a full snifter of brandy each night before bed to calm his nerves.” Her expression grew hopeful. “That is, if you stay here. You will stay here, won't you? You won't go to London? I know it'll mean less privacy fa you, but—”
“I've already sent our driver on to the manor with our bags,” Damen interceded, dismissing her concern with a wave of his arm. “Knowing how much Stacie missed you, I'd never think of separating you two again. Besides, this way we can take over supervising the building of our home. Correction, I can take over supervising the building of our home. Stacie is to get no closer to the construction than we are now. Please Breanna, I'm counting on you to keep an eye on your cousin during the hours I spend at the bank. I'll be forever in your debt.”
Anastasia rolled her eyes. “I'm pregnant, Damen not incapacitated. Fine.” She held up her palm to ward off his tirade. “I'll be as docile as a lamb.”
“That'll be the day.”
“I'll take care of Stacie.” Breanna smoothed he hand over her hair—and Stacie could have sworn her fingers shook. “You have my word, Damen. I'll never let any harm befall her. Never.”
Breanna's oddly somber tone, her seemingly extreme reaction struck an uneasy chord in Stacie's mind. But before she could open her mouth to respond, her cousin had rushed on.
“I have so much to tell you,” she declared, feeling Stacie's quizzical stare, and averting her gaze to avoid it.
Nonetheless, Stacie saw the worried shadow flicker across her face.
“We're hosting that party you and I discussed,” Breanna informed her brightly. “Right here. The week after Christmas. Wells, Mrs. Charles, and Mrs. Rhodes planned the whole thing. It will be a holiday party, birthday celebration, and welcome home gathering all in one. I'm sure it will be the talk of the ton. In addition, we've also been invited to a dozen holiday parties elsewhere. Of course, you'll have to tell me which invitations you want to accept and which you don't—”
“Breanna.” Stacie had had enough. This sort of aimless babbling was as unusual for Breanna as crying was for her. It was time to get to the bottom of this.
Silencing her cousin's chatter, Stacie lifted Breanna's chin and studied her—closely—for the first time. No, she hadn't imagined the dark shadows beneath Breanna's eyes, nor the strain tightening her face. And her cheeks, when she wasn't smiling, were pale.
“What's wrong?” Stacie demanded. “And don't tell me nothing. I won't believe you. I've had the oddes
t feeling for over a week now—like something ominous was going on here. Tell me what's happened.”
Shoulders sagging, Breanna gave up the pretense.
“I prayed I wouldn't have to tell you,” she said, lacing her fingers tightly together. “I prayed it would all be resolved by the time you got home. But it isn't. And now, there's a babe to consider ... so you have to know.”
“Know what?”
“A little over a week ago I received a package—a package and a note.” A weighted pause. “They were a warning.”
“A warning?” Stacie echoed. “From whom?”
“From the man Father paid to kill you.” “What?” Stacie blanched. “From that assassin who tried—?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be so certain?” A muscle flexed in Damen's jaw. “What was in the package? What did the note say? What land of warning?” Damen's questions sliced the air like a knife, and he slid a protective arm about his wife. “Breanna, I think you'd better tell us everything.”
With a weary nod, Breanna did, eliminating none of the details, including the trip she'd made to Bow Street and the lack of information they'd turned up. “But I know in my gut it was he who sent them. I think Bow Street agrees, even if they've washed their hands of the matter.”
“That explains the extra security,” Anastasia concluded aloud. “ And my uneasy feeling.”
“Yes. Wells arranged for guards.”
“How can Bow Street just dismiss such blatant evidence?” Anastasia asked, twisting around to gaze up at her husband.
