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Obviously, he was here to see Uncle George.
And judging from his agitated stance, whatever news he brought, he wasn't looking forward to sharing it.
Squirming to the edge of the window seat, Anastasia waited, poised like a cat ready to spring. Not yet, she cautioned herself. Wait. Five, maybe ten minutes. After that, she'd casually meander down the hall and hover near Uncle George's study. Perhaps she'd overhear something that would shed a ray of light on whatever was at the root of his agitation.
* * *
Down the hall in his study, George tossed off his goblet of brandy and ordered Wells to show Lyman in.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded the instant they were alone. "I told you I'd contact you as soon as I got word from our envoy that the shipment had reached port."
"You won't be hearing from him." Lyman's forehead was dotted with sweat, his palms trembling as he rubbed them together. "The ship isn't going to reach port."
George started. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about that horrible storm we had two nights ago." Lyman wasn't mincing words. "My ship was caught right in the middle of it. Lightning struck the main mast. The ship went down."
All the color drained from George's face. "It went down? What about the cargo?" he demanded. "Surely the crew was able to save…" His voice drifted off as he watched Lyman's adamant shake of the head.
"No, Medford. No one was saved. It happened in the dead of night. Everyone was probably asleep. I assume that by the time they realized what was happening, it was too late." He clutched his head in a helpless gesture. "What point is there in speculating? The fact is that no one survived. No one and nothing. Oh, except Meade. He took the one bloody longboat that wasn't destroyed or lost and rowed to shore. Isn't that ironic? He's the one who came and told me about all this. And don't bother asking me if he's lying. He's not. I had it checked out. Our entire shipment is lost." A tremor quivered through his voice. "And I needn't tell you there was no insurance. How could there be, in this case? So it's gone. All the merchandise, all the profit. Gone."
George swore viciously, sweeping his arm across his desk in one violent motion and sending everything on it crashing to the floor. "No. Goddammit, no." He snatched the bottle of brandy off the side table and refilled his goblet with shaking hands. "We'll sail out there ourselves, comb the waters. Surely some part of the cargo can be rescued…"
"No. It can't. Four of my best men have already done what you just described. Other than the wreckage, there's no sign of anything, except a few dead bodies floating in the water."
"Dead bodies?" George bellowed. "Dead bodies don't do me a damned bit of good." He tossed back three healthy gulps of brandy. "What the hell am I going to do? That merchandise was worth a fortune—you saw the quality Bates came up with. We would have gotten thousands for it. Thousands. And Lyman, it was our last chance. Our last bloody chance!" George flung his glass against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen fragments. "Damn Meade to hell! The son of a bitch should have saved the most valuable cargo and pulled it into the longboat. Instead, he sacrificed the whole shipment just to save his own miserable neck—a neck we could well do without."
* * *
In the hallway just outside the study, Anastasia pressed herself against the wall, her eyes wide with shock as she struggled to assimilate all the information that had just been hurled in her face—and the resulting unanswered questions.
Who was this stranger she called her uncle—a man who would place cargo above human life? And what kind of cargo could be so important as to cause such a frenzy at its loss?
Illegal cargo. That much was a certainty. It was the only explanation for Uncle George and Mr. Lyman's drastic reaction, and the only explanation as to why no insurance had been obtained before the merchandise was shipped.
But what kind of illegal cargo?
What in God's name was her uncle involved in?
She had little time to contemplate the possibilities. A thud of approaching footsteps from inside the study crossed toward her, separated only by the still-locked door.
Panic gripped her. She couldn't let her uncle find her standing here. Lord only knew what his reaction would be—and how severe a form it would take.
She had to get away.
Squelching her panic, Anastasia took off at a run, rounding the corner of the hallway and darting up the stairs. She didn't pause until she'd crossed the threshold of her bedchamber and shut the door. Her heart slamming against her ribs, she pressed her ear to the door, listening intently to see if she'd been followed.
Silence.
Her shoulders sagged with relief. No one was coming after her. Whatever she'd learned was her secret. For now.
Damen. She had to get to Damen.
But how? What excuse could she use to go to the House of Lockewood when she'd just been there yesterday and, upon returning, had made no mention of a subsequent meeting scheduled for today?
She'd have to elicit help—not from Breanna, because involving her cousin would be too dangerous.
Then from whom?
