The Gold Coin

  On a more intimate level, he was aroused by her boldness and her fire—aroused, he reminded himself ruefully, to the point of behaving like a rash schoolboy. Bad enough that he'd overstepped his bounds with last night's kiss. This morning, he'd all but devoured her—and that was nothing compared to what he'd wanted to do.

  She hadn't pulled away, he reminded himself. Quite the opposite, in fact. She'd come alive in his arms, responded to his kiss—no, shared his kiss—with an intensity that had nearly brought him to his knees. And the bewilderment he'd seen in her eyes afterward: awe and pleasure combined with reluctance at having to stop, that only served to heighten the already unbearable ache in his loins.

  He'd known her less than a fortnight, yet he wanted her to the point of distraction. He wanted her ardor, her innocence, the wealth of untapped passion he yearned to ignite, then go up in smoke with.

  On a completely different note, he was also touched by the tender-hearted side of her; the side that wanted to shield Breanna, to recapture the past, to change and shape the future. He was moved by her unwavering loyalty and commitment to her cousin; to the entire Colby family, actually. He'd seen the sadness in her eyes that first day in Fenshaw's office, watched her reaction during her father's will reading. She'd been heartbroken by the loss of her parents—something that no inheritance could abate.

  And she'd adored her grandfather.

  Figuring out what made people tick was one of Damen's finest abilities—an ability that made him damned good at his profession. He'd watched Anastasia carefully as Fenshaw told her about the six hundred thousand pounds; first noting her zealous refusal to produce her coin, then perceiving her inner turmoil as she struggled to understand just what her grandfather had wanted of her and Breanna, what he'd hoped to accomplish with his elaborate provisions.

  And last night, when he'd come upon her on the balcony, when she'd spoken of a Medford Manor that no longer was—the late viscount was the person she'd been speaking of, the person she'd been missing.

  Obviously, Anastasia's grandfather had been very close to his granddaughters—far closer than he'd been to his sons.

  But George and Henry Colby were very different people, not only from their father, but from each other. And given George's unfeeling nature—well, there was no doubt in Damen's mind that Anastasia saw herself as Breanna's protector.

  The question was, did Breanna need a protector? "Sheldrake. At last."

  The very man Damen was about to ponder headed toward him.

  "Hello, George." Damen turned, arched a quizzical brow. "I assume you were looking for me."

  "Indeed I was." George stopped alongside the tree where Damen was lounging, mopping his brow after the exertion of his walk. "I was beginning to fear you'd left Medford Manor entirely."

  "Why would I do that?"

  A stiff shrug. "It's just that no one knew your whereabouts. Wells said only that you'd taken a stroll, and it became clear to me that you did so alone. Is everything all right?"

  Damen's eyes narrowed. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

  George hesitated, as if he were trying to decide how to phrase his answer. "I was concerned that someone might have offended you."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  "To be blunt, yes. My niece."

  "Anastasia?" Damen feigned surprise, although he'd been expecting something like this. "Why would you think that?" A flicker of supposed realization—and a chuckle. "Do you mean because of her preoccupation with business? You know me better than that, George. I'm not bound to convention. Your niece is a very bright young woman."

  "But she is a woman," George returned, his tone crisp. "And many of my guests were put off by her inane chatter about investing in an American bank."

  Damen smiled, idly adjusting his cuffs. "Then your guests are fools. Because the notion is an excellent one. I've looked into it and I fully support Anastasia's efforts."

  George's jaw looked as if it might drop into the peonies at his feet. "Are you saying you're allowing my niece to squander away a portion of Henry's money on a bank? In the States?"

  "It's Anastasia's money now, George," Damen reminded him. "All of it. And, yes, I'll be authorizing the release of the necessary funds. In fact, I'll be doing more than that."

  His complexion turning a sickly shade, George wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His heart raced frantically as he tried to fathom just how much of Anastasia's inheritance was about to be lost to him forever. "You aren't suggesting…" He broke off, falling deadly silent as the final part of Damen's statement sank in.

  Abruptly, the knot in his gut tightened to the point where he could barely speak. "More than that?" he repeated woodenly. "Are you suggesting that, on top of wasting Henry's funds, you're considering aiding Anastasia, acting as her backer in this absurd venture?"

  "Her backer? No, I'm not considering that."

  A tinge of relief crept into George's veins. "Thank goodness. You had me worried for a minute. I actually thought you were going to allow her to commit a large chunk of her inheritance to this, then make up the difference by loaning her your own funds…"

  "I'm her partner," Damen interrupted. "We'll be investing equally in our new bank."

  Another lethal silence.

  Then: "You aren't serious."

  "Oh, I'm very serious. The papers are being drawn up as we speak."

  Unable to hide his outrage, George straightened, his eyes green chips of ice. "Why wasn't I consulted on this matter?"

  Damen tensed ever so fractionally. "Because it wasn't necessary. If you recall, your guardianship doesn't extend to Anastasia's finances."

  A flinch, the anger wavering a bit. "How much will each of you be investing?"

  "That's not your concern either. Not unless Anastasia wants to share that information with you. The choice is hers." Damen's eyes narrowed on George's face. "Why does this bother you so much, George? It's not as if it's your money Anastasia is committing."

  Sucking in his breath, George brought himself under rigid control. "You're right. It's not. But she is my niece; Henry's only child. And I worry that she'll squander the funds he provided for her future. Surely you can understand that?"

  "Oh, I understand perfectly." A meaningful pause. "But don't lose a moment's sleep over Anastasia's financial security. I take my role as her administrator very seriously, just as Henry intended. I'd never allow her to compromise her inheritance."

  "Of course you wouldn't." Damen's pointed tone found its mark, and George flushed, cleared his throat. "Why don't we just drop the entire matter? I spoke without thinking. Of course my concerns are unfounded. With you managing Anastasia's assets, she'll never want for anything. I'm just glad you weren't offended by her rather forthright nature."

  "I wasn't."

  "Then why are you out here alone?" George forced a smile to his lips. "Or is that because you're passing time waiting for my lovely daughter to awaken from her long night of dancing?"

  "Actually, there are several matters at the bank weighing heavily on my mind," Damen replied, choosing his words with purposeful care. "I only wish it had been Breanna I was contemplating. Your daughter has been one of the bright spots in my week. It occurred to me last night just how drab the past Seasons' balls have been without her there to light up the room."

  This time there was a genuine, if still weak, quality to George's smile. "I'm pleased to hear that." He clapped Damen on the shoulder in an awkward gesture of friendship. "Then why don't we stop talking about finances and return to the manor? I'm sure Breanna is awake by now."

  "A fine idea."

  * * *

  Breanna and Anastasia had just finished breakfast and were descending the stairs when the two men entered the manor.

  "Ah, Breanna." George took a step forward, then paused, glancing uncertainly from one girl to the other.

  "Yes, Father?" Breanna gathered up her skirts and moved forward, automatically touching her smooth knot of upswept hair to ensure it was in place. r />
  "Lord Sheldrake was wondering where you were," George responded, totally ignoring his niece. "I assured him you'd be awake by now."

  "We were experimenting with Stacie's hair," Breanna responded, glancing proudly at Anastasia, whose hair had been arranged in much the same fashion as hers. "Doesn't it look lovely?"

  "H-m-m-m?" George gave his niece a perfunctory look. "Oh. Yes, yes, of course."

  A grin curved Anastasia's lips. "It's stayed put for nearly ten minutes now. That's a record, at least for me." Her laughing eyes met Damen's, and instantly she averted her gaze. "If you'll excuse me, I promised Mrs. Rhodes I'd give her Mama's recipe for glazed cross-buns. They were the talk of Philadelphia."

  "I'm sure they were." George gave a dismissive wave. "By all means, go." He waited until she'd complied, then turned to Damen. "I'd best check on the rest of my guests. I'll leave Breanna in your capable hands."

  "My pleasure." Damen gave a half-bow, smiling at Breanna as George turned and walked off.

  But once George was gone, and for the briefest of instances, Damen's gaze flickered toward the kitchen, watching as Anastasia disappeared from view.

  * * *

  Dammit, George thought, hovering on the threshold of the billiards room, observing his guests as they played. What else could go wrong at this bloody party? First the news about Meade and his threats, then Rouge trying to renegotiate their deal, and now Sheldrake and his unexpected affinity for Anastasia.

  Bad enough that Sheldrake was actually condoning the chit's squandering away funds that by all rights should have been his—and believing in her enough to invest his own money, to actually form a partnership. But the amount of time the marquess was spending with her—the waltzes, the early morning rides—how much of that was business and how much personal interest?

  George had taken steps to find out how much money was being invested in that partnership—the right steps. It had been a stupid blunder on his part to ask Sheldrake outright how much of Anastasia's inheritance she was committing. With any luck, he'd withdrawn the question in time to avoid permanent damage. He'd find out in his usual fashion, from his usual source, who'd be receiving his instructions within the hour. As for the personal aspect of Sheldrake and Anastasia's relationship, he'd take care of that himself.

  He needed Sheldrake. He needed more and better quality merchandise. He needed the money both would yield. And he needed time to get them—time he didn't have.

  Only ten weeks until Anastasia's twenty-first birthday. If he didn't get his hands on Henry's money by then, it would slip through his fingers. Anastasia would be an independent woman, no longer under his guardianship; free to go where she pleased, live where she pleased, marry whomever she pleased.

  And take her bloody inheritance with her.

  Damn. He had to get Henry's money while Anastasia was still living at Medford Manor, under his roof and his guidance. He had to eliminate all the obstacles. They were cluttering his path. Especially Anastasia.

  First things first. One obstacle at a time.

  Shifting his weight, George peered into the billiards room, waiting for just the right moment to catch Bates's eye.

  The magistrate must have sensed something because he missed his shot, then glanced up to find George studying him from the doorway. Ever so slightly, George angled his head in the direction of the French doors, indicating to Bates that he wanted to see him alone.

  Bates gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  "That's enough for me," he announced, tugging his waistcoat down over his portly belly and backing away from the table. "My luck is definitely not here today. Perhaps I'll do better at the gaming table."

  A few grumbling retorts followed, but on the whole the men accepted Bates's quitting without question and resumed their play.

  Bates checked the doorway again, noticed that it was now empty. Confirming that everyone's attention was no longer on him, he ambled toward the rear of the billiards room and strolled through the French doors. There, he paused, whistling as he idly surveyed the grounds.

  As if by chance, George joined him, coming around the side of the manor and greeting his guest.

  The two men walked off, chatting amiably.

  "What's wrong?" Bates murmured when they were beyond hearing range. "I thought we'd taken care of your problem when we spoke last night. I told you I'd find you a new source. And I will."

  "There's another problem I need to discuss with you—one I couldn't get into at the ball," George replied.

  "Which is?"

  "Meade."

  A sigh. "Is he giving you trouble again? What is it this time—stealing the goods or tampering with them?"

  "Worse. He's refusing to deliver my merchandise without a hefty pay increase. He's also making some threatening noises that sound disturbingly like blackmail. And that is something I will not tolerate."

  No, but you'll inflict it, Bates thought bitterly. Aloud, all he said was, "What do you need?"

  "An arrest warrant." George pursed his lips. "I need something to hold over Meade's head. A warrant would do the trick nicely. The charges are certainly real enough. The bastard is guilty of smuggling, privateering, maybe worse. You've conveniently overlooked all that to suit our purposes. Well, now our purposes have changed. And, as we both know, Meade is terrified of being sent to the gallows."

  "So if you remind him that we can send him there, you ensure his cooperation." Bates nodded his balding head. "A sound idea. Consider it done."

  George came to a halt. "When can you get it to me?"

  "Is tomorrow soon enough? I can have my messenger deliver it by nightfall."

  "Tomorrow is fine. I'll pay Meade a visit the next morning, wave the warrant in his face." A bitter smile. "That will do a great deal toward ensuring his cooperation, and his flexibility about payment."

  "Then it's settled." Bates relaxed, as he always did when he'd satisfied Medford's demands. In truth, he hated dealing with the man. It made him jittery every time the viscount sent for him. But he owed Medford, and would continue to owe him as long as he wanted to keep his position of power.

  How many times had he berated himself for accepting Medford's first offer, thus allowing the snake to have this much control over his life? But it was too late now. Medford's support, his connections, were what had ensured that Bates received—and kept—his appointment as magistrate of, not one, but three thriving districts, including this one in Kent. Undermining Medford would cost him everything: his reputation, his appointment, and, knowing Medford, perhaps even more.

  The prospects were chilling.

  "Your party is a rousing success," Bates commented, switching to the safer ground of casual conversation. "Your niece was welcomed with open arms by nearly every unattached man, as well as many of the attached ones. And the added attraction of having Breanna among us again—" A chuckle. "If I weren't so old, I'd give Sheldrake some competition myself. I'd happily choose either of the women he's pursuing."

  George's head snapped up. "Either of the women he's pursuing?"

  Instantly, Bates realized his error. "Not to worry. He spent most of the evening with Breanna."

  "And the rest of it with Anastasia," George amended bitterly.

  "I'm sure he was just being cordial. I wouldn't give it a thought."

  "I have to give it a thought. More than a thought, in fact." George's hands balled into fists at his sides, his mutterings only half audible. "If she does anything else to ruin my life…" He stopped, sucked in his breath. "Just take care of the warrant," he snapped at Bates. "I'll deal with Anastasia."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

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  The House of Lockewood was even more impressive than Anastasia had imagined. Running almost the full length of Bishopsgate Street

  , it was a veritable world unto itself—a dignified world, with high, molded ceilings, polished marble floors and, at the head of the room, a bronze plaque of a coin bearing the Lockewood family crest, set on a pe
destal and flanked by twin columns. One side of the bank boasted a triple set of doors that admitted patrons, and between the doors were rows of floor-to-ceiling windows, adorned by deep-green velvet drapes.

  The uniformed staff, properly spaced along the entire periphery of the room, stood behind walnut gates, ready to assist the bank's clientele. In the rear of the room were small, private cubicles, where bank officers could meet with customers on matters that required additional attention. Behind the cubicles stood a towering walnut door bearing a bronze plaque etched with the word PRIVATE—a clear divider between the main room and whatever lay beyond.

  Anastasia wandered farther into the bank, her gaze shifting to the bustle of activity taking place around her. How many dozens of people must come and go from here over the course of a day, contributing to the aura of importance that permeated the House of Lockewood? How many of those people had Damen Lockewood advised, turned profits for, vitally impacted with respect to their financial success?