The Gold Coin

  "No, I suppose not."

  Gently, Damen tilted up her chin. "Would you feel better if I spoke to your uncle? I could take full responsibility for not pursuing Breanna."

  Anastasia's inner chill intensified. "And then do what, pursue me instead?" A hard shake of her head. "That would be the worst possible course to take. Rejecting Uncle George's daughter, then showing an interest in his brother's? You have no idea of the reaction you'd trigger. I shudder to think." She chewed her lip, chose her next words carefully. "The resentment Uncle George feels for Papa—for all three of us: Papa, Mama, and me—runs deep."

  Again, Damen's eyes narrowed. "And you don't want to discuss why."

  "No. I don't. But please, Damen, I need your word that you won't say anything to my uncle—not about what you don't feel for Breanna or what you might be feeling for me."

  "I can't do that. Not when I fully intend to see you again. Not just once, but over and over." Damen's voice grew husky, and he threaded his fingers through her hair, that hot light flaring in his eyes. "We can't ignore what's happening between us. I won't ignore it."

  A shiver ran through her. "Nor can I. But we'll have to be discreet about seeing each other. We'll have to say we're meeting just to discuss my inheritance."

  "And our partnership," Damen reminded her.

  She frowned. "I have to ask again, are you sure you want Uncle George to know about that?"

  "He already does. I told him the morning of our race."

  "You did?" Anastasia's eyes widened. "He hasn't said a word." She contemplated that fact. "Then again, I haven't seen him alone for a minute. He was with his guests until the final ones took their leave late last night. And this morning, he left right after breakfast." An uncertain look. "How did he react?"

  Damen shrugged. "Much as you'd expect. He wasn't happy—not with the partnership, nor with the fact that a portion of your inheritance will be leaving the country. But he'll get over it. He'll have to. He has no choice." A quick glance at the clock. "Speaking of our partnership, Fenshaw is due here any minute. I'm afraid our private moments together are running out, for now."

  That brought a sparkle to Anastasia's eyes. "Tell me, Lord Sheldrake, now that we've enjoyed this half hour alone, what would you have done if I'd brought my lady's maid with me? May I remind you that most women don't travel to London alone?"

  "True. Most women don't, but you do." Damen's teeth gleamed. "You would never allow a chaperon to attend this meeting, or any other business meeting that involved you, for that matter. Even if your uncle insisted, you'd have asked your maid to wait in the carriage." A cocky look. "Another splendid insight?"

  "Definitely."

  Damen snapped open his gold pocket watch and realized Fenshaw's arrival was imminent. "We'll decide later how to handle your uncle—and what the best strategy is for seeing each other. In the meantime…" He buried his lips in hers for a brief, heated kiss that singed her down to her toes. "As I said before—only the beginning," he muttered as Graff's knock sounded. "Remember that, Anastasia. We're going to find out where this fire blazing between us is going to lead. Soon."

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Damen sat back in his chair, nodding as he scanned the final page of the document he held. "Excellent," he praised Fenshaw. "You've put in all the terms we discussed."

  "I'm glad you're pleased." Mr. Fenshaw, seated on the other side of the massive desk, pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose, and gestured at Damen's quill. "Shall we summon Cunnings and you can begin signing…?"

  "Not yet." Damen held up his palm, glancing at Anastasia, who sat beside Fenshaw. "There are two of us involved in this partnership. I have yet to hear Lady Anastasia's final word on these papers."

  Fenshaw's red cheeks grew redder. "Forgive me. I'm just not used to … I'm not in the habit of…"

  "I understand, Mr. Fenshaw," Anastasia soothed him. With a twinkle, she turned back to Damen, sliding her copy of the document onto his desk. "The terms are not only fair, they're even readable to those of us who are new to the world of finance. I thank both you and Mr. Fenshaw for being so considerate." She inclined her head. "One question: once we sign, what's the procedure?"

  "Before we sign, John Cunnings will be joining us. He's my senior officer, and my right-hand man. He's also in charge of the House of Lockewood's overseas investments. He'll be joined by another officer of the bank. Together with Mr. Fenshaw, those gentlemen will witness our signatures. Graff will then see to it that one copy of the sealed document is sent by courier to Mr. Carter in Philadelphia. Authorized funds from both my account and yours will be transferred to the States, after which, the building of our new bank will commence." A corner of Damen's mouth lifted. "Any other questions?"

  "Not for now." Anastasia folded her hands primly in her lap. "I'll let you know if that situation should change."

  "I'm sure you will." Damen rang for Graff, who hurried in, the essence of professionalism.

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "Tell Cunnings we're ready for him. Ask Booth to join him."

  "Right away." Graff rushed off, leaving the door ajar.

  Not a minute later, two men entered; one an older fellow with a round face and a full head of white hair, the other—who led the way—younger, in his mid thirties perhaps, tall and broad, with dark, close-cropped hair, a square jaw, and intelligent blue eyes.

  "You're ready for us?" the younger man asked Damen, waiting respectfully just inside the office.

  "Yes. Come in." Damen rose to his feet. "You both know Mr. Fenshaw, of course. And this is Lady Anastasia Colby, my partner in the business venture we're consummating today. Anastasia, may I present John Cunnings and William Booth."

  "A pleasure, my lady." Mr. Cunnings bowed, kissing Anastasia's hand and clearly trying not to stare.

  "Yes, she is beautiful and yes, she does bear a remarkable resemblance to Lady Breanna," Damen supplied, as if Cunnings had spoken.

  "She certainly does." If Cunnings was embarrassed by Damen's remark, he gave no indication of such.

  "It's uncanny." Mr. Booth—who upon closer inspection was not old as Anastasia had first thought, but rather prematurely white-haired—shook his head in amazement, assessing her thoroughly as he bowed, brought her hand to his lips. "Are people actually able to tell you apart?"

  "Not most people, no." Anastasia fought the urge to look at Damen who, thus far, was one of the few people who seemed never to confuse her and Breanna. "Often not even our parents."

  "I'm not surprised." Booth made another sound of disbelief, then recovered himself. "Forgive me for staring. I've seen your cousin only twice, but she has such vivid coloring, such striking beauty—suffice it to say she's not easy to forget. And the resemblance between you two is staggering." Roughly, he cleared his throat. "I apologize for rambling on like that. I hope I haven't embarrassed you."

  "Not at all," Anastasia assured him. "Actually, your compliment was lovely; sincere enough to be appreciated, yet indirect enough to avoid making me feel self-conscious." A smile. "After all, it was Breanna you were describing, not me."

  Damen interrupted the exchange with a purposeful rustle of the papers that were the subject of today's meeting. "Now that we've completed the introductions, let's get our signatures on these, shall we?" He produced a second quill from his desk drawer, handed it to Anastasia. "Ready?"

  A definite nod. "Ready."

  Ten minutes later, the papers were ready to dispatch. "Do you miss America?" Cunnings asked conversationally as they awaited Graff's return.

  "Some aspects of living there, yes," Anastasia replied with total candor. "I miss the people; they were lovely. I miss some of the freedom I had in Philadelphia that isn't possible now that I'm home. But most of all, I miss the essence of my life in the States: my parents." A reflective pause. "Actually, that's not a fair statement. I'd miss Mama and Papa no matter where I lived, possibly more so if I'd stayed on in America without them."

  She dispe
lled the sober mood with a dismissive wave. "On the other hand, it's wonderful to be back in England. I longed for so many aspects of home; the bustle of London, the beauty of the countryside and, of course, Medford Manor and Breanna. It means the world to me that I'm with my cousin again. Breanna and I have always been more sisters than cousins."

  "That's true." A half-smile touched Fenshaw's lips. "I remember the stories your grandfather used to regale me with—tales of your antics, of your deep attachment to each other. Even as tots, you girls were inseparable, whenever you had the opportunity, that is…" Fenshaw broke off, gave an uneasy cough, as if he realized he'd said too much. Frowning, he removed his spectacles, began polishing them furiously. "It would do the late viscount's heart good to see you and Breanna reunited after all these years. As for the ties you and your parents forged with the States, those will be sustained through the opening of this bank."

  "I agree." Cunnings rubbed his palms together. "What's more, I think that launching an American bank will prove beneficial, not only on a personal level, but on a financial one, as well. Like Lord Sheldrake, I believe this investment is going to be a lucrative one."

  "As do I," Booth concurred. His gaze flickered from Anastasia to Damen and back again. "It's also gratifying to see how amenable a partnership you're forming. Too many business associations are clouded by emotion. Clearly, you and Lord Sheldrake don't suffer from that problem—which is good, since it only gets in the way. Personal feelings of any kind have no place in business."

  Anastasia squirmed in her seat, made distinctly uneasy by Booth's assessment. Why would he make such an odd, extraneous comment about her partnership with Damen?

  Maybe it hadn't been extraneous. Maybe it had been deliberate. Maybe Booth sensed the attraction between her and Damen and was tactfully chiding her for it.

  Or was she being overly sensitive, projecting her own feelings onto others since she herself was so vitally aware of the pull that existed between her and Damen?

  She studied Booth carefully—a tactic that yielded no results. He was simply gazing at her politely, his hands clasped behind his back. Damen, for his part, seemed oblivious to the remarks, his attention focused on Graff, who now hovered in the doorway.

  He signaled for the gatekeeper to enter. "You know what to do with these."

  "Yes, sir." Graff collected both sets of documents. "One envelope will be secured right here in the bank. The other will be on its way to the States before nightfall."

  "Excellent." Damen rose to his feet, nodding to each man in turn. "Thank you all. That completes everything we came here to do." He extended his hand to Fenshaw. "Thank you for your time and attention in preparing the documents."

  "Not at all." Fenshaw clasped Damen's hand. "I'm glad things went so smoothly. If there's anything else I can do, just let me know."

  "I will." Damen frowned as he saw Anastasia rise, shake out her skirts. "We have more business to discuss," he reminded her.

  "I know, my lord."

  Anastasia felt Damen's brooding stare, knew he wanted to continue their private talk, to work out how they should handle her uncle. But now was not the time, for a variety of reasons. First, she'd told Breanna she'd be away only a few hours; and second, she didn't want to arouse suspicions about the nature of her relationship with Damen—suspicions that, judging from Mr. Booth's reaction, might already have been kindled.

  "I realize we still have some unfinished business," she said, meeting and holding Damen's gaze. "But it will have to wait. I must get home. As it is, I've been away far longer than I expected. I don't want Breanna to worry." Or to get in trouble with my uncle, she added silently.

  As if reading her mind, Damen relented. "Very well. I'll drop by tomorrow then. Right after breakfast."

  "That would be fine."

  "I'll escort Lady Anastasia to her carriage," Booth offered, taking a step toward her.

  "There's no need for you to inconvenience yourself," Fenshaw said, waving away Booth's offer before Anastasia could respond. "I'll be leaving now anyway, to return to my office. I'll personally escort Lady Anastasia to her carriage." He offered Anastasia his arm. "My lady."

  "Thank you, Mr. Fenshaw." Anastasia complied, wondering why Booth was so eager to get rid of her. Was he anxious to get back to his work, or was he just trying to prevent her from being alone with Damen?

  "It was a pleasure meeting you, my lady." John Cunnings interrupted her thoughts, bowed as he moved toward the doorway.

  "I return the compliment, sir," she replied. "And I appreciate your belief in our venture." She turned to Damen, gave him a cordial, businesslike smile. "Lord Sheldrake—I look forward to a profitable association."

  "As do I." Damen came around the front of his desk and kissed her gloved hand, his silver-gray gaze boring inside her, telling her he was far from happy with this abrupt departure. "I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning."

  * * *

  The noon hour came and went.

  The skies remained gloomy, a fine drizzle dampening the London docks, turning the bank of the Thames to mud.

  Still, activity was at a peak. Crewmen yelled back and forth to each other as they readied ships about to set sail. Cranes hoisted cargo from arriving vessels. Porters stood at wharfside, ready to unload incoming coal, and water—men adeptly rowed passengers out to catch departing ships they'd missed. Dock workers, their skin glistening with raindrops, strained as they jumped on and off ships, some loading, others unloading cargo. This all-important hustle and bustle dominated the wharf, and warehouse doors were flung wide as able-bodied men carried thick bags of cargo in for storage.

  Meade made his way up the path leading to the warehouses, two heavy sacks pitched on his back, their cumbersome weight doubling him over until his chin could practically touch his protruding belly. He entered the warehouse, falling to his knees and letting the bags drop to the rotted wooden floor beside him.

  The relief was blessed.

  He rose up, shaking strands of unkempt hair out of his face and dragging a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Sugar. Pounds and pounds of wretched sugar.

  What a waste. Granules—useful only to make cake. Pretty poor chance of making any real money out of that.

  Then again, there hadn't been much money made out of anything else lately either. At least not for him. And his belly was the only one he cared about feeding.

  Well, all that was about to change. After his talk with Lyman, everything would change.

  The warehouse door flung wide, striking the wall with a thud.

  Meade whipped around to see who had joined him, automatically stooping to snatch his knife from his boot.

  He straightened, the blade glinting in the dimly lit warehouse.

  Faint or not, the lighting was good enough. He recognized Medford right away by his haughty air and deceptively hunched shoulders.

  "Put the knife away, Meade." The viscount advanced toward him in slow, predatory steps. "I think it's time we had a talk."

  Meade wasn't alarmed. He'd expected a visit like this the minute he made his demands. Of course Lyman would go straight to Medford. He was the one who paid their wages. As for Medford's anger, well, he'd expected that, too. The son of a bitch didn't take threats lightly. He liked being in control. That suited Meade just fine. He didn't want control. He wanted money. Which, after this little talk, was just what he'd get. Because Medford needed him. They both knew that.

  Steeling himself, Meade ignored Medford's command. How the hell did he know the bastard wasn't armed? He couldn't take that chance. No, he'd keep his blade right where it was—clutched and ready.

  "I don't wanna talk." The privateer's eyes glinted, his whiskered jaw tightly set. "I want me money. All me money. And more of it from now on."

  "So I heard. Fifty percent more." Undeterred by Meade's weapon, Medford never paused, walking forward until he could almost touch the gleaming blade—then halting. "The fact is, you won't be getting your money. Not yet. I don't have it. And
your generous wage increase? That you won't be getting at all."

  "Then I won't be deliverin' yer merchandise."

  "Ah, but you're wrong. You will be delivering my merchandise—willingly and without further threats." Medford slipped his hand into his pocket, and Meade tensed, his fingers tightening about the handle of his blade.

  "I told you to put that away, Meade," the viscount commanded.

  "And let ye shoot me? Not a chance."

  "I don't plan to shoot you." George withdrew his hand and flourished a sheet of paper. "I won't have to. That task will be taken care of for me."

  Meade's eyes narrowed. "What are ye talkin' about?"

  A tight smile. "If you'll hold this up to the light, you'll see it's an arrest warrant. It was issued by the magistrate himself. You're a wanted man, Meade—a renowned privateer and smuggler. Why, if I turn you in, you'll be in the gallows before you know it, hanging by the neck at the end of a very short, tight rope. How does that sound?"