The Gold Coin

  Anastasia forced what she hoped was an apologetic look on her face. "I'm not accustomed to taking a chaperon with me when I go out for a simple ride. I realize that's inappropriate now that I'm home, and I'll try to be mindful of that in the future. As for my appointment, I intended to tell you about it. But you'd already left. So I asked Breanna to do it for me."

  "And what was your business at the bank?"

  He's testing me, Anastasia thought. He's trying to catch me in the act of lying; or rather, of hiding the truth. Well, I'm about to surprise him.

  "I had business with the marquess," she answered, looking her uncle squarely in the eye. "Regarding an investment I'm about to make. I want to use a portion of Papa's inheritance to invest in an American bank."

  A flicker of surprise—one that was quickly replaced by a dark scowl. "An American bank," he repeated icily. "I heard that you approached a number of my guests about financing that ludicrous venture. But I assumed that, once you saw their aversion to the notion—and to the notion of even discussing business with a woman—you'd been wise enough to abandon the idea. Really, Anastasia, isn't it enough that you offended a roomful of prominent noblemen with your unprecedented audacity? Did you then have to force your ideas on Lord Sheldrake?"

  "I didn't force my ideas on Lord Sheldrake," Anastasia replied, fighting to keep her temper in check. "I merely presented them."

  "Call it what you will." Her uncle's steely tone told her he was unwilling to be deterred. "It still adds up to one thing: you've forgotten who and where you are. You're my niece. You're also no longer in America. Perhaps there it's common for women to take an active role in financial matters, but…"

  "It's not," Anastasia interrupted. "I was bolder than American women, too."

  George's mouth thinned into a grim line. "I don't find your cheekiness amusing. Need I remind you that this is my home? Therefore, you will abide by my rules. And one thing I will not permit is impertinence."

  Silently, Anastasia counted to ten. "I didn't intend to be impertinent," she said at last. "Just honest."

  "I don't require honesty, not unless I specifically demand it by way of a direct question. What I do require is obedience. Further, I won't tolerate having my guests insulted."

  This was becoming more difficult by the minute.

  "Insulting your guests was never my intention, Uncle George. My intention was to gain support for my bank." Anastasia made a wide sweep with her hands. "In any event, I was unsuccessful. Obviously, your guests feel as you do about women in business. So I won't try that tactic again." She literally forced out her next words. "I apologize for any embarrassment I caused you."

  "Fine." A terse nod. "Then, let's return to today's meeting at the bank. What is it you hoped to accomplish?"

  You already know, Uncle George, she reflected. What you don't know is that I'm aware of that. Very well. There's no harm in reiterating what Damen already told you.

  "As that was a direct question, I have to assume you're expecting honesty," she responded, rubbing her skirts between her fingers in a seemingly nervous gesture. "Therefore, I'll provide it. The purpose for my meeting this morning was to sign a partnership agreement with Lord Sheldrake. He's joining me in this banking venture—not as a backer, but as an equal partner."

  George started—his surprise prompted not by her news, she fully recognized, but by her unanticipated frankness. It was plain that this was one time he had expected her to lie, after which he'd planned to throw that lie in her face.

  "I see." He scowled, clasping his hands behind his back and regrouping his thoughts. "I'm astounded that Lord Sheldrake would agree to involve himself in this pointless endeavor."

  "He doesn't expect it to be pointless. He expects it to be profitable. As do I." Anastasia raised her chin a notch. "I realize you and I have differing opinions on this subject, Uncle George. However, with all due respect, you're not my financial guardian. Lord Sheldrake is. So while I'll abide by your rules of behavior, I won't seek your approval on how I invest my money. Fortunately, Lord Sheldrake and I are of the same mind with regard to that."

  "You and Sheldrake seem to be of the same mind with regard to many things," George bit out, a vein throbbing at his temple.

  Anastasia's brows lifted. "I don't understand."

  "Oh, I think you do. Especially given the amount of time you and he spent together at your coming-out party."

  "He's the administrator of my inheritance, and now my business partner. Of course we spent time together."

  "And that's all there is to it?"

  "What else could there be?"

  Thunderclouds erupted on George's face, and he sliced the air with his palm. "Don't be coy with me, Anastasia. I'm not stupid. Nor are you. So I'll spell out the situation for you. I intend for Lord Sheldrake to marry Breanna. In fact, I expect to be announcing their betrothal any day now. Your cousin will have a wonderful life with the marquess. He'll give her everything she could ever want or need. And I don't plan to let anything, or anyone, stand between them. Am I making myself clear?"

  Anastasia swallowed—hard—keeping her expression as nondescript as possible. "Perfectly clear."

  "Good. I'll hold you to that. One, because I know how much Breanna's happiness means to you, and two, because I know you'd never purposely undermine me. Not when you know how dire the consequences could be. And I do mean dire."

  A chill ran up Anastasia's spine at the biting intensity of her uncle's words. She stared at him, trying to decipher his precise state of mind. She saw bitterness and anger in his eyes, as well as a dislike and resentment that was far older than she. But she also saw desperation—a desperation she couldn't quite fathom.

  What was prompting it? Was it simply a grasping desire for Damen's money and power—greed combined with a need for retribution? Or was it more? Just how depleted were Uncle George's personal funds? Colby and Sons might be flourishing, but that told her nothing about what her uncle did with his portion of the profits, nor about how he handled any of his personal investments. Damen himself had bluntly told her he didn't have much faith in her uncle's business acumen, adding that he suspected her uncle might be struggling financially. Just how badly was he struggling? Enough to breed this level of desperation?

  A sixth sense told Anastasia there was more here than met the eye.

  "I take your silence to signify agreement." Her uncle interrupted her thoughts, his gaze narrowed on her face. "Am I correct?"

  Careful, Anastasia. Don't provoke him. Not until you have all the facts. He'll only take it out on Breanna.

  "You know how deeply I care for Breanna." She lowered her chin in a gesture of compliance. "I'd never do anything to stand in the way of her happiness. Never."

  "Fine. Then we understand each other."

  Anastasia nodded, still staring at the carpet. "Yes, Uncle George. We understand each other very well."

  * * *

  "Was it as bad as I expected?" Breanna asked the minute Stacie slipped into her room that night. Anxiously, she scrutinized her cousin, returning the porcelain figurine she'd been holding to the top of her nightstand.

  Anastasia shrugged, tying her wrapper more firmly about her waist and pacing restlessly about. "Let's say there were no surprises."

  She headed toward a chair, pausing to glance at her cousin's nightstand. A reminiscent smile touched her lips, and she walked over, gingerly touching the porcelain horse that had always been Breanna's favorite. "Every one of them, just as I remembered," she murmured, her gaze shifting to the bureau where rows of delicate figurines stood—tiny statues depicting everything from children to animals to vases with flowers. "The entire collection, as if time stood still. Then again, I suppose for these beautiful statues, it does."

  "There are a few you haven't seen. I added them over the years." Breanna pointed out the new additions, including one of two little girls, laughing and picking flowers. "This one reminded me of us," she said, lifting it up and cradling it tenderly in her hands. "
I first saw it about a year after you left England. I admired it in the shop window for months. I fully intended to save my pence, one at a time, until I could buy it. But Wells—dear man that he is—surprised me instead. He bought it for me that Christmas. It's the most precious figure in my collection. If you look closely, you'll see why."

  Quizzically, Anastasia inclined her head, taking the porcelain object and inspecting it up close. Two little girls, their bright heads bent over the row of flowers they were picking.

  A glistening object caught Anastasia's eye, and she peered closer, spotting the sliver of metal wedged between the flowers and the children.

  The silver coin.

  She reached out, touched it ever so gently. "So this is where you kept it. I thought it was under the base of your porcelain horse."

  "It was. Until Wells bought me this. It reminded me so much of us, I couldn't help but feel the coin belonged here."

  A tender nod. "The gold coin is still in my jewel box—the one Mama got me when I was four. It was supposed to hold my hairpins and ribbons, so I'd find them in time to make my hair look presentable when need be. Of course, I lost every ribbon and hairpin I ever owned, so the box was never used for that. Instead, I kept my treasures in it: that wonderful multicolored stone you and I found near Medford Manor's pond, that odd-shaped leaf I plucked off our oak—things like that. Years later, I added new, equally precious treasures: every letter I received from you when I was in America, special mementos of Mama and Papa. The gold coin has never left that box. Except when I needed to see it, touch it, hold it to feel closer to Grandfather—and to believe that you and I really would be reunited one day."

  "Well, now we are." Breanna's voice was choked, and Anastasia felt her own heart constrict with emotion.

  Her gaze returned to the exquisite figure in her hands, and she studied the tiny glazed sculpture. Two girls, sharing laughter and confidences, and an absolute trust that not even distance could sever.

  A trust as precious as the gold and silver coins themselves—and all they represented.

  "Breanna, we need to talk." On that thought, Anastasia acted, setting down the delicate statue and marching over to the bed. She perched at the edge, her expression determined.

  Nodding, Breanna gathered up the folds of her night robe, tucking them around her as she lowered herself to the armchair alongside the bed. "Tell me what Father said," she urged, her green eyes searching Anastasia's face.

  "He lectured me about approaching his guests on such a scandalous matter as business. He interrogated me about my partnership with Lord Sheldrake. And he warned me not to come between you and the marquess." Anastasia dispensed with the facts as quickly as possible, sensitive to Breanna's concern, yet focused on getting at the more significant matter of Damen, and how Breanna perceived—or didn't perceive—her future with him.

  "I see," Breanna reflected aloud. "And did you set Father straight about Lord Sheldrake?"

  There it was again. That feeling that Breanna was referring to something far deeper than that which they'd already discussed.

  "That depends on what you mean by setting Uncle George straight," Anastasia replied, carefully gauging her cousin's reaction. "I apologized for upsetting his guests. With regard to Damen, I told him the truth about our partnership…"

  "And about your feelings for each other? Did you tell him about those, as well?"

  Anastasia caught her lower lip between her teeth, taken aback—not by Breanna's insight, but about the forthright way she gave voice to it. It was unlike her cousin to be so direct. Then again, it was better that she'd chosen this opportunity to be as such. This issue needed to be resolved—now.

  "No," Anastasia responded, equally blunt. "I said nothing about my feelings. For many reasons." She scrutinized Breanna's expression, looking for some sign—any sign—that her cousin was upset. But all she saw there was curiosity; curiosity and a touch of confusion. "Breanna," she blurted, leaning forward and clutching the folds of her robe. "I'd rather die than hurt you. I wish you hadn't guessed my feelings, because I'm determined to know yours before I even allow myself to contemplate mine. If you love this man, if you could love this man, if you can even imagine—by some remote chance—that you might be happy with him…"

  "Stop right there," Breanna interrupted, holding up a deterring palm. "Is that what's holding you back? My feelings?" Shaking her head, she reached over, took Anastasia's hand in hers. "I already told you there's nothing between the marquess and me. He's a charming, charismatic man. He's been very kind about diffusing Father's anger—pretending to be captivated by me, spending hours at my side. But, Stacie, I have no romantic interest in Lord Sheldrake." An impish grin. "You, on the other hand, do. And as for the marquess, he's so smitten, he can scarcely tear himself from your side."

  "Did he actually tell you that?" Anastasia heard herself ask.

  Breanna's eyes twinkled. "No. But he stepped on my feet four times when you were dancing with Lord Percy. Also, twice he mistakenly called me by your name—and not because he didn't know who he was dancing with."

  Despite her best intentions, Anastasia couldn't deny the rush of pleasure that revelation brought. Still…

  "I wouldn't lie to you, Stacie," Breanna assured her softly. "Not about something as important as this. I'd sooner challenge you for the marquess's affections—if I had feelings for him. Not because I'd place my needs above yours, but because I know you'd forever blame yourself if I forfeited a man I cared for just to ensure your happiness. But that's not the case. So put the notion out of your head." Her grip tightened, her cheeks glowing with excitement. "Instead, tell me what it feels like. Has he kissed you yet?"

  Anastasia's lips curved as relief swept through her—relief more powerful than even she'd anticipated. "Yes. I thought my knees were going to buckle." She eased back, tugged her hand free to run it through her tumbled waves of hair. "It's all happening so fast—and I'm not even sure what it is."

  A dubious glance. "Aren't you?"

  "No. All I know is that I want to find out." Abruptly, Anastasia's smile faded. "But I can't. Not with Uncle George as vehement as he is."

  "Don't be a fool, Stacie. You never let Father stop you before. You certainly can't start now, not when your whole future could be at stake."

  "It's your future I'm worrying about—and what will happen to it if your father discovers the truth."

  Breanna's jaw set in that rare but unyielding way of hers. "He'll get over it. He'll have to."

  "I doubt it will be as simple as that. Not given all the instigating factors involved." Anastasia paused, knowing it was time to fill Breanna in on the pieces of the past she'd never been told, praying it wouldn't cause her cousin too much distress. "This adamancy of Uncle George's is prompted by more than just his plans for you, even more than his plans for himself. It's prompted by feelings of bitterness and resentment that began over two decades ago and have sprouted like ugly weeds ever since."

  "You're talking about our fathers' hostility for each other," Breanna murmured. Her forehead creased with puzzlement. "You think Father wants to wed me to Lord Sheldrake just to outdo Uncle Henry?"

  "Not to outdo him—to punish him. More specifically, to punish him through me."

  "Now you've lost me. How would my marrying Lord Sheldrake punish Uncle Henry? It might satisfy some warped need on Father's part to attain a higher level of power and position than Uncle Henry ever did. But that's all."

  "No, that's not all." Slowly, Anastasia rose to her feet, gripping the bedpost and turning to face her cousin. "Uncle George hated Papa for more than just their differing principles. He hated him for marrying Mama."

  A baffled pucker formed between Breanna's brows. "It's no secret that Father disliked Aunt Anne. You and I both sensed that, even as children. But how does his dislike for her…" Abruptly, her eyes widened. "You know the reason for that animosity, don't you?"

  "Yes," Anastasia confirmed. She paused, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue
, and provided the truth. "It was because Uncle George wanted—no, expected—that it would be he who wed Mama."

  Breanna started. "What?"

  "Mama told me the whole story several years ago." Anastasia leaned her head against the bedpost. "Evidently, she was introduced to Uncle George during her very first London Season. He began courting her, intent on winning her hand. A month later she and Papa met. It was by sheer chance. She was coming out of a shop on Bond Street

  when she saw a man—whom she presumed to be Uncle George—leap from the path of a speeding carriage. He fell against a lamppost, twisting his ankle in the process, after which he crept to a nearby bench to nurse the swelling. Naturally, Mama hurried over to help—only to discover that the victim was not Uncle George, but his twin brother. They fell in love during that first chance encounter. Papa tried everything to make Uncle George understand, but to no avail. He never forgave either of my parents."