The Gold Coin

  "Nevertheless, they married," Breanna murmured, the pieces falling rapidly into place. "And Father's hatred festered. That explains so much: why he always acted so strained around Aunt Anne; why he never stayed in the room with her unless he had to." A quizzical tilt of her head. "Did he love my mother? Or did he marry her as a substitute for Aunt Anne?"

  Anastasia chewed her lip. "I honestly don't know. Your parents got married a few months after Mama wed Papa."

  "Our mothers were sisters. They looked so much alike. They were only a year apart. And Father married my mother right after he lost Aunt Anne to Uncle Henry. Surely that can't all have been a coincidence."

  "Knowing Uncle George, I'd have to agree." Anastasia frowned, intent on clarifying what she did know. "I've hesitated telling you this because I didn't want to upset you. But, Breanna, please believe this: you were wanted. Quite fiercely, from what Mama told me. Aunt Dorothy was a gentle, caring person. She yearned with all her heart for a child—possibly so she could share her love with someone who craved it, given that her husband undoubtedly didn't. If she were still alive, I'm sure…"

  "Stacie, don't." Breanna waved away her cousin's assurances. "I don't doubt that my mother wanted me. Aunt Anne told me stories about her, too—as did Wells. Enough so that I know what kind of a person she was, and how eagerly she awaited my birth. As for my father, I also recognize what kind of a person he is. Still, it's crucial that I know all the details of the past so I can comprehend why Father hated—hates…" she corrected herself. "…Uncle Henry so vehemently. What you just divulged saddens me, but it doesn't shock or wound me."

  "I'm glad." Anastasia felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, until she remembered why she'd told Breanna the truth in the first place. "Surely now you realize why Uncle George is so hell-bent on winning this battle to see you become Mrs. Damen Lockewood. It's not just about ensuring that you end up with Damen, but about ensuring that I don't. I shudder to think how he'd react if the reverse were to occur. Couple that with the fact that he seems to need Damen's wealth and influence so badly…" Anastasia gave a hard shake of her head. "…and the thought of telling him the truth becomes untenable. I refuse to put you in that position."

  "You're not putting me in that position. I am. And since it's my fate in question, I'm the one to decide whether or not I'll walk into the lion's den…" Abruptly, Breanna broke off, a sudden, reminiscent spark lighting her eyes. "Let me amend that," she murmured, the spark igniting to a full-fledged glow as her idea took hold. "There is a way for you to explore this fascination between you and Lord Sheldrake without arousing my father's wrath."

  "And just how am I going to accomplish that? It's you Uncle George wants to see with Damen."

  "Then that's precisely what he'll see. Beginning tomorrow morning, when Lord Sheldrake comes for breakfast, as per Father's invitation." Breanna stood, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, shaking the tresses free. "You said once that a day might come when you'd need to be me. Well, that day has arrived." She smiled triumphantly. "Come, Breanna. It's time to tousle my hair and restore your accent to its former clipped tones. Tomorrow morning we reinstate our pact."

  * * *

  The pub was small, dark, almost unnoticeable from the main road. Its walls were chipped and peeling, but the ale was cheap—a factor that was most crucial to those who frequented the establishment. And nobody asked questions, not if your money was good.

  Which made it the perfect place for these meetings.

  George rubbed his palms distastefully down the front of his coat, as if by doing so he could dispel the odious feel of the room. He hovered in the entranceway, wincing at the filth and clutter, and trying to ignore the raucous laughter that exploded as drunken sailors sank deeper into their cups. It took every ounce of his self-control not to gag at the offensive smells accosting his nose.

  But right now he had more important things on his mind.

  Swiftly, he perused the room, eager to conduct his business and be gone.

  At last, he spied the telltale flare of light from the pub's far corner.

  He crossed over, slipped into his seat.

  "What did you find out?" he demanded.

  His companion lit a cheroot, gazed calmly back at him. "The partnership's real. The terms are standard. They each invested twenty-five thousand pounds."

  "Twenty-five thousand … dammit!" George nearly forgot himself and slammed his fist to the table.

  "Easy, Medford. That's going to get you noticed. Which is the one thing you don't want."

  A terse nod. "What about my niece and Sheldrake? What can you tell me?"

  "Your niece is beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as your daughter."

  "I didn't ask for your opinion. I asked you what was going on between her and Sheldrake."

  "Nothing I could see. Then again, they were alone in his office for about a half hour. I have no idea what went on during that time. But otherwise, it was only business."

  "Make sure it stays that way," George hissed. "And if it changes, let me know. Immediately." He scowled. "Any word on that damned trust fund my father set up?"

  "I had the terms checked into. They're solid as steel. Forget that money, Medford. You won't be touching it—ever."

  A bitter laugh. "All the more reason why I've got to get my hands on the rest of that inheritance. Before my bloody niece squanders away every last pence." He leaned forward, glared at his companion. "Did you get that message off to the Continent?"

  "The very night I got it."

  "Good. Now keep your eyes on Sheldrake. And make sure he keeps his eyes off Anastasia."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  By half after nine that morning, the girls were—even to the most discerning observer—each other.

  The transformation took a surprisingly short time to complete: a swap of gowns, a few quick pointers on how to keep Anastasia's hair from tumbling free, some powder on Breanna's bruise, and a few practice sessions—Anastasia on the proper articulation of words, and Breanna on the fundamental points underlying Anastasia and Damen's partnership.

  "I'd forgotten how much I enjoy being assertive," Breanna teased, parading around the bedchamber in Anastasia's bolder, more confident stride. "I'll be sure to voice all my opinions between mouthfuls."

  "I wouldn't," Anastasia cautioned dryly, holding her perfectly coiffed head at just the right angle. "Uncle George made it clear to me he doesn't welcome honesty. He's also not too thrilled with me right now. So I would curb my forthrightness, if I were you."

  "But you are me." Breanna grinned. "Remember?"

  Anastasia couldn't stifle a smile. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "Absolutely. I'll enjoy it even more when I see you and Lord Sheldrake go off for a private stroll. I wonder what he'll say when you tell him who he's really strolling with."

  That brought an impish spark to Anastasia's eyes. "When I tell him who he's really strolling with. I plan to savor my secret, wait until the right moment to disclose it. I'm looking forward to outwitting Damen Lockewood. So far, I've managed only to equal him—in intelligence, in inventiveness, even on horseback. It's time I won at something."

  Breanna rolled her eyes. "You're impossible. I hope the marquess is up for the challenge he's about to face. He might be a financial genius, but no transaction he's concluded has prepared him for you. Of that, I'm certain."

  A knock at the door interrupted their chatter.

  "Yes?" Anastasia called out, given that it was Breanna's room—supposedly her room—in which they were dressing.

  Lizzy poked her head in. "Pardon me, m'lady," she said, her gaze fixed on Anastasia. "But your father asked me to tell you that the marquess has arrived. They're awaiting you and Lady Anastasia in the dining room."

  "Thank you, Lizzy," Anastasia replied serenely. "We'll be down in a moment."

  "Very good, m'lady." The door shut behind her.

  "Now that
was a good start," Anastasia commented.

  She gathered up her skirts in Breanna's customary graceful manner.

  "Indeed," Breanna agreed. She tied her hair back with a ribbon, making sure to let one or two burnished strands tumble onto her cheeks. "Come, Breanna," she urged with a twinkle. "Your suitor awaits."

  * * *

  Damen rose the minute the girls entered the room, his keen silver gaze shifting from Breanna to Anastasia and back again. "Good morning, ladies. It's a pleasure to see you both."

  "And you, my lord," Breanna returned immediately. She smiled, then walked over to Anastasia's seat, giving her father a measured look. "Good morning, Uncle George."

  George's nod was customarily aloof. "Anastasia." He turned to the girl he presumed to be his daughter. "Breanna." With that, he reseated himself, signaling for the footmen to serve their meal.

  "Anastasia, I was just telling your uncle about our meeting yesterday," Damen said, sipping at his tea. "But it seems you'd already spoken to him about it."

  "Yes, I did," Breanna replied, choosing the strawberry jelly rather than her customary apple, just as Anastasia would have. "Right after I returned. Actually, I should have told him about my plans before I left Medford Manor. As it was, he was terribly worried about me. I'm going to have to learn to curb my independent streak. As Uncle George rightfully pointed out, this is England, not the States."

  "True." Damen bit into a biscuit, chewing it thoroughly, then swallowing before he spoke. "But you were hardly in danger. The viscount's carriage took you directly to my bank, where my entire staff had been alerted to your arrival." A pointed look at George. "Your niece was in good hands."

  "I'm sure she was." George's jaw tightened as he spoke. "Nevertheless, we have her reputation to consider—even though her business with you was just that—business. She still should have secured my permission and taken her lady's maid with her." He dismissed the matter with an adamant flourish, his shoulders stiff as he commenced eating his meal.

  Anastasia and Breanna exchanged glances.

  Silence descended, punctuated only by the clinking of china and crystal—and a few undisguised, meaningful glares by George, aimed at the girl he thought to be Breanna.

  Anastasia shifted uncomfortably in her chair, fully aware what she was being ordered to do—what Breanna was being ordered to do. But how did one initiate a courtship? More important, how would her cousin do so?

  The truth was, she wouldn't.

  Weighing that knowledge against the unspoken command in her uncle's eyes, Anastasia wracked her brain for a solution. Deliberately, she avoided her uncle's blistering stare, choosing instead to toy with her breakfast as she pondered how on earth to approach Damen in a manner that even remotely fit her cousin's more reserved demeanor.

  "Breanna, what did you do yesterday while your cousin and I were hard at work?" Damen inquired, breaking the silence and providing just the opening Anastasia needed.

  Nearly sagging with relief, she folded her napkin neatly in her lap. "I have to admit, I was lonely." Good start, Anastasia, she commended herself. It makes you sound wistful. Keep it up and Damen will have no choice but to gallantly offer you some time in his company. "The truth is, I've grown accustomed to having Stacie home," she confessed in Breanna's quiet, vulnerable tone. "I never realized until now how seldom I'm among people, and how much I enjoy sharing my thoughts with a sympathetic listener."

  Self-consciously, she broke off, pausing to sip at her tea. "In any case, that's not what you asked. Let's see. I took an early morning walk, before it became too hot. Then I went to the library and read. That helped the morning pass. And Stacie returned before lunch."

  Damen nodded, giving her a warm smile. "After which, I'm sure you spent the afternoon together."

  "We usually do." Anastasia smiled back, responsively but demurely. "Stacie and I have a lot of years to catch up on, my lord."

  "And you've come alive since she returned," he noted, polishing off the last bite of his breakfast. "You're like another woman these days. It's wonderful to see—a beautiful butterfly emerging from its cocoon."

  "Goodness, I hope that doesn't mean I was a caterpillar before."

  "Not at all." Damen chuckled. "Just a shyer butterfly."

  George shoved away his plate—his food only half-eaten. "I have a splendid idea," he declared, looking decidedly more cheerful than he had a few minutes earlier. "Breanna, I recall your mentioning something about wanting to seek Lord Sheldrake's advice on that trust fund your grandfather left you. Why not do so now, right after you finish breakfast? I have some papers to go through before I'm ready to meet with the marquess. And it's a shame for him to sit here idle, especially given that it's such a beautiful day. Why don't you walk down to the stream, stroll through the gardens?"

  Anastasia gave her uncle an obedient smile. "Of course, Father. That's a good idea." She inclined her head uncertainly at Damen. "If Lord Sheldrake wouldn't mind, that is."

  "Mind? I'd enjoy the company." Abandoning his own meal, Damen pushed back his chair and stood. "I'm ready whenever you are."

  Gracefully, Anastasia rose, resisting the urge to do her usual bolting to her feet. "Would you excuse us, Father?"

  "Of course. Anastasia and I still have to finish our meal. So take your time."

  The real Anastasia shot her cousin a questioning look. "You don't mind, do you, Stacie?"

  "Of course not," Breanna retorted in her cousin's bold tone. "You two go and enjoy yourselves."

  It took all Anastasia's restraint not to succumb to laughter. Instead, she took Damen's arm and let him lead her from the dining room through the hallway, toward the entranceway door.

  From his post, Wells watched their approach, straightening in surprise. "Miss Breanna. Are you leaving?"

  "No, Wells. Lord Sheldrake and I are just going for a walk. We'll be back soon."

  "I see." The butler frowned. "Your father knows this?"

  "Of course."

  "Very well then." He opened the door. "Don't wander far."

  Anastasia stifled another grin. "We won't."

  "Your butler is very protective," Damen commented, tucking Anastasia's arm through his as they headed away from the manor.

  "Yes, he is." She kept her stare fixed on the path. "I don't often leave the manor—certainly not unchaperoned and escorted by a gentleman."

  "I suppose not." A corner of his mouth lifted. "So, where is it George ordered us to go—to the stream?"

  "Yes." She sighed. "It's on one of the more remote sections of the estate."

  "Giving us the maximum amount of time alone." Damen thudded. "Why am I not surprised? And why don't I believe you had any plans of asking my advice about your inheritance?"

  "Because I didn't." Anastasia peeked up at him through the fringe of her lashes. "Although perhaps I should. You know how little I understand about money or how to invest it."

  "Would you like to learn?"

  She pretended to consider the notion. "I don't think I'd enjoy it very much. Nor would my father approve. Business is a man's forte."

  "Anastasia would disagree."

  "You're right. Then again, Stacie's not a typical woman."

  "I can't argue with you there." Damen fell silent, and Anastasia would have given anything to be able to read his thoughts.

  They continued walking, and when Anastasia couldn't bear the silence for another instant, she blurted out, "Have I offended you?"

  "No, of course not. Why would you think so?"

  "I don't know. Maybe because I'm not enthused by business. Or maybe it's because I said what I did about Stacie," she added, unable to resist the urge to probe.

  "Ah. That." He gave an offhanded shrug. "Well, neither comment offended me. I don't expect everyone to share my fascination for investments. As for Anastasia, she is different. Very different."

  "Is that approval or disapproval I hear?"

  "Neither. It's captivation. Anastasia intrigues me in a way no other woman ever h
as." He shot her a questioning look. "Now I hope I haven't offended you."

  "H-m-m? No, not at all." Anastasia had to firmly remind herself that it was Breanna he was addressing, not she. Therefore, emitting a gleeful shout would be totally out of place.

  "Are we headed in the right direction?" Damen asked, slowing his steps as their path wound its way into a thick grove of trees.

  "Yes."

  "Good." He guided her through the profusion of oaks, walking steadily until the sun and the grounds were eclipsed by greenery.