The Gold Coin

  "Loyalty." Damen followed her lead, abandoning the prior topic and picking up the current one. "Loyalty and love—especially for each other. And, I suspect, for your grandfather."

  Anastasia blinked, taken aback, yet again, by the depth of Damen's insight. "I'll repeat what I said to you that night on the balcony: you're a very perceptive man, Lord Sheldrake."

  "And I'll repeat what I answered you then: you're a very intriguing woman, Anastasia." He caressed her cheek, let his fingers trail down the side of her neck. "Intriguing and intoxicating. So intoxicating that I can't keep my mind—or my hands—off of you." He wrapped an insistent arm around her waist, pulled her against him. Then, he lowered his head, buried his lips in hers for a long, dizzying minute. "Tell me you feel the same way," he murmured, ending the kiss with the greatest reluctance. "Tell me."

  "I do," she replied breathlessly.

  Abruptly, his mood altered, and he gripped her arms, searching her face with those smoky, compelling eyes. "Then let me help you. Let me help unravel this puzzle."

  "How?"

  "I have many contacts. I'll make some inquiries, find out just what George's financial situation is. The sooner we know what we're up against, the sooner we can set things right."

  A surge of relief flooded through her, and for the first time she realized how alone she'd felt in this dilemma. Her parents were gone, her uncle was suspect, and Breanna was too much at risk to call upon for help. She'd had no one to turn to, no one to ask for help.

  Until now.

  "Stacie," Damen said softly, mistaking her silence for refusal. "You sought me out as a partner for your bank. This is no different. I know you value your independence. But sometimes success requires drawing upon additional resources in order to achieve the most profitable outcome. This is one of those times."

  Anastasia arched a teasing brow. "Spoken like a true investment adviser. Tell me, Lord Sheldrake, are you proposing yet another partnership between us?"

  He grinned. "Um-hum. And I'd jump at this one if I were you. I'm a damned good risk."

  "Yes," she agreed. "You are." This time it was she who initiated things, reaching up to tug Damen's mouth down to hers. "Consider this my signature."

  He made a rough sound against her lips, his arms tightening, drawing her closer. "Much better than a quill," he muttered.

  "And far more binding."

  Slowly, Damen raised his head, stared deeply into her eyes. "Binding. I like the sound of that." He smoothed his fingers over the shining crown of her hair. "And speaking of binding, I hope that soon you'll decide to tell me the details of whatever caused George's hostility toward you and your parents. And after that…" His thumb caressed her soft lower lip. "…I want to hear all about the special tie you shared with your grandfather."

  An ardent sparkle lit her eyes, and she kissed his fingertips. "That will take long hours in private, my lord. Do you think you can arrange that?"

  "Oh, yes. I can definitely arrange that." On the heels of his vow, all teasing vanished, and Damen's expression grew intense. "But, Stacie, if I do—I'm not sure I can promise to display that honorable quality you obviously believe I possess."

  Anastasia's heated gaze met his. "Good. Because I'm not sure I want you to."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  The next few weeks were fraught with tension.

  Some of it was internal, coiled deep within Anastasia's gut—tension incited by the deception she and Breanna were fostering each time Damen visited Medford Manor. Despite the sheer joy that pretending to be Breanna afforded her—namely, spending long hours alone with Damen—Anastasia couldn't escape the worry that her uncle would discover the truth: that his plan to snare Damen Lockewood as a son-in-law was doomed to failure and that he was being tricked and defied by his daughter and his niece. And if he were to uncover that truth, Anastasia knew very well who would bear the brunt of his rage: Breanna.

  Still, regardless of all that, she sensed that the tension was being triggered by something far more vast than her own personal apprehension. She just didn't know what that something was.

  But she knew very well who was at its center: her uncle.

  George was drawn taut as a bowstring these days, barking at everyone, snapping at the servants, and generally slamming about the manor as if nursing a barely controllable rage. Every day, he'd closet himself in his study for hours, muttering loudly to himself—loud enough for his voice, if not his words, to be heard in the hallway. That only served to arouse Anastasia's curiosity, compelling her to try to decipher the muffled sounds. Several times a day, when no one else was about, she'd hover outside the locked study door and eavesdrop intently, pressing her ear to the doorway and straining to listen. But the wood was thick, and all she could make out was her uncle's tone, which was undeniably agitated, vacillating from bitter to apprehensive to sullen.

  To make matters worse, he'd been drinking heavily, commencing each day with a full goblet of brandy, then steadily increasing his intake until, by midafternoon, he was actually slurring his words, so deep in his cups was he.

  Clearly, it wasn't Breanna's relationship with Damen that was instigating these drinking bouts. In fact, quite the opposite was true. Given Damen's seemingly avid courtship of Breanna, George had ceased pressuring Breanna, and appeared to be satisfied with the way things were going—at least on that score.

  No, it was something else that was tormenting her uncle, something that eclipsed even acquiring Damen as a son-in-law.

  One thing was certain. Whatever was plaguing him, he was like a cannon waiting to explode.

  Tucking her legs beneath her, Anastasia settled herself more comfortably on the sitting room window ledge and gazed across the grounds. The head gardener was manicuring the shrubs that lined the length of the drive, but she scarcely noticed him, so preoccupied was she with pondering her uncle's state of mind.

  Especially after hearing all that Damen had relayed to her yesterday during their meeting at the House of Lockewood.

  She'd gone there—presumably—just for business purposes: to receive an update on the status of their joint venture. But only a portion of their conversation had been allocated to Damen's recounting of how things in America were progressing, including an estimated forecast on when the doors of Fidelity Union and Trust would open for the first time. By mid fall, he speculated. Excellent timing indeed.

  The rest of their meeting had been about George, as Damen told Anastasia about what his contacts had unearthed and just how deep a financial hole her uncle had dug himself.

  That hole was pretty damned deep.

  George owed thousands of pounds to his creditors. On top of that, he'd invested thousands more in foolish, unsuccessful ventures and, in the process, had lost every last shilling. In short, he was a man facing monetary ruin. The only thing in his favor was the continued success of Colby and Sons. But even that success he seemed to be destroying, in Damen's judgment.

  "I don't understand. Aren't the profits of the business enough to sustain him?" Anastasia had asked.

  "They might be, if he managed them wisely," was Damen's reply. "The problem is that all signs indicate he hasn't. He certainly never deposited any recent profits at the House of Lockewood, which is where he keeps the bulk of his savings, or whatever's left. Nor have those profits turned up at any other reputable institution, according to my contacts. In my mind, that means George probably squandered them away. What's more, he probably did so carelessly, based on his original expectation that your father would bequeath his half of the business to him, rather than to you."

  "Yes," Anastasia had agreed dryly. "Uncle George didn't exactly hide his indignation at Papa's will reading, did he?"

  "He wanted Henry's half of the business—badly," Damen responded. "In that way, he would have had a greater amount of profits to gamble with, and would hopefully have recouped some of his losses."

  "Only to lose them again," Anastasia had pointed out. Dam
en had given her a terse nod.

  Well, that explained why George was so desperate for Breanna and Damen to wed. He was frantic to get his hands on Damen's wealth. But it didn't explain the magnitude of his growing anxiety—given the fact that, in his mind, Breanna's relationship with Damen was secure. Based on the frequency of Damen's visits and the obvious attraction that existed between him and the woman George thought to be Breanna, their union was on the verge of becoming a reality. But instead of the relief Anastasia expected her uncle to display, it was almost as if he were waiting for something pivotal to occur—something that could either restore or destroy him.

  What was it?

  Or was she just dramatizing things in her mind? Was her uncle's strain simply the cumulative effects of a downward monetary spiral?

  Somehow she didn't think so.

  A flash of motion from outside caught her eye, and Anastasia sat up straighter, peering more closely at the drive just in time to see a carriage come to a screeching halt.

  A familiar-looking man—middle-aged, stocky, with a square jaw—emerged, speaking sharply to his driver and eyeing the house nervously before sucking in his breath and hastening up the steps.

  Anastasia watched him, racking her brain as she tried to put a name to the familiar face. She'd met hundreds of people at her coming-out party, but this one she recalled. He was one of the gentlemen she'd approached with her business proposition, one of the men who'd turned her down. He was an affluent businessman, not titled, but prominent nonetheless. He owned a shipping company, she remembered in a rush. Lyman. That was it. Mr. Edgar Lyman.

  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?

  From Wells. Yes, Wells held a special, affectionate place in his heart for her and Breanna. He might be willing to help—if she managed to convince him how vital his part in her plan might be. Of course, she'd have to accomplish that without revealing too much or betraying her uncle—both of which would compromise Wells's integrity and perhaps even threaten his position in the household. She'd simply ask him straight out—without providing any details.

  That decided, Anastasia walked over to the window, shifting the curtain just enough so she could peek out without being seen. Her guess—if the purposeful footsteps she'd heard within her uncle's study had been any indication—was that Mr. Lyman would be making his exit any moment now.

  Sure enough, the door opened and their agitated visitor hurried down the steps and into his waiting carriage. The carriage rounded the drive and sped off.

  For a long minute Anastasia waited, peering outside to see if any further activity would ensue.

  She was greeted with nothing but stillness.

  Stepping away from the window, she rubbed her temples, trying to imagine what her uncle was doing right now—or more importantly, where he was. Clearly, he wasn't rushing off to meet anyone. What that suggested, given his recent behavior, was that he'd bid Mr. Lyman good-bye, then retreated back into th
e refuge of his study, where he'd promptly drowned himself in more brandy.

  On the other hand, he could be making provisions to go out, perhaps getting some papers in order or composing himself enough to ride off and deal with this Meade person he blamed for the loss of his cargo.

  If that was the case, Anastasia could very well come face-to-face with her uncle in the entranceway door. Fine. That was a chance she'd have to take. And if it happened, she'd have to pray that Wells would sense her dilemma and choose to follow her lead.

  Sucking in her breath, Anastasia smoothed her gown, tucked a few loose tendrils of hair behind her ear, and left her bedchamber. She paused outside Breanna's door, wondering if her cousin was inside. Her fingers automatically reached for the door handle, then, just as quickly, fell away. It didn't matter whether or not Breanna was in her room. She couldn't be involved in this. In fact, the less she knew of Anastasia's intentions, the less vulnerable she'd be to Uncle George's outrage. That way, when interrogated by her father, Breanna could honestly declare she'd been totally unaware of her cousin's last-minute decision to travel to Town.