The Gold Coin

  One of Cunnings's dark brows arched. "Have I interrupted something?"

  Damen pivoted, stalking over to his desk. "I'm trying to review some details with Lady Anastasia. Which I can't do if I'm interrupted." His head came up, and he met Cunnings's curious gaze. "I repeat, what can I do for you?"

  Cunnings took a few tentative steps into the office. "I just wanted to see if Lord Crompton's portfolio was in here. He seems to have misplaced it."

  "Here it is, Cunnings." Booth stood in the doorway, waving the portfolio in the air. "Evidently, Crompton left it in the waiting area. Graff retrieved it and brought it directly to your office."

  "Ah. Good." Cunnings smiled, heading for the door and pausing only to shoot Damen an odd look. "I apologize for interrupting your meeting. Lady Anastasia…" He bowed. "Good day." His heels echoed down the corridor.

  Booth hovered in the doorway for a minute, staring at Anastasia as if she were a priceless painting.

  "Yes, Booth?" Damen prompted.

  "H-m-m? Oh, nothing, sir. If you'll excuse me…" One last reverent glance, and he left, shutting the door behind him.

  "That man makes me very uncomfortable," Anastasia declared. "He gapes at me as if I were a valuable jewel of some kind."

  "You are." Damen's tone was fervent.

  "Thank you." Anastasia smiled. "Coming from you, that's a lovely compliment. Mr. Booth, however, is another story entirely. He's not my suitor, Damen, he's your employee. And he ogles me every time I walk through those doors."

  "It's not ogling, it's admiration. He does the same to Breanna." Damen shrugged carelessly. "Booth is a shy man who doesn't spend much time with women. My guess is he's lonely. But he's harmless, believe me."

  "If you say so." She sounded dubious.

  "I do." Damen walked over, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

  A faint smile. "No, you'll see Breanna."

  "Everyone else might see Breanna. I see you."

  Anastasia leaned reflexively closer, half-wishing she could just fling herself into Damen's arms and let the rest of the world take care of itself.

  "Two days," he reiterated quietly, as if reading her mind. "Two risky days in which I'll probably worry myself sick. After that, we're taking whatever steps are necessary to bring down your uncle and end this ridiculous charade."

  * * *

  Today had been a nightmare, George reflected bleakly. Hovering inside the dingy pub, he peered about through bloodshot eyes, trying to clear his muddled brain. The room swam around him, and he wobbled a bit, then glared at the buxom barmaid who shot him a curious look. Cast your wretched gaze in a different direction, his icy stare seemed to command.

  That did the trick.

  She hurried off, and George leaned against a pillar so as not to make the same mistake again. The last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. Or maybe it didn't matter. Maybe nothing mattered anymore.

  Brushing droplets of rain off his coat, he blinked, trying to focus on the rear of the tavern where his contact doubtless awaited him. He was rankled that he'd been summoned in the first place—today of all days. After Lyman's devastating news and all the havoc it prophesied, he had enough to contend with without traveling to this filthy hovel for yet another meeting.

  He'd spent the entire afternoon and evening closeted in his study, buried in his brandy as he desperately tried to conjure up a solution to his crumpling life. Rouge wouldn't be assuaged or bullied, not this time. No, this time all George could expect was fury, condemnation, and a complete severing of business ties between himself and his Paris buyer. And then what would he do? How would he find another interested party? He couldn't exactly advertise for one in the newspaper. Further, how would he recoup his staggering losses? He'd invested nearly every last pence in this final shipment—a shipment whose exceptional quality Rouge would never see, nor believe existed.

  Perhaps that's what this late-night meeting was about, he thought with a surge of panic. Perhaps Rouge had already sent him a message terminating their association, and he was about to receive it. But no, he decided, commanding his frayed nerves to quiet. His contact never accepted or delivered messages in person. He hired a courier to do that, for the obvious purpose of protecting his own identity.

  Then what the hell was tonight about?

  The note had said it was important.

  What could possibly be important when his entire life was falling apart?

  Damn Meade. Damn the storm. And damn the fates for once again shattering his life. The fates—and Anne. Nothing had been right since she betrayed him.

  Squelching that unwelcome thought, he straightened, sharpening his search of the darkened pub.

  From the far corner, a telltale flicker of light caught his eye, and he strode toward it.

  "I'm not in good humor," he bit out, dragging out his chair and dropping heavily into it. "So make this brief."

  "Fine." His contact lit his customary cheroot, assessing George curiously as he blew out a ring of smoke. "Are you all right?"

  "I didn't hire you to inquire about my health," George snapped back. "Just tell me why the hell you needed to see me so I can go home."

  An offhanded shrug. "Very well. I thought you should know that your niece was at the House of Lockewood today. It was a most unexpected visit."

  "That's what you dragged me out here for—to talk about my wretched niece?" George shoved back his chair, ready to stagger to his feet and leave. "The only good news you could give me about Anastasia is that she'd been struck by a carriage and killed."

  "I was under the impression you wanted me to keep an eye on her, at least with regard to Sheldrake."

  "I did." George gave a dismissive wave. "But a visit to the bank hardly constitutes a tryst. Besides, I already knew about her little excursion. My butler gave me the message right after she left Medford Manor. He said Sheldrake sent for her about some nonsensical matter. I think he needed to review some details of that contemptible venture of theirs."

  "Did he?" Another slow draw of the cheroot. "That's not the way it seemed to me. To me, it seemed like Sheldrake was as surprised by Lady Anastasia's visit as I was—and even more pleased than he was surprised."

  George went still. "You're saying this visit wasn't at Sheldrake's initiation?"

  "It certainly didn't look that way. What's more, they were in his office for nearly an hour, with the door locked. After which, their physical appearance was … shall we say, distinctly mussed."

  "Mussed." George scowled. "You're crazy. Sheldrake's been at the manor three or four times a week, hovering at Breanna's side like a hawk circling its prey. There's nothing between him and my niece. He scarcely acknowledges her, except for some polite conversation over dinner."

  "Whatever you say. But when that office door opened it didn't look to me as if he and Lady Anastasia had been discussing business of any kind. Sheldrake was brusque and out of sorts, while your niece's hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed…"

  George gave a derisive laugh. "Anastasia is perpetually disheveled. She has been since childhood. If looking rumpled was deemed grounds for punishment, she would have been thrown in prison long ago." A pause. "Did you actually see the two of them in a compromising state?"

  "No. As I said, the door was locked. And in public, well, in public they behave like business associates."

  "Then there you have it." A worried frown creased George's brow as a sudden, untenable thought struck. "This business meeting—Anastasia isn't planning on squandering any more of Henry's inheritance, is she?"

  "I've seen no papers to indicate that. So far, it's been only the American bank."

  "Good." George felt only a minor surge of relief, the most current dilemma still weighing heavily on his mind. "And your courier's brought you no messages for me from the Continent?"

  "If so, you'd already have received them."

  "I suppose I would have." A wave of futility swept over George. "It doesn't matter. It
's inevitable anyway. Damned, bloody inevitable. All of it. Except Sheldrake. He's my last hope. He—and whatever I can recover of my brother's funds before that miserable bitch invests it all away." George teetered to his feet. "In any case, this whole meeting's been a waste of time. I'm going home for a brandy."

  The other man studied George thoughtfully, simultaneously grinding out his cheroot. "You can get a drink here."

  George eyed him as if he were insane. "I don't drink the swill they serve in this place." He buttoned his coat, missing the second buttonhole twice. "Good night." He paused, blinking to make the room right itself, reflecting on what he'd just said. An inner voice penetrated his foggy state, warning him that he couldn't afford to be too lax, too sure of himself, when it came to Sheldrake. Marrying the marquess off to Breanna might very well turn out to be his last hope, his last chance of survival.

  "Whether or not you're imagining things, I want you to continue as you were," he instructed his contact. "Keep your eye on these meetings between my niece and Sheldrake. Make sure all they share is that bank. Because if it's more…" Rage momentarily twisted his features. "Just make sure it's not."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  George's late-night brandy was just burning its way down to his stomach when a knock sounded on the study door.

  He scowled, staring down at the miniature portrait of Anne and willing whoever was summoning him to go away.

  His wishes went unheeded.

  A second knock sounded, this time more firmly.

  "What is it?" he barked, carefully replacing the portrait and rearranging the drawer before sliding it shut.

  The study door opened and a young woman who was either Breanna or Anastasia stepped inside. The girl's hair tumbled about her shoulders, and her bold gaze flickered from the near-empty goblet to the neatly stacked desk to George's bloodshot eyes, blatant disapproval registering in her own.

  Anastasia.

  "What do you want?" George snarled.

  "I need to speak with you, Uncle George."

  "Not tonight." He waved her away, fuming at the intrusion. The last thing he wanted to deal with tonight was this outspoken bitch—a bitch who was the living embodiment of Anne's betrayal. "I'm too tired. Whatever it is can wait."

  "No, it can't." Anastasia walked toward him, her unwavering stare meeting his head-on. "Uncle George, it occurs to me that I'm neglecting my role as Papa's heir. I've been so caught up with my own coming-out party and my reunion with Breanna, that I've completely overlooked my responsibility to Colby and Sons."

  George went rigid. "What are you talking about?"

  "Our company. I own half of it now. In America, Papa spent long years teaching me about the family business. He'd want me to continue with my education, to share with you the full responsibility of running Colby and Sons. I intend to do that. Starting tomorrow."

  Bile rose in George's throat, and he quickly washed it down with another gulp of brandy. "I must be misunderstanding you."

  "I don't think so," she countered brightly. "What I've planned is to visit our London offices tomorrow. I'll go through our current list of business associates, our suppliers, our contacts throughout the Continent. I'm sure most of those names will be familiar to me—after all, we dealt with them from our American offices, too." She inclined her head quizzically. "Would you like to join me? Or shall I just take the plunge on my own?"

  George felt as if his head was about to split in two. How dare this impertinent little bitch walk in here and announce that she was assuming a role in his company? How dare she presume she had the right?

  His knuckles whitened around the periphery of his glass. The trouble was, she did have the right.

  "Uncle George?" she pressed. "Shall I tell Wells that I'll be traveling to London alone, or…"

  "No," he ground out, fighting the vise of panic that gripped him at the thought of Anastasia having access to his doctored receipts, his veiled correspondence. Stop it, he commanded himself. She'll never see through it—not if you don't condemn yourself by acting guilty. "I'll go with you," he continued, in as calm a voice as he could muster. "I'll show you around the office. I'll ask my carriage driver to wait, so you can run along home immediately there-after."

  "Oh, I don't want to run along," Anastasia declined with a reassuring smile. "I want to stay—to read through the ledgers, the ongoing contracts, everything." Her smile faded, and she gave him an apologetic look. "I know you find the prospect of a woman in business outrageous. But I think you'll be surprised to see how quick my mind actually is. I suppose I take after Papa. I find the import-export business fascinating." With that, she glanced at her uncle's half-empty brandy bottle, and backed away. "Anyway, I won't keep you. You mentioned you were tired. And I, too, had best get a good night's rest. I want to be especially alert tomorrow."

  George stared after her as she left, watching blindly as the door shut in her wake. A fury like he'd never known surged inside him, pulsed through his veins. Violently, he seized his bottle of brandy, hurling it at the now-closed door, staring at the dark splotches of color that splattered the walls, stained the carpet.

  If only it was Anastasia he'd shattered, her blood he'd spilled. Then maybe retribution could blot out adversity.

  * * *

  It was just past dawn when Breanna knocked on her cousin's bedchamber door.

  "Stacie, are you awake?"

  Anastasia opened the door, a surprised expression crossing her face. "Awake and dressed," she assured her cousin. "Is everything all right?"

  "You tell me." Breanna walked into the room, shutting the door and leaning back against it. "I tossed and turned all night. I couldn't shake the feeling that you're in some kind of trouble. Are you?"

  Rubbing her palms together, Anastasia contemplated how to answer that. It didn't surprise her that Breanna sensed her turmoil, not given the uncanny connection that existed between them. But what could she possibly say to ease her cousin's mind?

  "Don't skirt the issue or try lying to me," Breanna second-guessed her to warn. "You're terrible at hedging and even worse at lying."

  A grin. "That certainly limits my options, now doesn't it?" Her smile faded. "Breanna, I'm not trying to hide things from you. I'm only trying to protect you."

  "From my father," Breanna concluded.

  "Yes. From your father."

  A contemplative pause, during which time Breanna studied her cousin, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "But you have shared this dilemma of yours with someone. And I'd be willing to bet that someone is Damen Lockewood."

  "You'd be right." This, at least, was something Anastasia could share with Breanna—something she was aching to share with her. "I'm in love with him," she admitted, gauging her cousin's reaction. "And what's even more wonderful, he's in love with me."

  Genuine joy erupted on Breanna's face, and she rushed over, hugged Anastasia tightly. "I'm so happy for you—for you both." She drew back, teasing laughter dancing in her eyes. "Of course, I've known this for weeks. I was wondering how long it would take the two of you to figure it out. You're both so miserably stubborn."

  "You're right." Anastasia smiled. "But we finally declared our feelings aloud."

  "When?"

  "Yesterday. At the House of Lockewood."

  That elicited an entirely different reaction, worry clouding Breanna's face. "You didn't mention to me that you were going to the bank."

  "The visit wasn't planned." Anastasia fell silent, torn between the attempt to protect her cousin and the realization that Breanna had a right to the truth—especially if that truth turned out to be a dangerous one. "Breanna, I overheard something yesterday, something terribly unnerving. I went to Damen for advice, and perhaps for help."

  "And that something involves Father."

  "Yes."

  "Tell me what it is. I deserve to know." Breanna's jaw set as if to steel her for what was to come. "Even if I won't like what I hear."

  "All
right." Anastasia sank down on the bed, relaying the entire conversation she'd overheard, ending with her talk with Damen and her subsequent decision to visit the offices of Colby and Sons. "If there's anything incriminating to be found, I'm sure that's where it will be. It's the only place Uncle George would feel secure about leaving such records."

  "God." Breanna sank down beside her cousin. "This is even worse than I suspected." She massaged her temples, then abruptly stopped. Twisting about, she faced Anastasia. "But if my father is involved in something ugly, you could be endangering yourself by going there and trying to uncover evidence."

  "That was Damen's argument. It didn't deter me. Nor will it now."