The Gold Coin

  The day had been nerve-racking. After a sleepless night—filled with dark dreams of Anastasia discovering his doctored receipts, then flourishing them before the authorities—he'd been forced to escort her into London, through the doors of Colby and Sons, all the while treating her as if she belonged there. And then, as if that hadn't been enough, he'd been forced to watch the bitch tear his office apart file by file as she immersed herself in his company.

  On the heels of that, Bates had arrived.

  Of all the days for the fool to find out about the lost cargo, it had to be today. Calming him down, assuring him his identity had been kept secret, never mentioned in the records of the lost shipment, had taken the better part of an hour.

  But dealing with Bates had been more aggravating and time-consuming than it had been alarming. George knew the magistrate would never betray him. He enjoyed his position too much. As long as his name stayed unsullied, he'd be cooperative and keep his mouth shut.

  What had been alarming was the prospect of Anastasia recognizing Bates, wondering what a magistrate was doing bursting into the office of an import-export company, sputtering on as if he'd lost his last dollar here.

  The very thought of the interrogation that would have followed made George's insides clench.

  Thankfully, he'd kept Bates well-concealed, and too far away from Anastasia for her to recognize him, especially given the fact that they'd only been introduced once, at Anastasia's coming-out ball, where they'd chatted only long enough for Anastasia to seek the magistrate's financial support in her banking venture.

  Still, it was hardly time for self-congratulations. Who knew how many more trips that miserable wretch intended to make to Colby and Sons, how many more visitors she'd glimpse that would give her pause, would make questions crowd her head?

  How long would it be before she discovered just a little too much?

  Damn, how he wished he could snuff her out like an unwanted candle.

  He'd arrived home, waved away dinner, and gone straight to his study and his brandy. He'd yanked out Anne's miniature portrait, gripped it so tightly his knuckles had turned white, and sworn at her as he drank himself into oblivion.

  That's when the courier had arrived.

  He'd nearly thrown the man out, weaving back to his desk and ripping open the envelope with enough venom to tear it in two.

  Fortunately, the message had remained intact. Because it had been anything but the terse rending of ties he'd expected.

  He'd read it through five times, and was almost totally sober by the time the second message came.

  Its urgency had been palpable, unable to be ignored. It demanded that he be at the customary location at one A.M. sharp, to discuss information that would alter his plans, his perspective, his life.

  And so he'd come, arriving at half after twelve so he could read and ponder Rouge's message once again before the arrival of his contact.

  Resettling himself on the hard, rotting chair at the pub's far corner table, George unfolded the letter again, reread the unexpected contents.

  Ordinarily, I'd be severing our association at this time, as this extraordinary shipment you promised never arrived. However, circumstances allow me to give you one last chance. As luck would have it, I've been approached by a wealthy client with very specific tastes and an unreasonable sense of urgency. Nothing in your previous supply would have suited him, extraordinary or not. To be brief, he requires a specimen of rare beauty and breeding—a specimen as untouched as she is well-bred. A lady in speech, manner, and upbringing. And he requires her within one week's time, after which he'll be taking her and sailing for India. To this end, he is willing to pay an enormous sum. Your compensation would be fifty thousand pounds and a resumption of our business alliance—more if your shipment meets my client's needs. Don't even consider sending that gutter trash you've shipped in the past. If you do, it will be discarded, no payment made, and our business together permanently terminated.

  I'll expect your shipment within the week. Otherwise, consider this to be my final communication.—M. Rouge

  George stared broodingly off into space, contemplating this unforeseen opportunity he was being handed. Fifty thousand pounds—an astounding amount of money. Certainly enough to pay off some of his debts, to keep his life from crumbling into bits.

  And all in exchange for one girl.

  But where could he get such a girl—a lady rather than a common wench? Oh, Bates's latest crop had been exceptional—clean, attractive, a bit more refined and less dissipated than the previous ones. But they were still a workhouse crop-poor, uneducated, of questionable origins.

  A well-bred young lady … that was another matter entirely. Where would he find someone of that caliber, someone who was not only polished, beautiful, and untouched, but who also came without the ties that would cause her to be missed if she were to disappear—permanently?

  His mouth twisted into a bitter smile as, for the dozenth time, the ideal candidate sprang to mind—or if not ideal, at least the one young woman he really wanted to send.

  Anastasia.

  Every time he remembered the way he'd had to bow and scrape before her this morning, offer her unrestricted access to those files when all he'd really wanted to do was to choke her with his bare hands … the very memory sickened him. She was everything ugly and painful in his life—the embodiment of Anne's union to Henry, the usurper of Henry's inheritance, the intruder in his business.

  The only thing she hadn't been able to take away from him was Sheldrake. The marquess was clearly enamored with Breanna. Lucky for Anastasia, or with God as his witness, she'd be on that ship to Paris right now.

  How delightful it would be to send her off to become some rich man's whore—to reap that ultimate revenge and, in the process, earn a hefty sum and regain Henry's estate.

  Reason intruded. Tempting as that prospect was, there would be too many unanswered questions, too many tracks to cover. And too little time to get it all done.

  Still, the notion was enticing…

  "Medford. You're unusually prompt tonight."

  George's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his contact, who slid into the chair opposite his.

  "Yes, well, I was preoccupied by the correspondence your courier delivered earlier. In fact, I brought it with me. I had to reread it."

  "That bad?"

  "Let's say it wasn't what I expected." George folded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. "In any case, your message was extremely urgent, more so than ever before. What's happened?"

  "Quite a bit." The other man leaned forward, not even taking the time to light his customary cheroot. "Your niece was at the bank again today."

  George stiffened. "That's impossible. She spent the whole morning at…" His voice trailed off. "What time did she arrive?"

  "Around noon. And to answer your unfinished bit of reasoning, she came directly from Colby and Sons. She made that clear during her meeting with Sheldrake."

  "They met?"

  "Oh, very much so." An uneasy cough. "Sheldrake was waiting for her. More than waiting. He was pacing. He'd canceled all his afternoon meetings so he'd be free whenever she arrived. The moment she did, he whisked her away to his office."

  "And?" George could feel his stomach knot.

  "And I went after them as soon as the area was deserted. I missed the first part of their conversation between the noise of the bank and the thickness of the door. But I sure as hell heard the last part."

  "Stop playing cat and mouse games with me," George snapped. "Tell me what you heard."

  "Two people making plans to spend the rest of their lives together, for starters."

  Dead silence. Then: "You'd better explain."

  "Your niece and Sheldrake are all but at the altar taking their vows. Your whole plan to see him married to your daughter is never going to happen."

  "But his visits to my home … their walks … the way he looks at her…"

  "That's Ana
stasia he's looking at, not Breanna." Suddenly realizing the magnitude of the fury he was about to incite, George's contact opted to have a cheroot after all. He shoved it between his lips, lit it with unsteady hands. "Your daughter and niece have been playing games with you," he continued, keeping his tone as light as he could. "Whenever Sheldrake visits, they change places, each one pretending to be the other. That way, Anastasia can spend time with the marquess without any interference from you—given that you believe it's Breanna he's out strolling with."

  "What?" Rage contorted George's features. "You're saying…"

  "There's more." The other man stabbed out his cheroot, lit another. "Evidently, Anastasia has some suspicions about you. She said something about your being involved in something illegal. I'm not sure what, only that it's criminal. Whatever it is has her all agitated."

  George could feel the room spinning. "And she told this to Sheldrake?"

  "I don't know what she told him. As I said, I couldn't hear the beginning of their conversation. And at the end … well, at the end they weren't doing very much talking. They were … absorbed in doing other things, shall we say."

  "I don't believe this." George dragged a hand over his face, his heart pounding like a drum. "They were carrying on in Sheldrake's office?" His mind wouldn't stay still long enough to wait for a reply. "And Sheldrake—what did he say about Anastasia's suspicions? Did he believe her?"

  A shrug. "He seemed more worried about what would happen to her if you found out what she and Breanna were up to. He knew you'd be furious."

  George wet his lips, panic washing over him like an icy wave. It dragged him under, and mentally he thrashed about, desperately seeking a buoy to cling to. His wild gaze darted about the room, seeing nothing but the undoing of his life.

  Questions erupted, screaming over the roaring in his head in their efforts to be heard. What part of this madness should he focus on first? What should he do first? How much did Anastasia know? What had she discovered in his office? It had to have been in his office—didn't it? Had she recognized Bates? Found something in the files? And how much had she told Sheldrake? Enough to convince him? Had her visit to his bank been to report on the embezzling going on at Colby and Sons, or had it been a prearranged tryst between her and Sheldrake?

  The last made uncontrollable rage explode inside George's head, supplanting panic with fury.

  The little trollop. All this time. Luring Sheldrake into private alcoves on the grounds of Medford Manor. Convincing Breanna to help her. Wresting away the final chance George had to restore himself and his fortune.

  Henry's fortune … their father's fortune … the company … now Sheldrake…

  Hatred, absolute and consuming, boiled up inside him, spilling over rather than abating. It extinguished all traces of panic and fear, permeated his very being with its intensity.

  And in that frozen moment, George made his decision. He'd see the bitch in hell.

  "Medford, I'm getting you a drink." Observing the play of emotions on George's face, his mottled color, the other man signaled to a barmaid, gestured for her to bring two ales to the table.

  Dutifully, she complied.

  "Down that," the other man instructed, shoving the mug toward George. "I don't care what it tastes like. You need a drink."

  "You're right," George replied in an odd, tight voice, staring at the mug for a long unseeing moment before grasping its handle, tossing down the entire contents in a few gulps. "I need a drink—and a great deal more. She thinks she's won, the wanton bitch, that she's taken it all. Well, she's about to learn otherwise. I'll see her dead before I let her destroy my life. Dead." He slammed the mug to the table, undeterred by the few nearby sailors who turned to gape. At this point he didn't give a damn if he were noticed or not.

  "Is there something I can do to help?" his contact asked carefully.

  The question echoed eerily in George's head. Help? No, he didn't need help. He needed Anastasia to die—to die and take the threats and memories with her. Then, it would finally be over.

  "Medford?" the other man pressed.

  "No," George bit out. "You can't help. Not unless killing people is also your forte. Because my survival is contingent upon Anastasia's untimely death. Interested?" he added scornfully.

  A heavy silence descended, during which his companion traced the rim of his mug thoughtfully.

  "Actually, I might be able to help you," he offered in a low, intense tone. "I know someone who does just what you require. He's very proficient at it, and very much in demand."

  George felt the ale burn its way to his stomach. It was potent, yes, but it hadn't dulled his senses that much. "You know an assassin?"

  "As luck would have it—yes."

  "How?"

  "That doesn't matter. The point is, I can contact him, if you're serious about wanting your niece dead, that is."

  "Serious?" Pure venom glittered in George's eyes. "I've never been more serious in my life. She should never have been born in the first place. I want nothing more than to erase her very existence, to make her vanish…" He broke off, his own words triggering the ultimate solution to his problem. Swiftly, he yanked out Rouge's letter, scanning the already memorized words. "I can," he muttered aloud. "I can make her vanish, rid myself of her forever—and get rich in the process. It'll be tricky, given the limited amount of time I have, and the number of people I'll have to convince—most especially Sheldrake—but I'll find a way. I have to." A triumphant laugh. "It's the ultimate vengeance."

  His contact frowned. "What are you talking about? What do you intend to do?"

  A brittle smile lingered on George's lips. "I intend to take care of everything in one fell swoop—to recoup my losses, to regain my company, my brother's inheritance, and Breanna's position in Sheldrake's life … and to condemn my niece to the very hell she deserves."

  "It sounds complicated. A lot more complicated than my suggestion."

  "But a lot more rewarding." George shoved back his chair and rose, stuffing Rouge's letter back into its envelope. "Thank you for the information. I'll be in touch."

  Slowly, his contact came to his feet, eyeing George as if he were unsure whether or not he was in his right mind. "I assume you know what you're doing," he said at last. "But if you should change your mind…"

  "I'll advise you immediately." Folding the envelope in half, George tucked it into his coat pocket. "Good night."

  * * *

  It was the ideal plan.

  Unfortunately, there were obstacles mocking him at every turn.

  Closeted in his study, George paced away the long hours of night, alternately drinking and swearing at the portrait of Anne.

  It had seemed so simple when he thought it up in the pub—ship Anastasia off, claim what was his, and savor the revenge of a lifetime.

  Since then, however, he'd examined the plan from every angle, pondered it when he was sober, then again and again as he sank deeper into his cups. It didn't matter whether he was drunk or clearheaded. There was no resolution that covered everything, made all the pieces fit.

  Originally, George had intended to announce that Anastasia had grown restless here in England, sailed off to see more of the world. The problem was, he'd never convince Breanna and Sheldrake that she'd leave so abruptly, and without a word of good-bye. To further complicate the matter, even if Fenshaw were more easily convinced than they, even if he believed that Anastasia had just up and gone, the solicitor's hands would still be tied about transferring Henry's inheritance to George. That would only be possible if Anastasia was dead.

  Had it not been for Rouge's offer, George would have been thrilled to make that happen.

  But not now.

  If he hired that assassin, arranged to have him kill Anastasia, that would eliminate any chance of fulfilling Rouge's request—an idea that was equally as untenable as forfeiting Henry's money. And not only because of the fifty thousand pounds he'd earn or his renewed association with Rouge.

  B
ut because of what it would do to Anastasia.

  For the umpteenth time, George grasped Anne's portrait, stared bitterly at the beautiful features that gazed back at him. How fitting that Anne's daughter should become a whore. Just like her mother—the woman who'd claimed to care for him, then left him for his brother. Well, history was about to repeat itself. In more ways than one. Because just as he'd had to settle for Dorothy—the lesser sister, the one he didn't want—so Sheldrake would do the same with Breanna. Once Anastasia was gone, he'd turn to her cousin for comfort and, ultimately, for marriage.

  Sheldrake.

  George slammed down the portrait, dragged a hand through his hair. How much did the marquess know? More important, how much did he believe of what Anastasia had said?