The Gold Coin

Anastasia turned her head, stared blankly at Breanna as shock continued to ripple through her.

  Abruptly, her cousin's words sank in and she sprang to life.

  Gathering up her skirts so as not to make a sound, she slipped past Breanna to lead the way. They tiptoed halfway down the hall, then abandoned precautions and dashed the remaining distance to the stairway, tearing up the steps and down the corridor to Anastasia's room.

  Breanna shut the door firmly behind them, turning to gape at her cousin.

  "Do you realize what's been happening? Worse, what's going to happen?" She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I can't believe what I just heard, what my father is capable of."

  Now that the shock of discovery was fading, Anastasia felt reason seep back into her brain. "Even I never suspected…" She sucked in her breath. "Women. The man is actually peddling women, selling them as possessions." She shot her cousin a look of utter revulsion. "I shudder to think how many unsuspecting girls he's done this to."

  "Obviously many. At least according to what Bates said."

  "Bates," Anastasia echoed in disgust. "Well, he should certainly know. He's been supplying them. It's barbaric." With an appalled shiver, she wrapped her arms about herself, as if to ward off her uncle's vile intentions. "And lucrative," she continued bitterly. "And, in my case, the perfect way to even a long-unsettled score."

  "Oh, Stacie." Breanna looked as if she were going to be sick. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

  "Don't you dare apologize. You and I have always known that all you and Uncle George share is blood. You're nothing like him. And the onus of who he is, what he does—that's his alone to bear." Anastasia laced her fingers together, contemplating the current dilemma. "We could analyze this for hours, and we'd probably come up with all the missing details. Unfortunately, I seem to have run out of time. I suspect that Meade and his ship will be leaving soon—with me on it, if Uncle George has his way."

  "Well, he won't." Breanna dashed across the room, pulling out Anastasia's bags and tugging her gowns from her wardrobe, one by one. "You're leaving Medford Manor. Today. Right away."

  Anastasia frowned, stayed Breanna with her hand. "And do what—run away? I won't do that. Nor will I leave you here alone with that monster."

  Breanna straightened, facing Anastasia, hands on hips, in that rare but unyielding stance she used when her mind was utterly made up. "I won't be alone. I'll have Wells—who is clearly more than a little suspicious of Father—and a houseful of servants, any of whom would come to my aid if need be. As for you, I think the more distance you put between yourself and Father, the safer you'll be. Go to Mr. Fenshaw, ask him to put you up at a local inn…" She broke off, seeing the insightful spark that lit Anastasia's eyes. "You have a plan," she realized aloud. "What is it?"

  "I need a quill and some paper." Anastasia marched over to the desk, extracting both. "I'm going to write your father a note. Then, I'm going to help you pack my things. I'll be gone within the hour."

  "A note? Saying what?"

  "That I'm off to supervise the opening of my new bank."

  Breanna started. "In Philadelphia?"

  "Exactly." A hint of a smile. "Every new business needs overseeing in order to ensure a smooth onset. And if I know that, your father will, too. Actually," she added thoughtfully, beginning to write, "I have him to thank for my plan. After all, it was he who first came up with the idea that I should return to America—allegedly."

  "Allegedly." Brows drawn, Breanna studied her cousin's face. "So you won't really be leaving England."

  "No. Definitely not." Anastasia tossed her cousin a sideways look. "Did you actually think I'd leave you, leave all Grandfather wanted for us—especially now, when everything is about to explode in our faces?"

  "Truthfully? No." A quizzical glance. "Where do you intend to go—or need I ask?"

  "I doubt you need to ask. But I'll answer anyway. I'm going to Damen."

  "So I assumed." Breanna peered over her cousin's shoulder, read her words. "Ah, you're telling Father that you're traveling to Philadelphia at Damen's request. That sounds believable. After all, half that investment money is his."

  "Exactly." Anastasia paused, frowning. "I'll have to reach Damen right away, not only so he can make provisions to hide me, but so he'll know what I've told Uncle George and can play along."

  "So you're going straight to the bank."

  A hard shake of the head. "That would be too easy for Uncle George to trace, in the event he decides to verify my story. He could simply ask his driver, who'd say he drove me to the House of Lockewood. And why would I be going there if I'm leaving the country? No, I'll send Damen a note, asking him to meet me at the docks. I'll have Uncle George's driver deliver me there. That way, everything will appear legitimate."

  "Fine. I'll find a way to get the message to Damen."

  "Oh, no you won't. Getting you involved is the last thing we need. Wells will take care of it for me, quickly and discreetly. I'll pen the note to Damen as soon as I'm finished writing the one to your father. I'll give both notes to Wells as I leave the manor, ask him to dispatch Damen's right away, then wait a bit before handing Uncle George his. Damen will be at the docks before I know it."

  "Not soon enough." Breanna frowned. "Those docks aren't safe."

  "It's broad daylight. The warehouses will be swarming with activity."

  "They'll also be swarming with lowlifes like that Meade person," Breanna countered. "Face it, Stacie—you're female, you're pretty, and you're alone." She leaned forward, snatching up another sheet of paper and motioning for Anastasia to make room for her at the desk. "You finish the note to my father. I'll write the message to Damen. Then, I'll give it to Wells while you pack the rest of your things. Wells will make sure the letter is on its way to London before you climb into that carriage. With any luck, Damen will be waiting for you when you get to the docks."

  Reluctantly, Anastasia nodded. "You're right." She hesitated a minute, chewing her lip as she studied her cousin, contemplated Breanna's status in all this. "You did fetch that pistol from the library, didn't you?"

  Breanna nodded, pivoting slowly to meet her cousin's gaze. "It's in my nightstand."

  "Good. Keep it close by at all times."

  "Stacie…"

  Anastasia waved away whatever protest Breanna was about to make. "Your father is unstable. He must be, to actually sell women for profit. We don't know how he'll react to my bolting like this. He might panic at the thought of losing out on his profit, or explode at the realization that I've eluded his sick attempt at revenge. In either case, he'll probably vent his emotion at you or, if he decides to try to stop me from leaving, he might try forcing you to tell him details of my departure—details you're going to claim not to know. I'm not sure what tactic he'll take. But, servants or not, you must keep up your guard. Promise me."

  "All right. I promise." Breanna swallowed. "How will I contact you? How will I know you're all right? When will I see you?"

  Anastasia squeezed her hand. "Damen is courting you, remember? He'll be sure to take you for many carriage rides. Well, I'll be the destination of those rides." Her jaw set. "It will be a matter of days, Breanna, not weeks. With what we overheard in that study, I have more than enough incriminating information to pass along to Damen. He'll use it to dig up whatever evidence we need." A frustrated sigh. "If we only had that evidence now, I'd go straight to the authorities, rather than dropping out of sight. But all we have is a conversation we'd attest to having heard. Your father would, of course, deny everything."

  Pondering her own words, Anastasia gave an ironic laugh. "Not only would he deny everything, he'd probably arrange for his friend Bates to hear our charges. And we both know how that would turn out. Uncle George would walk out of that courtroom a free man, and you and I would bear the brunt of his rage. No, when we confront your father, I want to be sure we have all the evidence we need to send him to Newgate for a long, long time."

  "I agree." B
reanna dipped her quill into the inkwell, gesturing for Anastasia to do the same. "And speaking of time, let's not waste it. You have to leave Medford Manor—before it's too late."

  * * *

  Damen's carriage sped to a stop.

  Leaping out, he stalked down to the wharf, peering between the masts of ships and rows of warehouses, pushing his way through the crowds of workers and searching for Anastasia.

  Where the hell was she?

  What was going on?

  Why did she have to meet him here, now, without a single word of explanation?

  And why had the note he received been written by Breanna rather than by Anastasia herself? What in the name of heaven had happened?

  "Damen."

  As if in answer to his fears, Anastasia called out to him, her voice shaky, barely audible above the surrounding din.

  But Damen heard it.

  He swerved, watching as she stepped out of a warehouse doorway and beckoned to him, her cheeks flushed, her entire body sagging with relief as he strode to her side. "I'm so glad you're here."

  "Stacie." His own relief was absolute, and he gathered her against him, savoring the sheer joy of holding her, knowing she was safe. "Are you all right?"

  "I am now."

  "How long have you been waiting here alone?"

  "Only a quarter hour or so. Breanna rushed the note off to you to avoid my having to linger here for an extended length of time."

  Damen's sigh ruffled her hair. "Thank God for your cousin's cautious nature. I left my office the minute Graff brought me her message." His gaze fell to Anastasia's bags, which were hidden behind the open warehouse door. "Why are you packed? Where are you going?"

  "With you." Reluctantly, she eased out of his embrace, gave an uneasy glance around. "Is your carriage nearby? I'd prefer if we talked there."

  His jaw set, but he didn't press her. "It's just beyond these buildings, off to a side. I came alone, just as Breanna asked. Let's go." Without another word, he picked up her bags and led the way, weaving through the crowd until he reached his waiting phaeton. He tossed the bags inside, helped Anastasia into her seat, and climbed into his own. Then, he turned, gripped Anastasia's shoulders. "Now—tell me what's happened."

  Anastasia drew a slow, shuddering breath. "I don't know where to begin. Yes I do. Damen, I'm in danger. I need somewhere to hide, somewhere Uncle George can't find me."

  Thunderclouds erupted on Damen's face. "What has that bastard done to you?"

  "Nothing—yet. Please, I'll explain everything. But first I need to know if you'll…"

  "There's nothing to discuss on that score. You'll stay with me."

  Another surge of relief shot through her. "Thank you."

  Damen tipped up her chin, his silver-gray gaze scrutinizing her. "Why did we meet here? Are you being followed?"

  Reflexively, Anastasia looked around. "No. Uncle George is probably first finding out I've gone. I asked Wells to wait as long as he could before giving him my note. We're meeting here to substantiate the story I made up."

  "Which is?"

  "In my note, I told Uncle George I was leaving England immediately. I said I was on my way to Philadelphia, that you'd foreseen some problems with the completion of our bank and that you'd advised me to sail home and oversee things." She clutched Damen's arms. "If he should come to see you at the House of Lockewood, if he should ask you any questions…"

  "I'll confirm your story. You're on your way to the States." Damen's knuckles caressed her cheek, his insides growing colder by the minute. Medford must have done something brutal to incite this type of fear in a woman like Anastasia—a woman who'd never cowered in her life. "What did your uncle do? How did he frighten you like this?"

  Anastasia wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, clearly still battling major shock.

  "Stacie—did he hurt you?" Damen demanded, fear knotting his gut.

  "No. Not yet. But he will. Rouge will. Rouge and whoever the man is who's paying him."

  "Paying him? Paying him for what?"

  "For me." Anastasia's shaken gaze met Damen's. "Uncle George intends to sell me. To an affluent bidder. In Paris. Through this Rouge. Just like the other women he's sold … that Bates has gotten him … like that illegal cargo that went down … we thought it was opium, or jewels—but it was women. And now I'm scheduled to be next…" Her voice broke, and her entire body began to shake. "My God, Damen. My own uncle…"

  Damen swore under his breath, his fingers unconsciously biting into Anastasia's shoulders.

  Women. The merchandise Medford had been selling, shipping to Paris, was women.

  Bile rose in his throat.

  Abruptly, urgency supplanted worry, and a self-imposed calm settled over Damen—a calm born of necessity.

  "Stacie, listen to me." His palms framed her face. "Nothing is going to happen to you. I won't let it. Your uncle won't get close enough to touch you, much less ship you to Paris. I want to hear every bloody detail of what you and Breanna heard, to understand exactly what your uncle's been doing and with whom. But later. Right now, all I want is to get you to my Town house where you'll be safe. I don't want to give George one extra second to realize you're gone. All right?"

  She gave a definitive nod.

  "Good. Let's go."

  With that, Damen released her, slapped the reins, and urged the horses forward.

  The phaeton sped toward London's west end.

  Damen's home was masculine and spacious, its heavy walnut furnishings richly appointed and refined, the rooms commanding yet unpretentious—much like Damen himself. His staff was small but incredibly effective, every one of them the essence of discretion. Not a question was asked when he ushered her inside, announced that Lady Anastasia would be staying here for a few days, and instructed them that no one outside the house was to learn a word about this arrangement.

  Within minutes, Damen's housekeeper had arranged a bedchamber for Anastasia's use, his cook had begun preparations for dinner, and his butler had sent a footman up with Anastasia's bags and a serving girl to bring tea to the sitting room. Once that had been done, all the servants tactfully disappeared—including the marquess's valet—having assessed the situation with the realization that Lord Sheldrake's guest was far more than just a casual acquaintance.

  "Your servants must think I'm a harlot," Anastasia noted, settling herself on the settee and sipping at the welcome cup of tea. "A harlot," she repeated in a hollow voice, staring into the delicate china. "How ironic. I almost was one."

  Damen muttered an oath under his breath, began pacing about the room. "Don't talk that way. Don't even think that way." He stopped, slamming his fist against the sideboard. "Tell me everything you and Breanna overheard—slowly, word for word. We're going to assemble all the pieces. And then we're going to see your uncle rot in prison."

  Anastasia placed her cup and saucer on the table, then folded her hands rigidly in her lap. "Bates was at the manor this morning. He and Uncle George had a conversation—one Breanna and I weren't supposed to overhear."

  "But you did."

  "Yes. We made sure of it, thanks to a few subtle hints from Wells. And it's a good thing we did, or I shudder to think what my fate would be."

  A muscle in Damen's jaw began to work. "How did George intend to manage this … this … atrocity of his?"

  Thoroughly, in as much detail as possible, Anastasia recounted the plan her uncle had shared with Bates. "He was going to stage my death—doubtless, so he could get his hands on Papa's inheritance—while actually selling me as a whore, earning a hefty profit from Rouge. Oh, and getting you in the bargain."

  "Pardon me?" Damen's voice became deadly quiet. Anastasia never averted her gaze. "Uncle George was quite clear on that point. He obviously assumed that whatever threat I represent to Breanna's and your future would be eliminated at the same time as I. His exact words were: 'I'll get Henry's inheritance, Rouge's generous payment, and the perfect son-in-law from one swift, ingenious transact
ion.'"

  Fury slashed Damen's features. "The deluded son of a bitch actually thought I'd just accept your disappearance without question?"

  "I assume so. Remember, he has no idea how much we mean to each other."

  "I don't give a damn. Even if our relationship was strictly business, I'd never believe you'd run away like that. Certainly not after just having been reunited with Breanna after ten long years. And not with your grandfather having placed so much faith in yours and Breanna's ability to rebuild your family ties…" Damen made a harsh sound, dragged a hand through his hair. "What am I rambling on about? George is clearly unbalanced—unbalanced, immoral, and corrupt. Why would I expect him to think rationally?" A probing look. "How deep is Bates's involvement? From what I managed to dig up yesterday, his jurisdiction was definitely expanded as a result of your uncle's influence. And, just as I thought, his financial situation is moderate at best. So increased power was the bait George used to lure him in."