The Gold Coin

  "They are," Anastasia assured her, smiling at the sight of the drapes and bedcovers, both a deep green brocade, and the floral needlepoint hanging over the canopied bed—a path of goldenrods amid a tree-lined grove. "Oh, Breanna, it's lovely."

  "I wanted to do more. I also wanted to meet you at the ship. But there's only so much Father will allow…" Breanna's voice trailed off, and she shut the door behind them. "Anyway, feel free to decorate any way you choose," she continued. "From this moment on, it's your room."

  Anastasia dropped onto the edge of the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she assessed the chambers. "My room. At Medford Manor. It's hard to believe." She studied her cousin with compassionate awareness. "Don't give another thought to not having met me at the ship. I know Uncle George too well to have contemplated the notion. Oh, he's being very solicitous. Still—" Her voice dropped to a mock baritone. "—'Breanna, you didn't tell me your cousin had arrived' and 'luncheon will be served promptly at two.'" She rolled her eyes. "Something tells me he hasn't changed a bit."

  "No, he hasn't." Breanna's lips curved slightly. "Then again, neither have you. You're still as forthright as ever. Only your accent has changed."

  "My accent?"

  "Um-hum. You no longer speak proper English. Now you sound like … like…"

  "Like I've lived ten years in America?" Anastasia teased.

  "Well … yes." Breanna's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Tell me about Philadelphia. Your letters made it sound so different from here."

  "Not entirely different. But less restrictive." Anastasia leaned back on her elbows. "Protocol isn't valued as highly as it is in England. Chaperons aren't mandatory, there isn't as wide a chasm between servants and those who employ them. America is less set in its ways than England is. Which makes sense, given that it's a new country."

  Breanna lowered herself to a chair. "It sounds a lot like you—unorthodox, set on forging its own path. Will you miss living there?"

  "Some aspects of it, yes. Others, no. It's true I fit in, but I never really belonged. We were always glaringly English. It was especially obvious during the war. If Papa hadn't had such a good rapport with the American farmers and manufacturers, we probably would have had to leave, to go to Canada or come home. But they trusted him. He had integrity—and connections in nearly every neutral country. I guess that when it comes right down to it, profits are profits. And Colby and Sons ensured a healthy revenue for all, war or no war. Father was his usual inventive self, devising creative routes to deliver goods without violating either England or America's war policies." She broke off, shot her cousin a questioning look. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

  "How do you know so much about your father's business?" Breanna demanded.

  "It's not just Father's business. It's our entire family's business, yours and mine included." Seeing Breanna's incredulous expression, Anastasia felt her lips twitch. "Now that I consider it, I suppose my interest in Colby and Sons must seem rather extreme to you. A proper Englishwoman involved in matters of business and money-making? Shocking."

  "Not shocking, just … unusual." Breanna sighed. "We do have a lot of catching up to do."

  "Let's start with you." Anastasia leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "Your letters left far more to the imagination than mine did. For example, I know Uncle George brought you out two Seasons ago. Yet you never went into any detail about the balls you attended, the gentlemen you met. And when I pressed you for details, you avoided the subject altogether. Why is that?"

  Breanna lowered her lashes, contemplated the folds of her gown. "The truth? Or what everyone believes to be the truth?"

  "I think you know the answer to that."

  A nod. "I've never told this to a soul. Then again, I'm not in the habit of discussing my private life with anyone—other than you." Breanna inhaled sharply. "Father is very specific about his plans for my future. Yes, he brought me out, but it was all a formality. My first Season was scarcely under way when a business emergency—an alleged business emergency," she amended, "necessitated our returning here, where we stayed for the duration of the Season. Last year we didn't go to London at all—supposedly because I was recovering from a severe bout of influenza. A bout of influenza, which, to be blunt, I never had."

  Anastasia sat straight up, her gaze fixed on her cousin's veiled expression. "I don't understand. You're saying Uncle George is intentionally keeping you from meeting eligible noblemen? That makes no sense. Knowing him, I should think he'd be eager to marry you to the Prince Regent himself."

  Breanna's lashes lifted, but she didn't smile. "If that were feasible, I'm sure Father would try to arrange it."

  "Breanna, what aren't you telling me?" Anastasia felt the old surge of protectiveness swell inside her. "You know you can trust me," she added, when her cousin remained silent.

  "Of course I do. It isn't that. Frankly, it's just that this whole situation is horribly embarrassing." Breanna laced her fingers together, stared down at them. "I feel like a prize horse."

  "A prize horse." Anastasia's mind was racing, fitting pieces together. "Then you're being groomed for something." A pause. "Or someone."

  "A very specific someone," Breanna acknowledged. "Father's plans are to wed me to the wealthiest and most successful nobleman he's acquainted with, and then share in his wealth and position."

  "And who would that be?"

  "The Marquess of Sheldrake."

  "Oh." Anastasia's mouth snapped shut.

  She needn't ask who the Marquess of Sheldrake was. He was the one and only Damen Lockewood.

  She'd heard his name all her life; first, from her grandfather, who had begun his company at the same time that Damen's father had opened his first bank, and later from her father, who had developed his most powerful contacts in America thanks to Damen and the long-standing relationship between the Colbys and the Lockewoods.

  According to Anastasia's father, it was Damen who'd always been the true genius of the family, even though in official terms he'd become head of the House of Lockewood only nine years ago, upon his father's death. Since that time, however, he'd made the House of Lockewood the most influential merchant bankers in England, if not perhaps the world. His advice and counsel were sought by nearly all the nations of Europe, and his business acumen and powerful connections with statesmen and financiers alike garnered his family its reputation.

  So, yes, Anastasia knew who the Marquess of Sheldrake was.

  She also knew her Uncle George. And, given that Lord Sheldrake was rich, titled, and acclaimed throughout Europe—not to mention serving on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons—it stood to reason he'd be Uncle George's choice for a husband for Breanna.

  Money. Wealth. Status. And enhancing his business. Those were the only things that mattered to Uncle George.

  Obviously, he truly was the same man her father had disliked, had turned away from all those years ago. "Stacie? Aren't you going to say anything?"

  "I presume you've met the marquess," Anastasia replied. "Because I haven't. He was still at Oxford when we sailed for Philadelphia."

  "Yes, I've met him. Many times, right here at Medford Manor. He advises Father on all his important business matters."

  "And?"

  "And … what?"

  "What do you think of him?"

  Breanna sighed. "He's very handsome, very charming, and—as you would expect—very intelligent."

  "But…?"

  "But nothing. He kisses my hand when he arrives and again when he leaves. The rest of the time he spends talking with Father, except on those embarrassing occasions when Father coerces him into having dinner with us. On those nights, he sits across the table from me—doubtless feeling as uncomfortable as I—makes polite conversation, and says good night." A tiny shrug. "He's very gracious, considering how obvious Father's intentions are. Still, gracious and enamored are a far cry from each other. And the ability to exchange pleasantries is hardly a basis for a marriage. Alth
ough Father insists otherwise."

  "Uncle George would insist the sky was green if that would convince you and Lord Sheldrake to marry," Anastasia stated bluntly. "What I want to know is what you think. You've spoken of the marquess's reaction to you. What about your reaction to him? Could you have feelings for this man?"

  "Feelings." Breanna repeated the word as if it tasted foreign on her tongue. "I'm not sure how to answer that. Lord Sheldrake is a fine man. I like and admire him. Are those feelings?"

  "No."

  Breanna started at her cousin's adamant reply, the resolute lift of her chin, and burst out laughing. "Oh, Stacie, I've missed your audacity more than you can know. I'm so glad you're home." She dismissed the subject of Damen Lockewood with a wave of her hand. "Enough about me. Let's discuss you. You must have met dozens of gentlemen in Philadelphia."

  Anastasia frowned, but took her cousin's cue, letting the subject drop—for now. "I did. And they were all pleasant enough. But I suppose I never thought of them as anything other than acquaintances passing through my life. Part of me always knew I'd be returning to England. Papa knew that, too, which is why he never pressed me toward a commitment. Except once in a while when he'd remember that I was no longer eighteen. Then he'd push me, ever so gently, toward a particular gentleman." A pointed look. "Only I'd push back. I won't even consider marriage unless I fall in love. Neither should you."

  A tentative knock on the bedchamber door interrupted their conversation.

  "Yes?" Breanna called.

  A young, uniformed girl poked her head in and glanced uneasily about as if she were afraid of intruding. "Pardon me…" Spying Breanna—and then Anastasia—her eyes widened in amazement. "My goodness."

  Swiftly, Breanna rose and beckoned her in. "You're not losing your mind, Lizzy. Come in and meet my cousin. Anastasia—this is Lizzy. She assists Mrs. Charles at just about everything."

  "Hello, Lizzy," Anastasia greeted her.

  The young girl continued to stare. "I can't believe it. You're the same. I mean, you look the same. I mean…" Blushing, she dropped a curtsy. "I'm sorry. Pleasure to meet you, my lady."

  "As it is to meet you."

  "Did you need something, Lizzy?" Breanna pressed gently, as the maid continued to shake her head in wonder.

  "Oh, yes." Lizzy stuck her hand in her apron pocket, fumbling until she'd extracted an envelope. "This just arrived for Lady Anastasia. Mrs. Charles asked me to bring it right up."

  "Thank you." Anastasia stepped forward and took the letter with a smile. "And thank Mrs. Charles. I can't wait to see her again."

  Nodding, Lizzy backed away until she butted up against the door. Reluctantly, she turned and slipped out.

  "I think we're going to be getting a lot of that sort of reaction," Anastasia commented in amusement. She tore open the envelope.

  "I suspect you're right." Breanna watched Anastasia read her message. "What is it?"

  "A letter from Mr. Fenshaw. He's arranged the reading of Father's will for tomorrow. Uncle George and I are expected at his office at one o'clock." Anastasia paused, her brows knitting together in puzzlement. "He asks that you be there as well. Not for the will reading, but for another matter. A matter of great importance to both you and me. He's instructing us to bring the confidential gifts Grandfather gave us when we were six."

  Her chin shot up, and her gaze met Breanna's. "The coins."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Fenshaw's office was in an unassuming brick building on Chancery Lane

  in London. George Colby's carriage arrived there just before one—not a surprise, given that the viscount was never late—at which time he hurried Anastasia and Breanna out of the carriage and up the steps.

  The slight bang that accompanied the closing of the door alerted the solicitor to their arrival, for he walked out of his inner office, slipping his spectacles onto his nose as he came forward to greet them.

  "Good day, George, Breanna." He blinked as his pale gaze shifted to Anastasia. "Or is this Breanna?"

  Anastasia shook her head. "No, Mr. Fenshaw. You were right the first time."

  He blinked again. "Anastasia, goodness. The resemblance is astonishing." He bowed ever so slightly, giving her a gentle smile. "I don't suppose you remember me. But I remember you—an active little girl with a mind of her own. I'm terribly sorry about your parents. They were fine people, both of them."

  "Yes, they were." A flash of memory flitted through Anastasia's mind; a gray-haired gentleman with red cheeks, thick spectacles, and a kind smile offering her a peppermint stick. "Actually, I do remember you. You had the most delicious peppermint sticks in London."

  Fenshaw chuckled. "You did so enjoy that candy." He inclined his head, his expression compassionate. "How are you, my dear? Under the circumstances, that is."

  "Not as devastated as I was a few months ago. I'm very fortunate to have Uncle George and Breanna. Returning to them and to Medford Manor has made my loss a little more bearable."

  "I'm glad."

  "I realize we're early, Fenshaw," George interrupted. "But if it's all right with you, we'll proceed. I have another business matter to see to this afternoon and I want to leave for Kent before dusk."

  "As you wish." Fenshaw gestured them into his inner office. "Please, come in. Now that everyone is here, we can begin at once."

  "Everyone?" George shot him a perplexed look as he crossed the threshold behind his daughter and niece. "Who else…?" He broke off, staring in surprise at the tall, broad-shouldered man who rose to his feet as they entered. "Sheldrake. I don't understand."

  Sheldrake? Now that brought Anastasia's head around quickly.

  "Nor do I," the marquess was replying, shrugging his dark head. He extended his hand to shake George's. "All I know is that Fenshaw asked me to attend. So here I am." He glanced past George, then bowed politely at Breanna—whom he clearly had no difficulty recognizing, despite the presence of Anastasia by her side. "Breanna, how are you?"

  "I'm well, my lord."

  "I'm glad to hear that." Damen Lockewood's gaze flickered to Anastasia, and a slight smile curved his lips. "Ah, it seems I don't need an introduction."

  "Nor do I," she returned. "Although in your case, it's your name I recognize, rather than your appearance." Eager to remedy that fact, Anastasia stepped forward, curtsying quickly so she could rise and inspect this man she'd heard so much about.

  He was tall—over six feet—and powerfully built, with steel-gray eyes, a square jaw, and hard, patrician features. His raven-black hair was cut short at the nape, yet a few strands of it swept over his broad forehead—perhaps the only aspect of him that was even remotely disheveled. His blue tailcoat, silk waistcoat, and white shirt and trousers were of the latest style, worn with the casual elegance of a man who was accustomed to such attire. He carried himself with an air of self-assurance—not arrogance, exactly, but more an awareness that he knew his own capabilities and was not afraid to acknowledge them.

  There was something infinitely intriguing about the Marquess of Sheldrake.

  "I'm pleased to meet you, my lord," Anastasia continued, watching a corner of Damen Lockewood's mouth lift at her flagrant scrutiny. "My father spoke very highly of you. So did my grandfather. Which leads me to believe that your reputation as a shrewd banker and lever investment adviser is more than just a rumor."

  A chuckle escaped his lips. "I'm relieved to hear that. My clients will be as well." He brought Anastasia's fingers to his lips. "Welcome home, my lady." His amusement vanished. "With regard to your father and grandfather, I had the utmost respect for them both. They were fine men and, as I remember, your mother was a lovely, gracious lady. Please accept my condolences on your loss."

  "Thank you," she replied softly.

  "It's always a pleasure to see you, Sheldrake," George spoke up. "But I still don't understand why you're here." He arched a questioning brow at Fenshaw.

  "All of you, have a seat," Fenshaw respo
nded, retreating behind his desk and extracting a folded document from his drawer. "I believe the next few minutes should answer all your questions."

  Everyone complied, and Anastasia's interest in Damen Lockewood was forgotten as the finality of what was about to occur sank in. She steeled herself for yet another facet of this painful good-bye with her father, seating herself between Breanna and Lord Sheldrake, and clutching Breanna's hand as Mr. Fenshaw commenced the will reading.

  "'I, Henry Colby, being of sound mind, do hereby give, devise, and bequeath…'"

  The words droned on, stating her father's last wishes, the provisions he'd made for his sizable assets. Initially, there were no surprises. Henry had left everything he possessed—including his funds in both England and America, together with his share in Colby and Sons—to his beloved Anne. And, in the event that his wife predeceased him, to his daughter Anastasia, and to her children thereafter.