The Gold Coin

  Anastasia watched Damen's face as he spoke, seeing, feeling his fervor, and realizing for the first time just how it was he understood so much about family loyalty and commitment.

  His allegiance to his family ran as deep as her own. "You've never spoken of your father," she said softly. "Were you close?"

  Darren gave a vague lift of his shoulders. "Not in the way you mean. Not like you and your parents. In all fairness, we didn't spend very much time together. I was away at school most of the time, and he was either building up the bank or traveling abroad with my mother. When she died, he threw himself into the House of Lockewood. When I came home on holiday, I worked alongside him. He wasn't a demonstrative man, nor was he given to conversation. But he was a good man, a decent man. So were we close? Not tangibly. But we shared the same principles, maybe even part of the same dream."

  "Expanding your bank."

  A nod. "The House of Lockewood was a symbol of who my father was, what he believed in. I shared that commitment. The difference is that my father was driven solely by his dedication and integrity. Whereas I…" Damen shrugged, considering how best to explain. "Dedication and integrity are at the core of every good man, every worthwhile endeavor. But they're not the only factors that drive me. I revel in what I do. Running the House of Lockewood is a perpetual challenge, one that stimulates my mind and fires my excitement. It's so bloody fascinating—taking a sum of money, analyzing the possibilities of where it can be invested, choosing the right place to invest it. Then, watching that investment as it increases and thrives. That's where my father and I were different. He savored the end result, because it benefited people. I savor that, too. But I also savor the process of getting there." Damen quirked a brow in Anastasia's direction. "Do I make any sense?"

  "Oh, a great deal of sense." She grinned. "You're talking to the one woman in England who finds business, investments and earning profits riveting—even if that does get me labeled a bluestocking."

  Damen's chuckle was husky. "A very beautiful, very passionate, very brilliant bluestocking." His smile faded, as his attention returned to the matter at hand. "In any case, perhaps now you can understand why I can't let that traitor at my bank go undetected—or worse, unpunished."

  "I understand completely," Anastasia responded, pride welling up inside her. "You needn't explain. And, Damen, we'll figure out who that snake is. I promise you that. He and Uncle George will both be locked up at Newgate—soon."

  * * *

  For the tenth time, George reread the note Wells had given him earlier that day, muttering each word aloud as if to confirm it. Then, he crumpled the page and shoved it into his pocket, crossing the study to pour himself a much needed brandy.

  Anastasia was gone. Anastasia had left England and gone home to America to supervise the opening of her new bank. And she'd gone at the request of Lord Sheldrake.

  With a bitter oath, George tossed back the contents of his goblet and refilled it.

  Who was the little bitch trying to fool?

  She'd no more left England at Sheldrake's urging than he had. Damen Lockewood handled his own business matters; he didn't send a woman to manage them for him—even a woman as astute in business as Anastasia. No, if she'd left England, it was for another reason.

  But what?

  And given her sordid affair with Sheldrake, their supposed attachment for each other, why would she leave England at all?

  On the other hand, why would she lie? Was she planning something, plotting something at his expense?

  Another vicious oath escaped George's lips, and he dismissed his own stream of useless questions.

  What the hell difference did it make why Anastasia had gone? The fact was, he had to get her back. Now. Because without her staged death, without her transport to Paris, there would be no payment from Rouge, no inheriting Henry's money, no Sheldrake as his son-in-law.

  No future.

  Dammit, he had to find her.

  Furiously, George polished off his next brandy, then slammed down his empty goblet and abandoned it, for the time being.

  There was only one place to turn to for answers. Because if anyone knew Anastasia's plans, her whereabouts, it was her loving cousin.

  Fine. He'd get his information from Breanna.

  He made his way down the hall and toward the stairway, pausing to grip the banister and right the dizziness in his head. He probably shouldn't have had that last brandy. He needed his wits about him so he'd recall every word Breanna said, as well as what she didn't say. And if she dared lie to him… His hand balled into a trembling fist. If she did, he'd thrash her.

  "Can I help you with something, sir?" Wells approached the stairway, hands clasped behind his back.

  "H-m-m?" George scowled at the butler. "Help me? No … yes. You can tell me where Breanna is."

  Wells pursed his lips, his astute gaze flickering over his employer, taking in his besotted state, as well as the fact that he was angry. Very angry. "I believe Lady Breanna went upstairs to rest, my lord. She'd gone for an afternoon ride. And the sun is unusually strong today. She looked quite peaked when she returned. My guess is she's already asleep."

  "Then I'll just have to awaken her." Ignoring Wells's protest, George climbed the stairs, rounded the second-floor landing, and marched down to Breanna's chambers.

  He rapped purposefully at the door, simultaneously twisting the handle, only to find the door was bolted. "Yes?" Breanna's voice was muffled, as if she had indeed been asleep.

  "It's your father. Let me in at once."

  Some muffled sounds, then footsteps as Breanna crossed the room. She turned the bolt and opened the door, peeking into the hall, her wrapper clutched tightly about her. "Can it wait, Father? I was resting."

  "No. It can't." He shoved past her, striding into the room and veering about to face her. "I want to hear everything you know about Anastasia."

  Breanna blinked, smoothing back her hair. "I don't understand what you mean. She explained everything in the note."

  "Don't toy with me, daughter." George massaged his temples, feeling rage pound through his skull like gunfire. "I don't believe a word of that note. I want the truth. And I want it now."

  With a wary expression, Breanna walked back toward her bed, doubtless considering her answer. She perched on a side chair, reaching for the cup of chocolate that was sitting atop her nightstand. "I don't know what truth you mean, Father. As I told you, Stacie didn't confide in me. She probably knew I'd try to talk her out of leaving—which I would have, given how long we've been apart. But you know how headstrong she is. She must have decided this was the best way to follow Lord Sheldrake's instructions without upsetting…"

  "Sheldrake would never have sent her to oversee that bank," George bit out.

  "He trusts Stacie," Breanna reasoned quietly. "She understands business better than most men do. And it is half her investment she's protecting."

  "And what of the investment she's leaving behind?" he sneered. "Her personal financial adviser, the marquess. Her partner in business and in bed."

  Breanna's eyes widened. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Damn you, Breanna." George lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders and hauling her to her feet. He shook her—hard—sending her cup and saucer clattering to the floor. "I won't be lied to, do you understand? I want to know where Anastasia is. Did she really leave England? Where did she go—to the Continent? Is she doing something with that inheritance of hers?" His hand drew back, and he slapped Breanna across the face, not once but twice, sending her head jerking sideways from the impact. "Where is she?"

  "You've had too much to drink, Father." Breanna twisted herself free, a defiant light flickering in her eyes as she rubbed her smarting cheeks. "I think we should discuss this later."

  "We'll discuss this now." George reached into his pocket and flourished a strap. He gripped Breanna's arm, twisting her around so her back was to him. "I'll ask you again, where is Anastasia, and what were her real reasons for le
aving?"

  Breanna went rigid. "And I'll answer you again, I don't know anything more than you do."

  The strap lashed out, striking Breanna's back and biting through the delicate material of her gown and wrapper, which did little to buffer the pain. She flinched, cried out.

  "Answer me!" George bellowed.

  It was as if something inside her snapped.

  In one swift motion, Breanna wrenched herself away and yanked open the nightstand drawer. Whirling about, she faced her father, a pistol gripped tightly in her hands. "Don't strike me again," she commanded.

  George's jaw dropped, and he stared at her, as taken aback by the vehemence of her tone as he was by the weapon in her hand.

  "I mean it, Father. I won't be used as a whipping post."

  "Why, you presumptuous little…" He took a step toward her, then hesitated as her fingers tightened, her jaw set in harsh, unyielding lines.

  "Don't doubt that I'll use this," Breanna assured him. "I will—if I have to."

  "You're not a killer, daughter." George's statement was absolute, but his voice held the tiniest shred of uncertainty. "You don't have it in you."

  A shrug. "Perhaps not. At least not under these particular circumstances. Then again, I wouldn't have to kill you. I'd simply have to wound you. Just enough to incite an investigation—and the ensuing scandal that would occur. A daughter, so brutalized by her father that she'd be forced to shoot him to protect herself. That would do irrevocable damage to the reputation you're so eager to preserve. Or to restore."

  Twin spots of red stained Breanna's cheeks as she watched the stunned amazement on her father's face. "I may be reserved, Father, but I'm not stupid. I've always understood your motivations. More often than not, I've bowed to them. But not this time. I won't be beaten to satisfy your belief that Stacie is anywhere except where she claims to be, or that I know more than I'm telling you. So it's up to you. Are you going to promise not to strike me again, or shall I shoot?"

  Again, George hesitated. He massaged his temples, grappling with this insane twist of events, wondering if he was imagining this whole encounter, if it was really just some absurd nightmare—a product of his liquor-clouded mind.

  He refocused, saw Breanna aiming the pistol at him, and realized this was no nightmare. It was real. Very real.

  Disbelief surged to the forefront, penetrated his besotted state. "You'd threaten your own father?" he sputtered. "With bodily harm?"

  "Only if he threatened me with the same. If you don't strike me again, you have nothing to fear—not a bullet or a scandal."

  George dragged a shaky hand through his hair, wishing like hell he was sober. "I just want to know…"

  "I have no information for you," Breanna interrupted. "Stacie's gone to Philadelphia. She'll be away several months." A tiny smile. "Perhaps she'll be back in time to help me celebrate my twenty-first birthday; it's less than four months away. And then Stacie and I will both be independent women."

  Splotches of color suffused George's face as the reminder found its mark.

  "What's more, I don't know why you're so upset about Stacie's leaving," Breanna added dryly. "We both know you're hardly fond of her."

  Another swift glance at the pistol. "Regardless of my personal feelings, Anastasia is my responsibility."

  "Not any longer, she's not. When she returns, she'll be of age. You'll no longer have to look out for her. Why, I should think you'd be celebrating."

  George's jaw set, his gaze flickering to the nightstand as he considered his options, and how to effect them.

  "You're right," Breanna acknowledged, reading his mind aloud. "I won't always have my pistol handy. But if you should try to strike me when I'm unarmed, I'll simply scream loud enough to alert the servants, then make it look as if you were beating me senseless. The staff is very fond of me, so they'll be more than willing to support my story. And if you're wondering how that could possibly harm your reputation, I'll explain. Hard as it is for you to believe, there are some noblemen out there—Lord Sheldrake, for one—who'd be appalled to learn how violent a man you are, how unduly cruel you and your strap are to me. Appalled enough to reconsider their alliances—both business and personal. Are you willing to take that risk, just to gain information I don't have?"

  A choked sound of frustration and anger emerged from George's throat.

  Simultaneously, a knock sounded on the bedchamber door. "Miss Breanna?" Wells's voice called out. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

  Breanna inclined her head, staring down her father. "It's your choice," she prodded.

  Drunk or not, George couldn't deny the truth of Breanna's logic. He'd obviously underestimated her; she'd anticipated his course of action, and developed tactics to combat it. And though he loathed her for putting him in this position, he was lucid enough to realize that to push her any further could yield disastrous results. It was also possible that Anastasia had acted without telling anyone her real plans, that Breanna was indeed speaking the truth, as far as she knew it.

  And a scandal, at this particular time—he shuddered to think what damage that would do. No, livid or not, his best recourse was to back away, to let Breanna be. Then, he'd keep an eye on her, go through her mail each day to make sure she had no contact with Anastasia. And, in the meantime, he'd find that bitch himself.

  "Miss Breanna?" Wells knocked louder. "Are you all right?"

  "Answer him," George snapped.

  "I'm not sure what to say," Breanna replied. "You tell me—am I all right?"

  George shot her a dark look. "Physically, yes. But your behavior—I don't know what's happened to you. You're no longer my obedient, dutiful daughter." His eyes glittered with resentment. "But I do know who prompted the change: Anastasia."

  "No, Father, Stacie didn't prompt my behavior. You did." Breanna never averted her gaze. "Just a minute, Wells," she called out. Another pointed look as she awaited her father's decision.

  "Fine," George conceded, taking a symbolic step backward. "I'll do as you ask—even if it is my right as your father to discipline you as I see fit."

  "Not any longer, it isn't," Breanna retorted. "I'm a grown woman, not a child. I've endured all the discipline I intend to from you."

  He forced himself to nod.

  Satisfied, Breanna lowered the pistol, pivoting about to replace it in her nightstand drawer. "Coming, Wells," she called. Walking boldly past her father, she crossed over and opened the door. "I'm fine, thank you," she assured the anxious butler. "Just clumsy. Father and I were chatting and I dropped my cup. I didn't mean to worry you." She made a wide sweep with her arm, throwing open the door so Wells could see everything—and everyone—in the bedchamber.

  Wells's gaze shifted from Breanna to George to the broken fragments of china on the floor, then returned to Breanna's face—and the clear imprint of her father's fingers on her cheeks. "As long as you aren't hurt. I'll summon a maid to clean up the mess."

  "I'd appreciate that." Breanna smiled. "And then I'd like to resume my nap." She inclined her head quizzically in George's direction. "Unless, of course, there's something else you need to speak with me about, Father."

  George cleared his throat. "No. As a matter of fact, I have some business to arrange." He left the room, pausing when he'd reached Wells's side. "I'll be gone a good portion of the day tomorrow," he said quietly, for the butler's ears alone. "Keep an eye out for the mail carriage. When it arrives, collect all correspondence, but distribute nothing. From this moment on, I want everything addressed to this manor to be held for my inspection. Is that clear?"

  "Perfectly clear, my lord."

  With a brooding glance at Breanna, George stalked off, his footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Wells watched him go, then turned to meet Breanna's gaze.

  A current of communication ran between them.

  "I'll send up a pitcher of cold water and a cloth," the butler said in a tight voice. "It will take away the sting."

  Breanna walked ov
er, squeezed his arm. "Thank you. And don't look so worried. This won't happen again."

  Over his spectacles, Wells's brows rose fractionally. "With all due respect, Miss Breanna, how do you know that?"

  A twinkle. "Because I just threatened Father at gun-point. I told him that if he ever struck me again, I'd shoot him and make sure it resulted in the scandal of the decade."