The Gold Coin

  "Turning my full attentions to Breanna."

  "Exactly."

  Damen sucked in his breath. "Every time I think about what that bastard has planned, what he means to do to you, I want to choke him with my bare hands."

  "I know," Anastasia responded quietly. "But then you'd be the one in prison and I'd have to live without you. I don't intend to do that. Nor do I intend to let whoever's deceiving you continue on at the House of Lockewood, unknown and unpunished. The same applies to Bates, Lyman, Meade, and whoever else is involved in this."

  "Like M. Rouge and his contemptible clients," Darren muttered. He straightened, shot Anastasia a probing look. "Are you ready to go on our little jaunt?"

  A terse nod. "Very ready."

  Damen's closed carriage rounded the drive at Medford Manor, coming to a halt before the front steps.

  "Don't forget," he cautioned under his breath. "Stay under that blanket. Don't move or poke that curious head of yours out to see what's going on. We don't know for sure that your uncle is away. Nor do we want any of the servants to see you. Remember: you're on a ship on your way to Philadelphia."

  "And you're alone in a carriage having a conversation with a horse blanket," came the muffled retort from beneath the opposite seat.

  Damen rolled his eyes, torn between amusement and worry. He knew Anastasia. And she wasn't going to stay still for long—especially after a lengthy, cramped carriage ride from London, during which she'd been allowed to emerge and stretch her legs only when the roads they'd been traveling were deserted enough to ensure she wasn't detected—and, even then, only after the carriage curtains had been tightly drawn.

  Oh, Damen knew how much Anastasia loathed confinement of any kind. But he wasn't taking any chances with her safety.

  "I'll linger inside only as long as I have to," he advised the horse blanket. He bent down, as if to retrieve his glove. "Promise me you'll stay put."

  "Promise me you'll bring Breanna."

  He grinned. "I promise."

  "Then so do I."

  "Good." Damen straightened just in time for his driver to come around, open the door. "Wait here," he instructed the driver in a normal tone, as he alighted from the carriage. "I'll be out shortly. You'll be taking Lady Breanna and me for a ride in the country."

  "Very good, my lord." The driver nodded, shutting the door and resuming his seat at the reins.

  Damen climbed the steps and knocked.

  Wells opened the door at once. "Ah, Lord Sheldrake," he greeted. "Lady Breanna will be delighted to see you."

  "I'm looking forward to seeing her as well." Damen glanced down the hallway, trying to determine if George was at home.

  "I hope you don't have pressing business to discuss with the viscount," Wells continued. "He had an appointment in Town and won't be back for several hours. He'll be sorry he missed you."

  "Ah." Damen shot Wells a grateful look. "That's quite all right. My business with the viscount can wait. I really came to see Lady Breanna."

  "Then I won't keep you waiting."

  Breanna reached the bottom of the staircase, smiling as she approached Damen. "I'm so glad you're here."

  "As am I." Damen cleared his throat. "I realize you invited me for tea, but it's such a beautiful summer day that I thought perhaps you'd enjoy a ride in the country instead. Unless, of course, you haven't eaten."

  "I've solved that problem," Wells interrupted. "Wait here." He hurried off, reappearing scant minutes later carrying a basket. "Mrs. Rhodes was kind enough to pack up these sandwiches. She'd prepared them for you to eat in the garden, but they'll taste just as good elsewhere. So long as you're enjoying the summer day, it doesn't matter where you are."

  "Thank you, Wells." Breanna squeezed his arm.

  "Go," he urged, gesturing toward the still-open door. "Have a good time." He leaned forward to hand Damen the basket, briefly whispering something to Breanna as he bent past her.

  Her lips twitched, but she didn't reply.

  Three minutes later, Breanna and Damen were both settled in the carriage, basket and all, and the driver was urging the horses around the bend.

  "Not yet," Damen warned in a hard voice. "Don't move or speak. Not until we're beyond the gates and I've drawn the curtains."

  Breanna blinked in surprise, thinking at first that Damen was addressing her. Then, she followed his line of vision and smiled as she spotted the lumpy blanket beneath her seat. "Why, Lord Sheldrake, is that for me—a token of your esteem, perhaps?"

  "Don't sound so enthused," he retorted dryly. "You might return it once you see how much trouble it is."

  A grunt of protest emerged from beneath the blanket. Laughter bubbled up in Breanna's throat. "Does that mean you wish to return it?"

  With a profound shake of his head, Damen leaned forward and stared at the blanket, all teasing having vanished. "No. You see, as fate would have it, this is one gift I can't seem to live without."

  "Then, indeed, it should be yours." Visibly moved, Breanna followed Damen's gaze, her own filled with the joyful knowledge that Anastasia had found her future. "As you should be hers." She reached down, touched the blanket ever so lightly. "The gates are just ahead," she said soothingly. "We're almost there."

  "Breanna, what did Wells say to you as we were leaving?" Damen asked curiously. "Or am I prying?"

  "Not at all." Breanna's sparkle returned. "He said there's more than enough food in the basket to serve three."

  Damen's lips curved. "So he does know."

  "Wells knows everything." A smug lift of her chin. "Except when Stacie and I are switching places."

  An impatient thump resounded from beneath the blanket.

  "We're driving through the gates now," Damen answered. "I know you're eager. But I've got to make sure you're not seen. Concealing your presence by switching places with Breanna is one thing. But it would be a little hard to explain you away by claiming you're Breanna if you're both sitting beside me at the same time. Give me a minute or two to create the illusion that Breanna and I are seeking some privacy. Then you can come out."

  The ensuing silence signified Anastasia's agreement.

  They rounded the corner onto the road, and Damen rose out of his seat, jerked the curtains closed on both sets of windows. He squatted down and yanked the blanket off Anastasia's head. "You're free, little hellion." He offered her his hand. "Come on out."

  Anastasia squirmed out of her hiding place, blowing strands of hair off her face. She accepted Damen's assistance, clutching his fingers and scrambling out and onto the seat beside Breanna.

  The girls hugged, and Anastasia heaved an enormous sigh of relief. "Thank God you're all right."

  "I? You're the one who dashed down to the London docks alone."

  "I wasn't alone for long. Damen rode in and rescued me like a knight-in-shining-armor."

  Her analogy made Breanna smile. "Still the same romantic Stacie. Clearly, you're none the worse for your adventure."

  "And you?" Anastasia asked quietly. "Are you any the worse for yours?"

  Breanna didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I'm fine. I thought you'd figure that out from Wells's note."

  "I did." Anastasia drew back, gripped her cousin's hands. "But I needed to see for myself." She studied her cousin's face closely, seeing remnants of evidence that Damen had missed. "Uncle George hit you."

  Breanna's shrug was nonchalant. "At first, along with a fair amount of shouting and threats. But that's over now."

  "What do you mean?"

  With more than a touch of pride, Breanna recounted her showdown with her father.

  "You threatened to shoot him?" Damen repeated in amazement.

  "I certainly did. Very convincingly, if I must say so myself. Believe me, Father won't touch me again. He's too terrified of a scandal, and of the possibility that he might lose you as an ally and future son-in-law."

  "An ally," Damen muttered. "I'm hardly that."

  "But Father doesn't know that, at least not yet."
/>
  "Where is Uncle George now?" Anastasia asked.

  "With Mr. Lyman," Breanna supplied. "Wells said that's who Father dashed off a note to last night."

  Anastasia and Damen exchanged glances.

  "He's arranging for Meade to find me," Anastasia murmured, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "That doesn't give us much time. The ship I allegedly took is only one day ahead of him. And how many ships could have left for the States in that amount of time? Not many."

  "You didn't necessarily have to have boarded a packet ship. You could just as easily have paid your way on a smaller craft," Damen pointed out. "Lyman will have to check every ship's manifest. He and Meade still have their work cut out for them."

  "I'm not sure they'll be looking at all," Breanna inserted.

  Anastasia's head whipped around. "What do you mean?"

  Her cousin frowned, rubbing her gloved palms together. "Something Father said last night really puzzled me. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind."

  "What did he say?"

  "While he was accusing me of knowing your whereabouts, he demanded to know if you'd truly left England. He seemed to think you might not have. I tried to convince him that it was perfectly natural for you to be going to Philadelphia since it was half your investment you'd be protecting. He sneered at me and asked, 'What of the investment she's leaving behind? Her personal financial adviser, the marquess. Her partner in business and in bed.' I realize Father was drunk, but his words were quite lucid." Breanna gazed anxiously at her cousin. "He wasn't guessing, Stacie. It's as if he knew you and Damen are involved. But how could he?"

  A ponderous silence, punctuated only by the clack-clack of the carriage wheels.

  Abruptly, Damen muttered an oath, his fist striking his knee with furious awareness. "He did know about Stacie and me," he bit out. "How? From his informant."

  "What informant?" Breanna demanded.

  "The one in my bank."

  Breanna sucked in her breath. "You'd better explain."

  Tersely, Damen told her about the letter he'd received from his Paris office, and the information it conveyed, as well as what that information signified. He leaned forward, growing more definitive as he spoke. "Think about it. For the past few weeks, you and Anastasia have switched places every time I visited Medford Manor. Your father believed it was you I was courting, and he was thrilled with our presumably whirlwind courtship. If he'd realized the truth … well, suffice it to say, he would have made us aware of that realization. So, up to and including my latest visit, he had no idea it was really Stacie I was with. Right?"

  "Right," Breanna concurred.

  "Now let's get to Stacie and me. It was only during the last few days that we've let down our guard, spent any intimate time together. And where were we? At my bank, in my office." A muscle worked in Damen's jaw. "Which means that our secret is out. And that it was discovered at the House of Lockewood."

  "Of course," Anastasia breathed, her eyes wide with realization. "That explains what pushed Uncle George over the edge. Not only was he worried about losing Papa's inheritance, he was now frantic about losing you, too. That's what he meant when he told Bates about his plan, and added the part about how he'd be getting the perfect son-in-law from this transaction. He must have just found out we'd been deceiving him."

  "Yes. And he found out from one of my bank officers." Damen's voice was rough with anger and betrayal. "There's no other explanation, Stacie. No one but my officers have keys to that door marked 'Private.' Only they have access to my office area, which was the only place we talked and acted in any intimate manner. Whoever this son of a bitch is, he's someone I trust. He's also a duplicitous cad who's using my bank to communicate with Rouge and spy on me."

  Anastasia inclined her head, her brows drawn in mystification. "There's a hole in that logic. If what you're saying is true, if this informant eavesdropped on our private conversations, then he'd certainly rush off and tell Uncle George everything he'd overheard, including our suspicions of my uncle's guilt. Well, if that's the case, why is Uncle George still counting on your welcoming him with open arms as your father-in-law? That makes no sense."

  Damen stared broodingly at the carriage floor, analyzing Anastasia's well-taken point, and trying to remember the last few meetings the two of them had shared. "My office door was shut," he recalled aloud. "Maybe only snatches of what we said were audible. Or maybe George's snitch didn't wait around long for fear of getting caught. I don't know. But think about it. It wouldn't take more than thirty seconds of eavesdropping to figure out the way we feel about each other. That's the only explanation I can come up with. He knows some part of the truth, but not all of it." A scowl. "The question is, how much is some?"

  Her mind darting from the issues to the suspects, Anastasia zeroed in on a possibility. "Damen, do you think it could be Booth? I've mentioned to you before how uneasy he makes me. He seems to hover around whenever you and I are together. On my last visit, he greeted me in the lobby and stayed right by my side, flattering my appearance, until you rescued me. A short while later, when Cunnings interrupted us to look for Mr. Crompton's portfolio, Booth magically appeared in your office doorway and flourished it. I told you—there's something about that man, the way he ogles me, rambles on and on about my beauty, and about Breanna's." Anastasia paused, chewed her lip. "Maybe he hasn't been ogling me at all. Maybe he's been spying for my uncle."

  "Mr. Booth?" Breanna interrupted in surprise. "I never thought of him as anything but harmless. You're right about the flattery; he's been very solicitous of me on those few occasions when I visited the bank with Father. Still, a spy for Father? That's hard to imagine."

  "I agree," Damen said. "And not out of a stubborn sense of loyalty, by the way. Hell, at this point, I don't know who to trust." He considered the notion, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Booth has a keen mind when it comes to managing money. But he's very awkward around people—too awkward, I think, to serve George's purpose." A slight shrug. "Then again, my instincts are apparently more flawed than I realized. Maybe Booth is guilty. Maybe he's a superb actor. I don't know."

  "We'll figure it out." Gently, Anastasia wrapped her fingers around Damen's. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know how hard this is for you. But at least what Breanna's told us narrows down our search." She paused, watching his expression. "Damen, this doesn't demean your instincts. None of us is clearheaded when it comes to those we trust. And in your case, the handful of men who are now potential suspects have been valued colleagues—and friends—for years."

  "You're right." Damen kissed her gloved fingertips, his brooding supplanted by determination. "And not just about my instincts. About the fact that we've narrowed down the choices. There are only four men—five, if you count Graff—who have access to my office. I'll do thorough checks on all of them, find out if they've come into any recent funds from unknown sources, if they've been seen coming and going from their homes at unusual hours. By tomorrow, we'll have our informant."

  "In the meantime, I'll keep my eye on Father," Breanna said thoughtfully. "Something you just said piqued my interest—the idea of comings and goings at unusual times. Now that I consider it, Father's been guilty of that, and more so recently. I never gave it much thought, until now."

  "What unusual comings and goings?" Anastasia demanded, swooping down on her cousin's words. "Why didn't I notice?"

  "Because you've only lived with us since July. You wouldn't know Father's habits as well as I do." Breanna fingered the folds of her gown as she reflected. "Over the past months, he's been making late-night jaunts, usually after drinking to excess. I assumed he was going out to clear his head. Now I wonder. Could he be meeting this informant of his?"

  "How frequently does he do this, Breanna?" Damen asked. "How late at night? And how long is he gone?"

  "It used to be about once a fortnight. Lately, it's been more like twice a week." She frowned. "I'm afraid I never paid much attention to the hour or to the amount
of time he was gone. I was usually in bed, reading, when I'd hear him drive off. So it had to be after midnight. As to when he'd return…" A shrug. "I was asleep. Lord only knows how late it was." Breanna broke off, a triumphant smile curving her lips. "Let me rephrase that: the Lord isn't the only one who knows how late it was. Wells knows, too."

  "Of course." Anastasia's eyes lit up. "Wells knows everything. He'll give you any details he can."

  "I'm sure he will." Unconsciously, Breanna smoothed a wisp of hair into place. "I'll talk to Wells—right away, if I can. I'll also keep an eye on Father. Maybe I can figure out how much he knows, and how much of the truth Lyman and Meade have pieced together by now. Damen, you do your checking into the suspects at the bank. Schedule another visit to Medford Manor for the day after tomorrow. That will unnerve Father, since he's now aware of the fact that you're not calling on me, at least not in the romantic sense." A triumphant gleam lit her eyes. "That doesn't mean we don't have things to discuss—things like Stacie's whereabouts. Which I'm sure is what Father will assume we're discussing. The very notion will throw him into a tizzy. The more off-balance we render him, the better. Because with any luck, after we combine whatever information we've uncovered, we'll have enough proof to confront him. And, if he's drunk enough, intimidated enough, we might just get a confession. Which would be the perfect finishing touch to the evidence we've amassed—and the perfect end to this nightmare."