The Gold Coin

  "An excellent plan." Damen looked sufficiently impressed. "You and Stacie are more alike than I realized."

  "At times, yes." Breanna grinned. "Although you've rarely seen that side of me. I must admit I find it much easier to be myself around you now that I know you're to be my cousin and not my husband." She shot him an apologetic look. "At the risk of sounding too brazen—even more so than Stacie—you and I are terribly suited."

  Laughter rumbled in Damen's chest. "True. But there's a lucky man out there somewhere who's going to feel very differently about the two of you. And once you meet him, you'll agree. Unfortunately, he'll have to win both Stacie's and my approval before he can win your hand. Ah, the poor fellow." Still chuckling, Damen leaned over the basket. "On that intriguing note, let's enjoy some of Mrs. Rhodes's delicious sandwiches."

  "Wait." Anastasia held up her palm, halting Damen in the process of unpacking the basket.

  "Why?" Damen's head came up, and he frowned as he saw the rankled expression on Anastasia's face, the indignant set of her jaw. "What's the matter?"

  "I'm delighted that the two of you have successfully worked out your strategies for capturing Uncle George and his colleagues," she retorted, folding her arms across her chest. "Just how am I supposed to contribute to all this?"

  The lighthearted banter of the past moments vanished in a heartbeat.

  "You're supposed to remain in hiding, unseen and undetected by the men who are trying to find you—and sell you," Damen replied, his expression grim. "Or have you forgotten that unpleasant tidbit?" Warning glints flashed in his steel-gray eyes. "I'm not taunting you, Stacie. I'm dead serious. Your life is in danger. You're going to stay put until that's no longer the case. Is that clear?"

  Silence.

  "Anastasia…"

  "It's clear," she replied, her gaze as direct as his. "For now."

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  "That's the last update, Medford. And still no luck." Lyman slapped the scribbled note on his desk, dismissing the lad who'd delivered it by tossing him a shilling, then gesturing for him to go.

  He waited until the office door had shut before turning back to George, who was pacing furiously near the windows overlooking the docks. "My contacts have been at it all night, ever since I got your message. They've checked every bloody manifest. The fact is, no Lady Anastasia Colby booked passage to the States yesterday. Not in London, anyway. I won't know about Liverpool for a few days. But you and I both know how unlikely that is. Your driver said he brought her to the London docks. I doubt she found her way to Liverpool from there."

  "I wouldn't put anything past Anastasia. Maybe she did that just to steer me in the wrong direction. Or maybe she boarded in London, but used another name." George halted, slicing the air with his palm. "Damn that miserable chit! Where the hell is she?"

  "I don't know." Lyman looked grim. "But I don't think a false name is our answer. I had Meade and a few other men ask around at the docks. And no one matching Anastasia's description was seen boarding a ship, or even walking along the wharf or around the warehouses. So, unless she paid a coach to take her to Liverpool, my guess is your niece didn't leave England."

  "Dammit. Dammit!" For the third time in the past hour, George crossed over to the sideboard and refilled his glass, taking two healthy gulps as he resumed pacing. "I've got to know for sure. There are so many ways she could have managed this—stowing away, disguising herself. You don't know Anastasia. She's the most resourceful female I've ever met."

  Lyman drew a slow breath, then released it, crossing over to refill his own glass at the sideboard, then hurrying back to stand behind his desk. When Medford was in this kind of mood—drunk, irrational, angry—he was more comfortable putting some distance between them, even if it was only half a room and the comforting presence of his desk that separated them.

  Because when Medford was like this, there was a dangerous quality about him, one Lyman wasn't interested in provoking.

  "I don't doubt your niece's resourcefulness," he replied in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "I've seen her attempt to charm a roomful of men to finance that bank of hers. The question is, why would she go to so much trouble to keep you from finding her? She left you a note, told you where she was going and why. Why would she suddenly decide to become secretive?"

  "Maybe because she knows something—something that could lead to something more, and then more, and then more … all of which could eventually spell my end." George gulped down the remainder of his drink, slammed the glass down on the window ledge. "Maybe that's why she's sailing off—to protect herself while she assembles the pieces she's uncovered. Or maybe that's why she's not leaving England at all—to assemble the pieces here and now."

  The shipping owner had gone very still. "Knows something?" he asked carefully. "As in, about us? What we've been doing?"

  George stared broodingly across the room at the pile of papers on Lyman's desk—all letters stating that Anastasia Colby's name had not been listed on any ship's manifest. "Yes, about us," he bit out. "And what we've been doing. At first, I thought she was running off to squander more of Henry's money before I could stop her. Then, I thought about it more carefully, in light of some information that's recently been brought to my attention."

  "What kind of information?" Lyman asked in a shaky voice.

  "I have reason to believe Anastasia suspects I'm involved in something criminal. How many of the details she's privy to, who else she's told … all that is pure speculation, as is whether or not it ties into her reasons for disappearing."

  "Christ." Lyman had gone white. "You never mentioned any of this."

  "I just told you, I only recently found out. It's one of the reasons I'm so eager to find her, and to get rid of her."

  "Under those circumstances, you should be glad she's gone. Instead of brooding over where she's gone, be grateful it's not to the authorities. Instead, concentrate on figuring out who she might have shared her suspicions with. They could be far more dangerous to us than Anastasia. She's your niece, for heaven's sake. Your brother's daughter. She might condemn you, but she'd never turn you in. Hasn't she proven that by running off? She wants no part of your illegal activities—or of you. Where—as someone else, someone outside your family, wouldn't hesitate to send you to the gallows." A cold shiver ran up Lyman's spine. "Getting rid of Anastasia should be secondary to…"

  His mouth snapped shut as the meaning of George's words sank in, and he stared at him as if seeing a ghost. "By 'get rid of,' do you mean—kill her?"

  An ugly laugh. "Yes and no. Figuratively, yes. Actually—well, actually, I mean for her to begin a brand-new life. Only not in America. And not at my expense. At my profit, as a matter of fact. My fifty-thousand-pound profit."

  Realization struck, and Lyman sagged into his chair. "The ship … the falsified destination … the whole damned arrangement you're working on with Bates to supply Rouge with the girl he needs. My God, Medford, you're planning to send Anastasia?"

  George shot him a disgusted look. "Stop looking so horrified. We've been sending women to Rouge for months."

  "But your niece…"

  "…could be our downfall," George finished for him. He strode over to the desk, gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. "Did you hear what I said?" he ground out, leaning forward to glare at Lyman. "She might know enough to send us both to prison. And you're a fool if you think she won't. My niece…" he spat, "has no loyalty to me—hell, Henry had no loyalty to me. As for selling Anastasia to Rouge, stop sounding so bloody self-righteous. You've been more than content selling women all this time."

  "But they're … she's…" Sweat was beading up on Lyman's forehead.

  "Ah. In other words, it's acceptable to sell strangers, workhouse girls we don't know, but you're offended by my selling the one girl who could see us both in Newgate"

  "Does she know what you intend…" An inadvertent shudder. "…what you intend to do to her?" br />
  "No. That much, she's blissfully unaware of."

  "Thank God for that."

  "Stop thanking God. We've got to find the little bitch before she causes any more trouble."

  "She could be anywhere," Lyman put in weakly.

  "Not according to your sources." Rage against Anastasia was rebuilding inside George until he could taste it. "According to your sources, she's still right here in England." His eyes narrowed. "And if she is, I intend to find her."

  "How?"

  "To begin with, by keeping a close eye on my daughter—something my butler is taking care of in my absence. Breanna knows more than she's telling me. Although, in her case, she'd never be stupid enough to actually help Anastasia destroy me, not unless she was privy to my plans for her wretched cousin. In that instance, she would protect Anastasia with her life." George scowled, remembering the shocking confrontation he'd had with Breanna last night. Clearly, his daughter had more pluck than he'd given her credit for. "Fortunately, Breanna hasn't any idea what I intend for Henry's brat.

  "And speaking of Anastasia," he continued, "assuming she's still in England, she doesn't have that many friends, certainly not friends who'd keep her from her legal guardian. I'll start with Fenshaw, see if he's heard from her. Then, I'll stop in at the House of Lockewood, find out what Sheldrake knows." He paused, rubbed his palm across his chin. "On second thought, that's too obvious. If Sheldrake knew anything about what we're doing, he'd have sent Bow Street

  over here to collect us by now. That's the only reason I'm sure Anastasia isn't with him. He's too damned ethical to ignore our crimes, even for a short while. No, she hasn't told him yet—either because she's only just figured it out or because, as I said, she's still missing pieces and dropped out of sight to do a little investigating on her own."

  "Or maybe you're overreacting and she doesn't know a thing," Lyman burst out, his composure drawn taut to breaking.

  "Then why did she run off?" George shot back.

  "I don't know!" Lyman's control snapped. "To spend Henry's money! To see the world! Why does any young woman run off? Maybe she's with child!"

  George recoiled as if he'd been struck. "With child?" Everything inside him went numb. "I never thought … but given their trysts … and if she is…" He could see it all dissipating before his very eyes—not just Rouge's payment now, but everything: Henry's inheritance, the balance of power from his own descendants to Henry's, not to mention Sheldrake…

  Sheldrake.

  White shock vibrated through George's being.

  If Anastasia was pregnant, Sheldrake was the father. "Dammit." His hands balled into fists, pounded the desk with all the rage of a wounded animal. "It can't be. It can't be!"

  Lyman backed away, breathing heavily. "Take it easy, Medford. I only meant…"

  "Give me a quill." George's tone was lethal, a drowning man clawing his way to the surface. "I've got to get a letter off. Now."

  "Fine. Here. Whatever you say." Lyman shoved a quill and some paper across the desk. "Who are you writing to?" he ventured.

  "To the one person who can tell me just how Sheldrake fits into all this. Because if Anastasia knows something, if she puts the rest of the pieces together, she'll run straight to him. And if she's with child…" A bitter laugh. "She'll definitely run straight to him. Either way, I've got to get to her first. Even if it means taking a chance and passing off some substitute to Rouge. My wretched niece has got to be stopped."

  * * *

  In Medford Manor's sitting room, Breanna moved the heavy drapes aside, peeked out the window, and watched Damen's carriage disappear around the drive. She felt a sense of emptiness, of loss, knowing Anastasia was in there, leaving her home yet again. It shouldn't be this way. Stacie belonged here. Not just here, but safe, happy.

  Breanna drew herself up, her chin set in staunch determination. It was her father who was responsible for this nightmare. And it was up to her to stop him.

  "Miss Breanna?" Wells addressed her from the sitting room doorway. "Lord Sheldrake has taken his leave. You wanted to see me?"

  Slowly, Breanna turned and nodded. "Come in, Wells. And please shut the door. I want this conversation to remain private."

  The butler complied, looking not the least bit surprised at Breanna's request.

  "I suspect you know what this is about," she began. Wells's expression softened. "I suspect I do."

  Breanna cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, scanning the deserted drive.

  "We have another hour or so before your father returns," Wells supplied. "So you needn't worry."

  "Good." Her mind at ease, Breanna turned her attention back to Wells, who was regarding her with an expectant look on his face. "I hate involving you in this," she said honestly, her brow furrowed. "But I'm afraid we no longer have a choice."

  "I'm already involved, Miss Breanna." Wells adjusted his spectacles, then stood up straight, hands clasped firmly behind him, as if stating his position on the subject. "I've been involved since the day your grandfather died. I know what he wanted. And I mean to see that he gets it."

  Tears glistened on Breanna's lashes. "Thank you," she managed. "From Stacie and me. And Grandfather, as well." She composed herself, clearing her throat to steady her voice. "I don't know how much you're aware of…"

  "There's something you're not aware of," Wells interrupted. "Until your father returns from London—which, as I said, should be in another hour or so—I've been assigned to keep a close eye on you, to report back if you should meet with anyone unusual…"

  Breanna gripped the back of the settee. "Anyone meaning Stacie."

  "Or someone who knows her whereabouts."

  Her eyes widened. "Does Father suspect Damen?"

  "I don't know, Miss Breanna." The butler shrugged. "I'm sure it's occurred to him that Lord Sheldrake is somehow involved. From what I've gleaned from the viscount's mutterings, he realizes Miss Stacie and Lord Sheldrake are … close friends."

  "Yes, he does." Breanna sighed, smoothing her palm over the settee's textured cloth and polished wood trim. "Wells, I want to use this time wisely, since Father will be home soon. I need to ask you some questions about his actions. Or, more specifically, his destinations—if you know them."

  "I'll tell you anything I can. But you tell me one thing first: is she all right?"

  A soft smile touched Breanna's lips. "She's fine. Eager to have this ordeal over with, but fine. And Wells—" For an instant, Breanna put the unpleasantness aside to tell their lifelong friend something she knew would delight him. "When all this is behind us, there's going to be a wedding. An incredibly joyful wedding."

  Wells's smile was broad, but a fine mist veiled his eyes. "Our Miss Stacie—a bride. It's hard to imagine her as a wife—the little girl who climbed trees and spoke her mind no matter what the cost."

  "She still speaks her mind, only now she speaks it to Damen." Breanna's eyes twinkled. "They're perfect for each other, Wells. Grandfather would be so happy."

  "Indeed he would." Wells's gaze grew sober. "What questions can I answer to make this wedding happen more quickly, and more safely?"

  "Father's late-night outings." With equal gravity, Breanna resumed their original subject. "The ones he's been taking more and more often these days. Do you have any idea where he goes? Who he meets?"

  The butler pressed his lips together, contemplating his employer's activities. "I don't know the viscount's precise destination, nor the name of whomever he meets. What I can tell you is that he's only gone a few hours each time, which means he can't be going far. And, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say his meetings take place at a pub."

  That brought Breanna up short. "A pub? Why would you think that?"

  "Because whenever your father returns, he reeks of smoke, and there's a certain stench clinging to his clothing." A distasteful shudder. "The last time he got home, the smell of cheap ale was on his breath. It doesn't take a scholar to add up all those clues."

  "That fits," B
reanna murmured. "If Father were meeting a contact for some secret, unscrupulous purpose, he wouldn't want to be recognized. And what better place to remain anonymous than in a seedy pub filled with riffraff who don't know you and, quite frankly, don't care?"