The Gold Coin

  Wells nodded. "There are only three or four such places I'm aware of within a half hour's carriage ride from Medford Manor. But then again, I'm not exactly an expert on taverns."

  Breanna couldn't help but smile at Wells's offended tone. "Of course you're not." She reflected on what she'd just learned. So her father met his snitch at a pub. Which pub she'd have to determine later, perhaps by intercepting the next message between the two men.

  And that led to her next question.

  "How does my father make arrangements for these late-night excursions? I assume he communicates with his colleague by messenger."

  "A courier brings the messages straight to Lord Medcord."

  "What about those messages initiated by Father, or his responses to those he receives?"

  "One of our footmen delivers the viscount's correspondence directly to the courier's address. Where it goes from there, I have no idea."

  "I see." Breanna's thoughts were racing. "They go to a great deal of trouble to keep the recipient's identity unknown." She pursed her lips. "This courier—I assume it's the same one each time?" She waited for Wells's nod. "Tell me, does he come here often?"

  "Not too often. Other than to dispatch word on the late-night excursions we've just discussed, he generally comes only when the viscount receives business correspondence from the Continent." A frown, as Wells reconsidered his words. "Actually, that's not true. He handles only the viscount's most pressing business correspondence to and from the Continent."

  Breanna jumped on that distinction. "How do you know the business involved is pressing?"

  "Several reasons, the most obvious being that the letters are marked 'urgent.' Also, the viscount's instructions are that I bring these letters to him immediately, no matter what the hour or circumstances." Wells's frown deepened. "And they do arrive at the oddest hours. For instance, one such letter was delivered during Miss Stacie's coming-out party. Your father rushed off, closeted himself in his study, and read it. The next morning he arose at dawn, and dashed off an equally urgent reply."

  "And this courier delivered it for him?"

  "Again, our footman brought the letter to the courier's address. I assume from there it was dispatched to the Continent. I don't know who these messages are from or to, but they cause your father great agitation. Could that tie into anything you and Lord Sheldrake are considering?"

  "Rouge," Breanna muttered. "That must be who Father is corresponding with. The courier you're describing is obviously hired by the informant at the House of Lockewood. It stands to reason he'd use the same person to handle everything else pertaining to these vile transactions." She met Wells's gaze. "I need that courier's address."

  "Of course. It's number 17 Fleet Street

  ." Wells's eyes narrowed a bit. "You're not thinking of doing something foolish, are you? Because confronting the courier…"

  "No, no." Breanna waved away Wells's concern. "Confronting the courier would be stupid. He wouldn't tell me anything, since I don't pay his bills. And I'd only succeed in making him suspicious enough to go to Father. No, what I intend to do is give the address to Damen. I'm willing to bet that courier is someone who does frequent business with the House of Lockewood. That way, no one would notice a few extra charges on his bill—charges incurred by the snitch Father's working with. Damen can use the address as evidence when he confronts whoever that turns out to be."

  "You've lost me, Miss Breanna."

  "That's all right." Breanna released her grip on the settee, and began walking restlessly about the sitting room. "The sordid details can wait. Planning our tactics can't." She paused, pivoting slowly to face Wells. "My father's with Mr. Lyman. He's probably trying to locate Stacie, which we both know is not going to happen. So, Father's going to be unnerved. My guess is he'll want to find out exactly how much Damen knows, and how he factors into Stacie's plans. He won't ask Damen flat out; that would be too risky. Instead, he'll probably get his informant to do a bit of spying. After which…"

  "…after which, the viscount will need to meet with this snitch of his, to get the information he's seeking," Wells finished for her.

  "Exactly." Breanna pressed her palms together, tightly interlaced her fingers. "Wells, I need you to tell me the minute Father gives you a message to send off to that courier. I'm going to steam open the seal and read it."

  "There won't be time. Your father expects those particular messages to be dispatched posthaste. He'd notice even the slightest delay."

  "Fine. Then I'll read his informant's reply."

  "He'll be waiting for it." Wells gave an emphatic shake of his head. "It's not only implausible that you could manage to intercept the note without being spied, it's hardly worth your effort to try. Think about it. The viscount and his snitch have been holding their late-night meetings for months now. My guess is that their meeting place has remained the same. Why, then, would they bother spelling out the address in a note? Their communications are probably cryptic—stating the time they should arrive and the urgency of the topic."

  "You're right." Breanna gave an exasperated sigh. "But I've got to…" Abruptly, she broke off, her jade green eyes darkening with resolve. "Fine. I'll accomplish this in a bolder manner. The instant Father exchanges a message with this courier or informs you that he'll be going out late at night, tell me. I suspect we haven't long to wait until that happens. Things being as they are, I'm sure Father will want his answers right away, either tonight or tomorrow night."

  "Why are you so eager to know when this meeting is going to take place?" Wells asked cautiously.

  "Because whenever Father goes, I'm going, too."

  Wells sucked in his breath. "You're going to follow the viscount to…"

  "Yes. It's the only way I can learn who Father's meeting, how much he assumes we know, and what he's planning."

  "Miss Breanna." Wells looked ill. "Do you understand how dangerous that is?"

  "I understand it's the only way we're going to get the information we need quickly enough. Even if Darren figures out the name of my father's contact by tomorrow, all we'll have is an uncooperative snitch whose confession we can't count on. And even if his confession is genuine, there's no guarantee he can piece together the whole plot. Damen, Stacie, and I know aspects of my father's plan that this informant might not. I need to hear Father's conversation with him firsthand, hear what his instructions to him are. Then, I can combine what I learn with what I already know, and figure out the full scope of what Father's done—and what he plans to do next. Especially the latter, if we're going to ensure Stacie's safety and bring this nightmare to an end."

  She hesitated, searching for the right words to explain to Wells how deeply, how personally, she felt about all this. "I'm his daughter, Wells," she said in a small, dignified tone. "It's up to me to stop him." Her chin set, and she met Wells's gaze with unyielding conviction. "Please don't try to deter me. It won't work. I can be as stubborn as Stacie when I want to be, if I believe what I'm defending is important enough. And this is important enough. It's more precious to me than anything else in my life. It's my family."

  Wells cleared his throat, his lips pursed as he contemplated his reply. "I'll make sure the second phaeton is ready, both tonight and tomorrow night," he declared, the essence of efficiency. "We can follow behind, at a discreet distance, so we won't be spied."

  "We?" Breanna's jaw dropped.

  One of Wells's brows raised ever so slightly. "You didn't think I'd let you do this alone, did you? Now…" He continued as if that subject were closed. "Neither of us can go in our customary attire. Certainly not you, who'd be devoured by the pub's lowlifes, before your father could even recognize you to thrash you. And I…" He glanced down, scowling at his dignified uniform. "…I look far too stately to fit into the crowd we'll be mingling with, certainly if I hope to do so without being spotted by your father." A decisive sniff. "I'll borrow the necessary clothing, have it ready. We can leave at a moment's notice."

  Emotion clogge
d Breanna's throat, made speaking difficult. "It's obvious that Grandfather realized something I've only just begun to comprehend," she managed. "Something that explains why Stacie and I are still blessed enough to have you looking out for us: that family isn't necessarily defined by ties of the blood. Family is defined by ties of the heart." She crossed over, abandoning protocol entirely to give Wells a huge hug. "Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you for being part of our family."

  * * *

  George stormed up the front steps of Medford Manor, pounding on the door with his fist.

  Wells opened it, stepping aside to allow his employer to enter. "Good evening, sir. I didn't know you'd arrived."

  "Obviously, I have." George marched inside, trying for the fifth time to smooth the wrinkles out of his coat. He hated wrinkles. They looked damned untidy, even if one had been drinking.

  Besides, whatever liquor he'd consumed had long since worn off. As had its dulling effect.

  "Is my daughter home?" George demanded, peering about as if expecting to see Breanna awaiting his return.

  Wells stifled a cough. "She's in her room, sir."

  "And the mail—did you put it aside for me?"

  "Just as you asked, yes."

  "Good. Were there any private messages delivered to Breanna?"

  "No, my lord." This time, Wells relented, giving one or two raspy coughs. "But Miss Breanna did have a visitor."

  George's head shot up. "Who?"

  "Lord Sheldrake."

  "Sheldrake." Suspicion and fear clouded George's eyes. "He came to see Breanna?"

  "Actually, he was looking for you, as well. Something about business you two had to conduct. But I told him you'd be gone all day, so he said he'd return in a day or two to meet with you."

  "That's all he said?"

  "Sir?" Wells cleared his throat, looking puzzled.

  "Did the marquess say anything else?" George snapped. "Was he in a good humor?"

  "We exchanged pleasantries. And, yes, he seemed cheerful enough."

  "I see." George digested that fact, although sweat still broke out on his forehead. Why the hell had Sheldrake come to Medford Manor—to get answers or to provide them? What had he and Breanna discussed?

  Who, he could guess.

  "You say Sheldrake visited with Breanna?"

  "Indeed he did, sir. They took a picnic lunch and went off for a ride in the country. Lord Sheldrake thought Miss Breanna might need some cheering up, given that Miss Stacie had to leave so suddenly."

  George's eyes narrowed into slits. "So Sheldrake knew Anastasia was gone?"

  "Why, yes, sir." Wells plucked out a handkerchief, coughed discreetly into it. "As I understood it, she left at his suggestion. Nonetheless, it was clear he sympathized with Miss Breanna's loneliness. I'm sure he appreciated how much she missed her cousin—how much we all miss her. But then, I needn't explain that to you, my lord."

  "No, you needn't," George muttered, wishing he had more concrete information, determined to get it. "I want to see my daughter," he barked.

  Almost instantly, he realized his error, as he saw Wells start, tense ever so fractionally. Dammit, he berated himself. I have to watch my tone.

  The very notion made him furious. He was the master of this household, the bloody head of the family. Why the hell shouldn't he rule it with an iron hand, or any other way he chose to? Worse, why should he allow his actions to be dictated by his acquiescent slip of a daughter?

  Not so acquiescent, he reminded himself, recalling yesterday's incident, as well as the reproving look on Wells's face when he'd glanced into Breanna's bedchamber, assessed whether or not she'd been hurt—by her father.

  Silently, George swore. The little chit was not only bolder than he'd realized, she was also smarter. Because she was right. He couldn't afford to alienate his servants, not given the precarious state of his life right now. The staff adored Breanna; they had since she was a child. If they believed he was physically harming her…

  No. He couldn't risk the kind of scandal that would ensue. It could push things over the edge, eliminate any remaining chance he had with Sheldrake. There was no choice to be had. He must curb the severity with which he approached Breanna, lest she follow through with her threats. Besides, she wouldn't tell him a damned thing if he thrashed her. But if he was civil, perhaps that would yield different results.

  So be it. However, when all this was over, when Anastasia had been found and his own world had been righted, then things would return to normal. Then, he'd once again be master of Medford Manor, and of his fate. And when he was—well, God help Breanna if she upset his plans for her future.

  Inspired by that thought, George drew a slow breath, sought a more acceptable approach.

  "Wells," he began, this time keeping his tone composed and even. "Give me a few minutes to peruse the mail. Then, ask Breanna to come to my study. I have a few questions I'd like to ask her."

  He could actually see Wells's rigid stance relax a bit. "As you wish."

  "Thank you. Oh, and once Breanna and I have finished talking, I'll take my dinner in my study. Alone. I'm not to be disturbed all evening. And Wells…" George leaned forward, lowered his voice to a secretive pitch. "I'm expecting the courier. When he arrives, bring his message to me at once. That also means I'll be going out tonight. At half after midnight. Have the phaeton ready."

  "Of course, my lord." Wells winced a bit, his fingers shifting reflexively to his throat. "Pardon me, sir, but may I ask permission to retire early tonight? After I've taken care of your arrangements, that is. I'm feeling a bit under the weather. Of course, I'll direct one of the footmen to attend the entranceway door, if needed."

  As grateful as George was that Wells's misgivings had been appeased, he wasn't interested in hearing about the butler's health. He had more important things on his mind. "H-m-m?" he asked, distracted by the reminder of all that had yet to be resolved. "Oh, that's fine. And don't bother with the footman. Other than my dinner, I won't be needing anything more tonight. Once the courier's gone and the phaeton's been readied, you can take the night off."

  "Thank you, sir. I'll go see Mrs. Rhodes now, make sure she sends your dinner directly to your study. Then, I'll return to my post and await the courier."

  Wells headed off to the kitchen, acutely aware of the viscount's footsteps as they moved down the hall in the direction of his study.

  By the time the study door had clicked shut, and the bolt had been thrown, Wells had finished speaking with Mrs. Rhodes and was halfway to his own quarters.

  Once there, he paused long enough to yank open his bureau drawer and scoop up the smaller of the two stable hands' outfits he'd found earlier in the laundry yard and had hidden in his room. He spread the clothes out on a serving tray, then draped a fine linen napkin over them, making the overall presentation look like an elegant dinner.

  With a gleam of approval, he left his room, made his way calmly to the front hallway, then up the stairs. He rounded the second-floor landing, nodding his acknowledgment to the passing servants, who bowed respectfully and hurried on their way.

  Without incident, Wells knocked on Breanna's door. "Yes?"

  "I have your refreshment, Miss Breanna."

  A quick rustling sound, and Breanna tugged open the door. "Thank you, Wells," she said, her gaze searching his face. "Would you kindly put it on my nightstand?"

  "Certainly." Wells walked over, placed the tray beside her bed. "I think you'll find everything to your liking," he assured her. He straightened, met her stare head-on. "Tonight. Half after midnight," he breathed, his voice nearly inaudible. "I'll bring the phaeton around and meet you on the east side of the drive, the side concealed by that awning of trees."

  Slowly, she nodded, a glint of anticipation lighting her eyes. "I'll be there," she whispered. Then: "Thank you, Wells," she said in a more normal tone.

  "My pleasure, Miss Breanna." The butler clasped his hands behind his back, a flicker of distaste crossing his face. "Your father w
ishes to speak with you. Please give him a quarter hour, then go to his study." A scratchy cough, followed by a meaningful look. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather, and the viscount has given me permission to retire early. But should you need anything, I'll be in my quarters."

  "I appreciate that," Breanna replied, nodding her understanding. Wells had freed himself of having to man the entranceway door by claiming to be ill. But that didn't mean he wouldn't be available to her, if her father lost control. "I'll be fine," she said, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze, then shooing him toward the door. "Go. Get some rest. That way, you'll be yourself again in no time."

  Waiting only till Wells had gone, Breanna retreated into her chambers, tugging the napkin off the tray and nearly laughing aloud as she viewed her "refreshment." A shoddy pair of breeches, a threadbare shirt, some scuffed but serviceable boots and—ah, bless Wells's keen mind—a cap.