The Gold Coin

  "All fabricated," Breanna supplied. "At least until we get into your private files to confirm it. We simply set the trap. You walked into it." She signaled to the Bow Street

  men to take him away. "Maybe now Grandfather can rest in peace."

  She turned her back to him, his furious verbal assault falling on deaf ears, growing more indistinct as Bow Street

  dragged him off.

  Her head held high, Breanna turned her attention to Stacie, who was standing in the circle of Damen's arms.

  "Are you all right, sweetheart?" he was asking, tracing the red marks on her cheek with gentle fingers.

  "I'm fine," she assured him, kissing his palm. "I'm more than fine. I'm thankful and I'm relieved."

  "You were incredibly brave," Breanna declared.

  Anastasia gazed proudly at her cousin. "So were you. My ordeal lasted only a few minutes. Yours lasted a lifetime. Your inner strength never ceases to amaze me. Right down to the way you just faced your father, told him the part you played in his capture, when you could so easily have stayed in the shadows, spared yourself the ugliness of his reaction. And why? Because it was important to you that he knew of your commitment, not only to doing what was lawful and right, but to our family and to Grandfather." A glowing smile. "You're the most courageous woman I know."

  "One of them," Damen corrected her. "I'm holding the other." Anger slashed his handsome features. "I almost charged out and beat George senseless when he hit you. But I promised Bow Street

  I wouldn't interfere until they signaled to me that they'd gotten enough of a confession to do what they had to." His voice grew husky. "I'm sorry he hurt you."

  "It was worth it," Anastasia replied fervently. "Because now he'll never hurt anyone again. Also, as Breanna just said, Grandfather can finally rest in peace. As can Mama and Papa." She reached up and kissed Damen, then turned to hug Breanna fiercely. "Let's go home."

  She took a few steps, Breanna and Damen following suit.

  Breanna had no idea what made her glance back. All she knew was that that eerie sensation she'd experienced earlier returned, crawling up her spine like some odious insect, propelling her to act.

  She could feel a pair of eyes boring through her.

  She pivoted. Her fingers slipped reflexively into her pocket, as her gaze swept the docks beyond the warehouses.

  A silhouette emerged from the fog. A glint of metal flashed in the night.

  It was a pistol.

  Breanna never hesitated.

  In one smooth motion, she whipped out her own pistol, aimed, and fired.

  A scream of pain split the darkness. The dark figure grabbed his hand, his gun thudding softly as it struck the ground.

  He bent, recovering his weapon just as Damen whirled around, pulling out his own pistol.

  Damen never had the chance to shoot.

  The silhouette melted into the night.

  "My God," Anastasia breathed, shock reverberating through her. "The assassin. But I don't understand—why would he go ahead and kill me when he obviously wasn't going to get paid?"

  "He must not have seen Bow Street

  ," Breanna murmured, still staring at the spot where the armed killer had stood. "The fog is thick. He must have heard Father's voice, then saw the three of us standing alone. I guess he assumed the proof had been confiscated and the deal was still on."

  "He'll find out the truth soon enough," Damen muttered, equally shaken. "If he survives that wound you just inflicted. Judging from his scream, it was pretty bad."

  "Bad, but not fatal," Breanna corrected. "The bullet struck his hand. I saw him grab for it. The important thing is that I stopped him from doing what he came here to do. When he finds out Father's been arrested, he'll seek an assignment elsewhere."

  "Oh, Breanna." Anastasia went to her cousin, grasped her arms. "Do you realize you just saved my life?"

  Still trembling, Breanna smiled, although a fine mist veiled her eyes. "Consider it repayment, then. For all the times you saved mine. Beginning with that night we made our pact."

  * * *

  Cunnings was working later than usual.

  It was half after ten, and he was still at the bank, perusing the files to select just the right woman to send Rouge.

  Once he found her, he'd haul her onto that ship himself, arrange for her immediate passage to Rouge. That would certainly earn him extra points with Medford. Why, the viscount would be eternally grateful for his assistance. After all, as of tonight, Medford would be mourning the death of his precious niece. He couldn't very well conduct business. Cunnings, on the other hand, could. So he'd visit Medford Manor, pay his respects, and offer to take care of the whole process. Rouge would get his shipment, Medford would get his son-in-law…

  …and he would get his spot on the Board of Directors.

  Leaning over his desk, Cunnings doubled his efforts, smiling as he imagined Sheldrake's expression when he learned they were going to share equal roles at Colby and Sons.

  Finally. He'd have all the wealth, influence, and position he deserved.

  Cunnings's thoughts were interrupted by the telltale click of his office door—a click that told him he was no longer alone.

  His head shot up, and he started as he saw who his visitor was.

  "What are you doing… Dear Lord!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as he saw the stream of blood flowing from the man's hand, seeping through the torn forefinger of his glove and trickling down his wrist, saturating his coat sleeve. "What the hell happened?"

  "Breanna Colby happened," the man snapped, sweat pouring from his face as the pain of his wound lanced through him. "The little bitch shot me."

  "She shot…" Cunnings wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, his mind racing. "Before or after you killed Anastasia?"

  "I didn't kill Anastasia, you stupid fool. It was a trap. Bow Street

  was there. Anastasia goaded Medford into confessing everything aloud. They took him away."

  The color drained from Cunnings's face. "Medford arrested? Then why did you…?"

  "I never fail, Cunnings. Money or not. I waited for the perfect moment. Then I acted." Fury darkened his sweat-drenched face. "I didn't make a sound. I don't know how the bitch knew I was there. But she did. I would have killed them both—one bullet per cousin—if Sheldrake hadn't gotten in the way."

  "Sheldrake saw all this?" Cunnings asked with a sick sense of dread. "He heard Medford's confession?"

  "Every word." A determined glint flashed through his physical agony. "Including the part about you."

  "Christ." Cunnings sank into his seat, burying his head in his hands. "How the hell will I…?"

  The click of a trigger. "You won't."

  Again, Cunnings's head snapped up. This time, his eyes widened with terror as he saw the pistol aimed at him, the assassin's blood trickling from his mutilated forefinger, which hung limply beside the gun's barrel, his middle finger against the trigger.

  "You're the only one who can identify me," came the icy assessment. "You'd give them my name in a heart-beat."

  "No," Cunnings whispered. "I wouldn't."

  "You would." A wince, and the man swallowed, fighting to combat the excruciating pain. "Besides, I've never failed before. Until now. And you're responsible."

  "Please…"

  A bitter smile curved the man's lips. "Don't worry. My failure is only a temporary setback. I'll finish it. At the same time that I torture and kill the bitch who did this to me." A mock salute with his good hand. "Good-bye, Cunnings."

  The shot echoed through the walls of the bank.

  The assassin slipped into the street, ducking into an alley and doubling over with pain.

  Cunnings was taken care of. In addition, the intriguing set of notes on his desk had been confiscated, to be put to use at a later time.

  Now he had to get this wound fixed. Not in England. Somewhere else. Somewhere where they didn't know him. He stared at his saturated glove. The wound was bad. His entire forefi
nger had been severed. He'd had to shoot Cunnings with his middle finger. It was awkward. He'd need his weapon modified. Fine. He'd take care of that, too—and master the new weapon. There were no other options. His craft, his incomparable skill, would overcome this setback. He was a genius. And no amateur chit was going to take that away from him.

  He'd do what he had to.

  After which, his first order of business would be to come back and even the score, take care of that bitch. She'd die slowly, with the maximum degree of anguish.

  Completing tonight's unfinished business would be part of that anguish—relatively easy to accomplish. Those two damnable cousins were rarely apart.

  Another agonizing pain shot through him, and he emitted a muffled groan. He groped in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, then gritted his teeth as he tied a ruthlessly binding tourniquet around the wound. There. That would have to do, at least until he could get himself to a doctor.

  He needed passage on the next ship leaving for the Continent. He had no time to waste.

  But he'd be back. Lady Breanna Colby could count on it.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  « ^

  The south gardens at Medford Manor had never looked more exquisite. Despite the fact that summer was at an end and the cooler days of September had arrived, the blossoms had never been brighter, the oaks' branches never more green.

  Or perhaps it only seemed that way to Anastasia.

  "My, you're looking euphoric," Breanna teased, as they strolled toward their favorite oak. "That wouldn't be because next week at this time you'll be the Marchioness of Sheldrake, now would it?"

  With a glowing smile, Anastasia gazed about the gardens. "It just might. Actually, I pinch myself each morning to make sure I'm not dreaming. For weeks I wondered if the time would ever come when we all could put our fears behind us, when the nightmare we've been living would stop haunting us, and we could bid the past good-bye. I guess I'm only now starting to believe it's possible."

  "Oh, it's possible, all right," Breanna assured her. "And no one deserves the resulting happiness more than you and Damen." A twinkle. "What's more, I think your betrothed agrees. In fact, judging by the way he stares at you when he thinks no one is watching, I suspect he might just drag you down that aisle to become his wife."

  "He won't have to. If Wells doesn't restrain me with a firm grip, I'll probably run to the altar at breakneck speed."

  Laughter bubbled up in Breanna's throat. "That might be one shock too many for our guests. Most of them still haven't recovered from your unorthodox business proposals at your coming-out ball. And now—a streak of silver and white, rushing down the aisle to accost her bridegroom—I don't think they're quite ready for that. Why, dozens of swooning guests would litter the aisle, blocking your return path."

  Anastasia grinned. "Shocking the ton yet again. It sounds appealing. But for Wells's sake, I'll control myself. He's nervous enough about giving me away. But I can't think of anyone Grandfather would rather have represent him or Papa at my side."

  "Nor can I. Wells is the perfect choice." Breanna glanced about them, savoring the beauty of the garden. "And this is the perfect spot for your wedding breakfast. There are so many happy memories here. It's fitting that we add one more—one extraordinarily important one."

  "I agree." Anastasia reached the oak, traced its bark lovingly as she gazed up at the canopy of leaves. "Not to mention that if the guests become too tiresome, I can always scoot up here and try again to touch the sky."

  A reminiscent smile touched Breanna's lips. "Don't stretch too high. You'll fall and reopen that scar of yours. And I have no intention of tending my cousin's injuries on her wedding day." Tenderness softened her features. "Besides, I think your climb will be unnecessary. The way you and Damen feel about each other, you're closer to heaven than any oak could take you."

  Anastasia nodded, twisting a tumbled strand of hair about her finger, a look of wonder in her eyes. "I always knew love would be wonderful. But I never imagined how wonderful—not until Damen." Concern darted across her face, and she regarded her cousin with probing intensity. "Breanna, I want the same for you. I want you to find someone who loves you every bit as much as you deserve. I want your heart to skip a beat every time he walks into the room, and to pound furiously every time he takes you in his arms."

  Breanna gave a tolerant shake of her head. "Stacie, I know what a romantic you are. And I love you for it, and for wanting me to be happy. But please try to understand. I am happy. Oh, I want all those things you just described—someday. For now, though, I'm so thrilled to be free. Free from Father's cruelty, free from the isolation he imposed on me. For the first time, I can do things like meet new people, visit their homes. I can invite other young women to tea. Why, Lady Margaret Warner and her friends aren't nearly as snobbish as I thought. These diversions may seem frivolous to you, but that's because you've been able to do them all your life. I haven't. So, I don't mind waiting a little longer to meet the man of my dreams."

  A grudging sniff. "Damen said you needed time to come into your own. He likened you to a butterfly emerging from its cocoon." Anastasia rolled her eyes, folded her arms across her breasts. "The insufferable man is right again."

  Breanna's eyes sparkled. "This marriage is going to be a lifetime of fireworks. Neither you nor Damen will ever be bored. Nor will I, just watching you." She gathered up her skirts and lowered herself to the grass, relishing the fact that grass stains were no longer a horrifying prospect, but a welcome result of a brush with nature. "I, in the meantime, will have the chance to flap my gossamer wings. You have no idea how excited I am."

  "I think I'm beginning to." Anastasia dropped unceremoniously to the grass beside her. "Will you be all right while Damen and I are away? Three months is a long time for us to leave you alone."

  "Alone?" One of Breanna's brows shot up in amusement. "I have a houseful of servants who are as elated about being released from bondage as I am. And I have Wells looking out for me—Wells, who's more of a father to me than my own ever was. I'm fine, Stacie. I promise you. There are no lingering scars from Father's actions. He and his colleagues are locked up. Cunnings is dead, and his paid assassin gone. Rouge has pulled up stakes and vanished. The ordeal is over. I want you and Damen to leave on your wedding trip as planned. Open that wonderful new bank of yours. Take long moonlight walks in Philadelphia. And try not to start another revolution—that is, during those scant hours when you're not abed." She blushed at her own comment, blurted out before she could censor it.

  Anastasia dissolved into laughter. "The butterfly is already out of its cocoon," she observed. "By the time Damen and I return, you'll be soaring the skies like an eagle." She took Breanna's hand in hers. "We'll be back before Christmas. Then, as soon as we return, we'll hold a huge party at Medford Manor—to celebrate the holidays and both of our twenty-first birthdays. By that time we'll both be of age."

  "Yes we will." Breanna plucked a blade of grass, an air of gravity settling over her. "I'll miss you, Stacie," she said softly. "Not so much on your wedding trip, but after. We're finally reunited after ten long years. Selfishly, I suppose I'm not ready to say good-bye. Even if you're only off to London, where you and Damen will be living. It's still not the same as having you here."

  Anastasia swallowed deeply, her grip on Breanna's hand tightening. "I'll miss you, too. Terribly. And I'll miss Medford Manor." Tears blurred her eyes as she gazed, once again, across the acres and acres of beloved grounds. "Part of my heart will always be here. Because you, Wells, Mrs. Rhodes—and everyone from Mrs. Charles to Lizzy—are my family. And family is the most precious gift life has to offer. No matter where I go, Medford Manor will always be home…" She broke off, a certain conversation she and Damen had shared on a moonlit balcony resurging like the tide.

  Is it possible to miss home even when you're right there in it?

  Yes. When that home is no longer the same as the one you remember. And the one you remem
ber is the one you miss.

  And then the second conversation, the one they'd had in bed, after their long hours of lovemaking.

  I think about that money often, about what Breanna and I can do with it that would ensure Grandfather's wishes are carried out. I feel as if the answer is right here in our own backyard, only we have yet to see it. But whatever it is, it has to be something that would bind our family together, not only now but for generations—actually, forever, if I had my way … a uniting force, a means to entwine Breanna's and my futures, and the futures of our children.

  I think you've just begun to answer your own question. The rest will come with time. You and Breanna will see to it.

  Once again, the brilliant Marquess of Sheldrake was right.