The Gold Coin

  It wasn't for lack of conversation. George saw to that. Seated at the head of the table, he scarcely let a moment pass before directing yet another financial question at Damen Lockewood. The marquess, seated on George's left, answered every question, his gaze politely encompassing not only George but Breanna—who sat directly across the table from him—and occasionally Anastasia, seated to her cousin's right. For his part, George never spared a glance at either girl, keeping his body angled toward the marquess, and his eyes, which seemed overly bright, glued to him as well. George's voice and expression were strained, and Anastasia suspected he was still peeved that he hadn't been privy to her financial advisory session.

  She stifled a smile. How relieved her uncle would be if he knew he'd missed nothing of consequence. No grand business ventures had been planned, no innovative ways to invest her inheritance had been explored. To the contrary, other than learning the value of her father's estate and having Lord Sheldrake shoot down her investment plans, the entire meeting had been immaterial.

  She looked up at that moment, met the marquess's scrutinizing gaze, and instantly averted her eyes.

  Perhaps not entirely immaterial.

  "Before we finish dessert, I have a bit of news I'd like to share." George leaned forward, for the first time addressing everyone at the table. "I've given Anastasia's situation a great deal of thought. It was Henry's wish that I bring her out, introduce her to all the right people. I've decided to do just that."

  With a tight smile of self-approval, he continued. "I'm going to host a house party—a substantial house party—in Anastasia's honor. Several hundred people will be invited. It will include two or three days of diversions, including a grand ball to introduce Anastasia to high society. My niece will be brought out in true Colby style, with all the grace and distinction Henry would have wanted."

  Anastasia started. This was the last thing she'd expected, especially knowing her uncle as she did. His mind was preoccupied with business, not parties, and his motives were never selfless—even if he was using her father's money to pay for all this. The bottom line was, what possible benefit could holding an event of this magnitude have for him?

  "Uncle George," she responded carefully. "That's really not necessary. I appreciate your sentiments, but I don't think Papa expected…"

  "Nonsense." George waved away her protest. "You're the only daughter of my only brother. I insist." He turned to Damen Lockewood, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. "What do you think of the idea, Sheldrake?"

  The marquess cleared his throat. "I think it has merit. After all, Henry set aside ten thousand pounds for this occasion. So there are more than enough funds available, as I'm sure you know." A pointed pause ensued—enough to make Anastasia wonder if Lord Sheldrake was thinking along exactly the same lines as she was. "When did you want to hold this party?"

  George shifted in his chair, noticeably flustered by the marquess's reference to his source of capital. "As soon as possible. In a week, perhaps. I'll send out the invitations this very day."

  "A week?" Anastasia echoed. "Isn't that a little ambitious? From what I recall, Mama and Papa used to receive invitations to parties of this size at least a fortnight in advance. That was the only way to ensure none of the balls would conflict."

  "During the Season, that's true," her uncle returned. "But the Season is long past. So we don't run the risk of such conflicts."

  "Yes," Damen agreed. "Which brings up a different problem. Much of the ton is either in Brighton, Bath, or traveling abroad. Why not wait for the fall when everyone is back?"

  "Because by then, Anastasia will have endured two months of loneliness and grief," George replied with a generosity of spirit that nearly made Anastasia gag. "This way, she'll remember her first summer here as a joyous one, filled with laughter and festivities." He gave a careless shrug. "The majority of those I know have remained in England for the summer. As for Brighton and Bath—neither are too far from here to travel."

  "I suppose not." Lord Sheldrake brought his wineglass to his lips, savoring the final drops. "Fine. A house party it is."

  "Excellent." George sank back in his chair. "I'd appreciate your advice with regard to the guest list. I want the most influential members of society here."

  "Influential—does that include businessmen?" Anastasia came abruptly to life.

  "Yes." Her uncle shot her an odd look. "Of course. Businessmen, nobles, landed gentry. Everyone worth meeting."

  "It sounds wonderful," she declared, interlacing her fingers in her lap to curb her excitement. "Thank you, Uncle George."

  Lord Sheldrake coughed—a cough that sounded suspiciously like smothered laughter. "Of course, Medford. I'd be glad to advise you on your guest list. We'll include prominent noblemen, respected gentry … oh, and affluent businessmen, of course." He tossed Anastasia a quick, wry grin—one she pretended not to notice.

  "Good." Uncle George was oblivious to the exchange. Instead, he was scrutinizing his knife and fork, visibly preoccupied by another detail yet to be addressed.

  Anastasia soon found out what that other detail was.

  "Ah, Sheldrake." George abandoned his silverware, casually refolding his napkin. "You will do me the honor of escorting Breanna to the ball."

  "Father." Hot color rushed to Breanna's cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, torn between embarrassment and fear of defying her father. "I don't think…"

  "It would be my pleasure to escort Breanna to this grand ball of yours," Lord Sheldrake interrupted, giving Breanna a warm smile. "Together, she and I will see to it that Lady Anastasia enjoys her first taste of English society." He slanted a look at Anastasia, a decided twinkle in his eye. "In fact, I personally vow that between her own efforts and ours, your niece won't be bored for a moment."

  * * *

  "What did Lord Sheldrake mean by that last comment of his?" Breanna demanded as she and Anastasia enjoyed a late afternoon stroll through the gardens.

  "H-m-m-m?" Anastasia shaded her eyes from the sun, drinking in the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of Medford's flowers. The goldenrod, the honeysuckle, the wild roses—she'd missed this most of all. England's glorious countryside, unhurried and unrivaled. The beauty of nature, the freedom to walk for hours and never reach a destination, the sense of peace and adventure all rolled into one.

  Lord, it was good to be home.

  "Stacie?" Breanna prompted.

  Smiling, Anastasia paused at a massive oak, whose profusion of branches overhung the lawns and headed up a grove of now-blossoming trees that lined the estate's south gardens.

  "Remember this tree?" she asked Breanna, caressing the trunk. "It's the one I climbed when we were four. I wanted to be taller than anything else, so that nothing could impede my view of the grounds."

  "I remember," Breanna returned dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "You fell out, caught your gown on one of the branches, and slashed the top of your thigh. You bled for half an hour—it took three of Grandfather's handkerchiefs to stop the bleeding."

  Anastasia chuckled. "I still have the scar." Her smile faded. "I remember how frightened you were, and how much the gash hurt. I even cried—no, I sobbed—and you know how seldom I do that. But I also remember how incredible it felt, for one fleeting instant, to stand on top of the world. And do you know what? It was worth it. Tears, pain, scar and all. It was worth it."

  "Stacie, are you going to tell me what Lord Sheldrake was alluding to or aren't you?" Breanna interrupted her cousin's reminiscing. "For that matter, are you going to fill me in on what happened at your meeting this morning? Whatever it was, it couldn't have been too dire. You and the marquess seemed to be getting along reasonably well at lunch; certainly better than you were yesterday."

  Anastasia wasn't sure why, but she had the sudden urge to sidestep her cousin's question—at least that part which dealt with her attitude toward Lord Sheldrake.

  "That's probably because I was too taken aback by Uncle G
eorge's surprising announcement about his ball in my honor," she replied instead. "A costly frivolity like a party? Hardly typical of your father."

  "I agree," Breanna said. "It stunned me, as well. And then to insist that Lord Sheldrake escort me…" She flushed. "I'm sure that was part of Father's plan. I assume he wants to make a grand display of some kind, to show the ton that the Colbys are still every bit as influential as they ever were—despite Grandfather's death, and now Uncle Henry's."

  "You have a point." Anastasia tucked her gown around her and lowered herself to the grass. "Either that, or perhaps he's in the midst of a business deal he feels will progress faster in a social setting." She patted the large, flat stone embedded in the earth beside her. "Let's sit for a while, savor the sunshine. You can use this as your chair. That way, you won't get grass stains." A mischievous twinkle. "I assume soiled garments still enrage Uncle George."

  Breanna's lips curved at the memories Anastasia's comment elicited, but there was a kind of sad resignation in her eyes. "Everything enrages Father," she replied. "Some things more than others—such as soiled gowns." Gingerly, she gathered up her skirts and perched at the edge of the stone's clean surface.

  That all-too-familiar fist of worry knotted Anastasia's gut, worry she'd known since childhood but had been too afraid to address.

  Now she did.

  "Breanna—he doesn't hurt you, does he? Physically, I mean."

  Her cousin stared out across the grounds. Then, she slowly shook her head—a half-hearted gesture that looked suspiciously like she was shading the truth, trying to keep Anastasia from worrying. "No. Not really. Not yet." A pause. "He's always been volatile. You know that. But most of the time he expends his anger by lashing out verbally. Once or twice it's gone beyond that—usually when I question his decisions at the wrong times. I usually know when those times are, and I make myself scarce. But sometimes I approach him before I have time to recognize the signs."

  "What signs?"

  "Long, bitter silences. Excessive drinking and brooding—usually following tense business meetings behind closed doors. You know how preoccupied Father is with making money. When things don't go right, he explodes."

  "And he strikes you?"

  "Sometimes. Nothing I can't bear."

  "You said yet. What does that mean?"

  Breanna plucked a blade of grass and rubbed it between her fingers. "I don't know. Lately, his moods seem more intense than they've ever been. It's like he's seething beneath the surface, fighting the need to erupt. The way he used to act when your mother was in the room."

  "I remember." Anastasia fell silent, reminding herself that there were pieces to this puzzle Breanna still didn't know—pieces she herself would supply when the time was right.

  "I didn't mean to worry you, Stacie. I'm probably overreacting. It's just that this situation with Lord Sheldrake is causing an inordinate amount of friction. My misgivings are infuriating Father. When the marquess is here, I'm embarrassed, ill at ease—and, yes, dubious. I know what Father expects of me. But I can't promise him I can supply it."

  "Of course not," Anastasia proclaimed, feeling faintly guilty, and unwilling to ponder why. "You can't force affection the way you can obedience. Surely Uncle George realizes…"

  "He doesn't. Nor am I apt to convince him." Breanna propped her chin on her hand, angling her face toward her cousin's. "I'm not a coward, Stacie," she said quietly. "It's important to me that you know that. I'm also not the same frightened little girl I was ten years ago. When I feel strongly enough about a situation, I do challenge Father, regardless of how angry he gets. If Lord Sheldrake turns out to be one of those situations, so be it. The point is, I just don't defy my father often or without good cause. Frankly, given the outcome, it isn't worth it."

  "I never thought of you as a coward." Anastasia took her cousin's hand and squeezed it. "You're a survivor. We both are. Sometimes survival means holding one's tongue—a feat you're far better at than I. That doesn't make you fainthearted. It makes you wise. I'd be wise to learn some of your self-restraint. And to use it—such as earlier today." A sigh. "Ah well. This time survival will have to mean deviating from my original plan."

  Breanna's expression turned quizzical. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  Another sigh, and Anastasia leaned back on her hands, letting her palms sink into the plush green bed of grass. "We're talking about me and my grand scheme to leave the Colby mark—my mark—on the world. A scheme that now needs to be modified, thanks to Lord Sheldrake."

  "You've lost me."

  "I wanted to use my inheritance to open a bank in Philadelphia—one that would grow and expand and eventually offer all the resources and stability to Americans that the House of Lockewood offers to the Continent and to England. I announced my intentions to Lord Sheldrake, asked him to share in this venture as my partner. He refused. He also refused to let me use Papa's funds to pursue this investment on my own, either now or for the duration of time in which he's in control of my inheritance. So I told him I'd seek backing elsewhere, from other prominent businessmen willing to take a chance on something new. He was amused, but dubious. He also realized—right after Uncle George's announcement—exactly where I meant to begin my campaign for capital: at this gala house party. Thus, his taunt about my never being bored at the ball."

  Breanna's jaw had dropped a bit farther with each word. "Stacie, you spent your meeting with Lord Sheldrake informing him how you intend to invest your money?"

  "Yes. For all the good it did me. Not that I plan to be dissuaded. I don't. I'll simply find another way."

  "A bank. You mean to open a bank—in Philadelphia." A disturbing possibility, secondary or not, struck Breanna—hard. "Does this mean you'll be going back to the States?"

  "Only to visit," Anastasia assured her. "England is my home. Breanna, I don't mean to build the bank's walls with my bare hands or count out each shilling that's dispersed. Between the relationships Papa formed and Lord Sheldrake's contacts and experience, that won't be necessary. I'm supplying the idea. Now all I need is the capital to get things started. It would succeed. I know it would. But the marquess is so damned stubborn…"

  "Stacie, he's a financial genius. Surely he knows better than you what would make a profitable investment."

  "I'm sure he does—or would, if he were willing to listen. But he's not. He's convinced that Europe is a sure thing and America an uncertainty. Well, vast empires were founded on risk. Ventures require nothing less. And if Damen Lockewood is too pigheaded to see that, I'll simply go elsewhere."

  "Seeking funds from whomever you meet at the ball."

  An anticipatory grin lit Anastasia's face. "Exactly. Which is where you come in. I'll ask Uncle George for an advance copy of the guest list. Don't worry," she added, seeing the anxious pucker form between Breanna's brows. "I'll use the excuse that I want to review the names in advance so I don't embarrass him by mispronouncing anyone's title. That's just the type of dutiful gesture Uncle George would applaud."

  "That's true," Breanna concurred. "But where do I come in?"

  "You'll study the list with me, and tell me who's who. I need you to distinguish which guests could be potential backers." Anastasia waved away Breanna's anticipated protest. "I realize you don't involve yourself in Uncle George's business, but surely you know who his colleagues are, and who are the most successful of the bunch. Then, on the night of the ball, you'll point those particular gentlemen out to me, and make the proper introductions. I'll do the rest. By the time my coming-out is complete, my venture will be fully funded."

  Breanna couldn't help but chuckle at her cousin's enthusiasm. "Tell me, are you going to enjoy a single hour of this party? In the traditional sense, that is. You know—chatting, meeting interesting people, even dancing. Or are you going to spend the entire time doing business?"

  Anastasia's grin widened. "That depends on how quickly I accomplish my goal."

  * * *

  Accomplishing his goal
, George reflected bitterly one short week later, was a damned, bloody nuisance—one he resented with every fiber of his being.

  Fixing a polished smile on his face, he assessed the grand ballroom, which, a mere hour ago, had been empty. Now, it was bursting at the seams, a profusion of color and movement as streams of arriving guests made their entrance, while those already in attendance whirled about the dance floor, chatted in ever-growing groups, or made their way over to the refreshments.

  The typical onset to an extravagant house party. Clasping his hands behind his back, George resumed his role as host. He milled about, dropping a smile to his left and a greeting to his right, all the while mentally tabulating how much this wretched affair had wound up costing. Oh, he'd padded the receipts as best he could, adding fifty pounds here and a hundred pounds there. But he hadn't dared get too carried away. Not with Sheldrake's watchful eye overseeing every pence of Henry's money. As a result, George had scarcely been able to squeeze out enough profit to make this whole bloody affair worth his while. In fact, he'd be willing to bet that, once the final numbers were tallied up, he'd be lucky to come out a thousand pounds ahead.