The Gold Coin

  And what would a thousand pounds buy him? A two- or three-week reprieve, perhaps. No more. It certainly wouldn't restore his business to its necessary peak.

  Dammit.

  George paused as he heard Wells announce Lord and Lady Dutton, and cursed under his breath as he watched them make their entrance. So, the pompous windbag had convinced his tyrant of a wife to leave Bath for the occasion after all. That was hardly an inspiring discovery. It wasn't as if he and Dutton were doing business at the moment. The problem was, that could change at any time. The man was too damned influential to snub, and he had enough money to keep himself that way. Fine, George decided. He'd go over there and do his duty. Then, he'd take a moment or two to find the man he needed to see and set his own dealings back on track.

  Resignedly, George headed for the doorway, raising his chin in greeting, and steeling himself for a quarter hour of annoying chatter.

  "Good evening, Lady Dutton." George bowed, kissing her gloved hand and wondering idly how her husband's protruding belly was going to allow room for the other two hundred guests. "Dutton," he added, stepping back to welcome the man without slamming into his stomach.

  "Medford. Good evening. This is a splendid party," Dutton proclaimed, nodding his approval as he assessed the other attendees. "I give you credit. You've managed a fine gathering on very short notice. And at a very inconvenient time of year. As you know, Penelope here had to be coaxed away from Bath. I'm relieved to see it was worth my efforts in doing so…" A swift man-to-man look together with a subtle roll of the eyes. "…or she'd never let me forget it."

  Ignoring the poisonous glare Lady Dutton threw at her husband, George nodded his understanding. "I'm delighted you could both come." He gestured for them to enter, half-hoping he could cut the conversation short. "Please, enjoy yourselves."

  "Which young lady is your niece?" Dutton pressed, dashing George's hopes of an abbreviated chat by remaining where he was, peering over as many heads as his stubby height would allow. "Ah," he interrupted himself. "I see a familiar face: your Breanna. She's over there by the French doors—alone, surprisingly. It's been quite some time, but I'd know her anywhere. Although I do believe she's grown even lovelier; she's a veritable vision in yellow."

  Tensing, George pivoted, followed Dutton's line of vision, and visibly relaxed. "You're mistaken, Dutton. My daughter is among the crowd enjoying the strings." He waved his arm in the direction of the musicians. "Her gown is blue, not yellow. And she's dancing with Sheldrake. The young lady you spied is my niece, Anastasia."

  Dutton's jaw dropped, and he stared from one girl to the other. "My goodness, they could be sisters. Twins, actually."

  "They've been mistaken as such." George was in no mood to pursue this particular line of conversation. In fact, he'd had about all he could stand of Dutton. Having made the requisite amount of small talk, and having assured himself that Breanna was, indeed, where she was supposed to be—at Sheldrake's side—he had more important business to attend to than answering this buffoon's nosy questions. "I'll be officially presenting Anastasia to everyone once the majority of guests have arrived. In the interim, if you'll both excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to. Please—partake. My home is yours."

  "Yes. Most gracious of you, Medford." Dutton licked his chops, easing his wife—and his belly—farther into the room, doubtless toward the refreshments, George thought in disgust.

  "Hello, Medford."

  George had scarcely taken a step when Lyman appeared at his elbow, nursing a cup of Regent's punch and speaking in an undertone. "This ball is elegant—and expensive. I'm relieved to see that your financial reverses have righted themselves."

  George stiffened. "Not now," he muttered under his breath. Without sparing Lyman another look, he moved deeper into the crowd.

  He was more determined than ever to conduct his business.

  * * *

  Just inside the double doors leading onto the balcony, Anastasia watched the short, chunky man leave Uncle George's side and steer his wife into the room. Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, willing the minuet to end so Breanna could perform the introductions. From the description her cousin had provided, Anastasia was almost certain that the new arrival was Lord Dutton. Based on what Breanna had said, Lord Dutton was an affluent nobleman who owned several enormous estates, a shipbuilding company, and a string of smaller businesses. And that made him an ideal candidate to finance her bank.

  She frowned, her gaze—with a will all its own—shifting back to the same place it had traveled a dozen times: to the dance floor where Lord Sheldrake was gliding Breanna about. Not for any personal reason, she assured herself hastily. Only to see if they were concluding their dance so she could proceed with her plan.

  Even as she assured herself of that fact, she knew it was a lie.

  The truth was, she couldn't stop staring at Damen Lockewood. He was easily the most compelling man in the room, his dynamic presence seeming to overshadow everyone around him. He looked devastating in his formal evening clothes, a fact that was evidenced by all the admiring glances cast his way by women of all ages.

  Breanna looked breathtaking at his side. She was poised, graceful, incredibly beautiful; her upswept hair—a shimmering crown of auburn laced with pearls—as perfectly in place as if she were reposing rather than dancing. She was refined, captivating, the consummate lady, and Anastasia felt incredibly proud of her.

  Ruefully, she tucked a stray tendril of her own hair behind her ear, almost laughing aloud at the realization that, in this one way, little had changed since their childhood. She was still the hoyden, Breanna the lady.

  And while Breanna might admire her for her forthrightness, Anastasia was in perpetual awe of Breanna's natural grace and composure.

  Still, Anastasia knew her cousin better than anyone. And, composed or not, Breanna looked very strained at the moment, almost as if she were silently willing the minuet to end.

  Or was that only wishful thinking on her own part?

  Stop it, Anastasia admonished herself. Whatever you think happened last week in the yellow salon was all in your mind. Lord Sheldrake is the overseer of your inheritance—and the main obstacle in your path. He's fervent in his beliefs, which explains the intensity you felt during those unexpected final moments of your meeting. Stop reading anything more into it.

  As if on cue, Damen Lockewood raised his head, his gaze spanning the ballroom and finding hers.

  Their eyes met—and held.

  Feeling that same warmth shimmer through her, Anastasia jerked her gaze away. This reaction was unacceptable, for many reasons. Least of all was the role the marquess had been assigned to play in her life. Most of all was the role he'd been assigned by Uncle George to play in Breanna's.

  Anastasia sucked in her breath. She had to stop staring. The last thing she needed was for Lord Sheldrake to think she was assessing his and Breanna's suitability. She had enough to handle, just trying to line up her backers—and holding Lord Sheldrake to his vow not to undermine her attempts to do so. Provoking him would hardly serve her best interests. Besides, his relationship—or lack thereof—with Breanna was their concern, not hers.

  With staunch determination, Anastasia shifted her attention to locating Lord Dutton, who'd disappeared somewhere in the crowd. Not that his girth would allow him to remain unnoticeable for long, she reminded herself with a grin. On impulse, she turned toward the refreshment table, her lips curving as she saw that her instincts had been correct. The rotund fellow was in the process of gobbling down a large pastry, simultaneously inching away from his wife and her gossiping circle of friends.

  Perhaps it was time to take matters into her own hands…

  "It would be far easier if I supplied the introduction." The sound of Lord Sheldrake's amused baritone from directly behind her made Anastasia start.

  "Pardon me?" She whipped about to face him, spotting Breanna by his side and wondering when the two of them had finished their dance a
nd made their way over.

  "Lord Dutton," Sheldrake supplied, tipping his head in that direction. "I assume you're about to ask him for money. If you stroll up to him alone, I doubt he'll make the connection between a beautiful woman and a business deal. Shall I pave the way, or would you prefer to ask your uncle to do the honors?"

  Anastasia sucked in her breath. "Tell me, my lord, how do you read minds and execute a minuet at the same time, without missing a step? Or is that similar to conducting two business meetings simultaneously?"

  The marquess's teeth gleamed. "I'm flattered you were watching. As for my mind-reading abilities, they're uncanny—whether or not I'm otherwise occupied. However, in your case, they're hardly necessary. You're eyeing Dutton like a wolf circling a sheep. And given that the gentleman in question is married, over fifty and wider than he is tall, I ruled out any romantic interest on your part."

  An impish grin curved Anastasia's lips. "Perhaps I prefer fat, married men. Have you considered that?"

  All humor vanished from Lord Sheldrake's eyes. "No," he replied quietly. "I haven't. That would be too great a waste to consider."

  Anastasia's breath lodged in her throat, the marquess's words burning through her like a kindled flame. She searched his face, his expression no longer teasing but probing, intense.

  Tearing her gaze away was even more difficult this time.

  "I—I'd appreciate the introduction," she managed, struggling to regain her composure. "Plus any others you'd care to provide. I had asked Breanna to present me, but I'd be a fool not to realize that they'd take me far more seriously if the introductions came from you."

  "Consider it done." Lord Sheldrake took her arm, arching a questioning brow at Breanna. "You're sure you don't mind?"

  Breanna shook her head. "As I told you on the dance floor, I'd be thrilled to be relieved of the awkward duty. Approaching a dozen overbearing men is hardly my idea of an enjoyable evening." She gestured gratefully at a cluster of young women who were chattering in the far corner of the room. "Besides, Margaret Warner has been trying to catch my eye for the past hour. She and her friends want to hear all about my long-lost cousin who's finally returned from America."

  Anastasia wrinkled up her nose. "Why would they want to know about me?"

  Breanna's sigh was the essence of exasperation. "Because while you're preoccupied with business, most women are not. My guess is that Lady Margaret and her chums want to assess their competition. You're far too pretty to suit the unmarried ones." A flash of recall flickered in her eyes and, without thinking, she muttered, "Don't forget, I did experience one London Season. And I learned that although the men might be lechers, the women are lethal."

  Laughter rumbled in Lord Sheldrake's chest. "I'll refrain from comment."

  "Oh—" Breanna flushed, looking startled by her own uncharacteristic frankness. "I suppose that was incredibly rude."

  "No, it was merely accurate." Anastasia grinned. "I encountered similar types of women in Philadelphia. In my case, I avoided them. Otherwise, I shudder to think what trouble my quick tongue would have gotten me into. But with your inherent gift of tact, you won't run that risk. Lethal or not, those girls will be charmed by you. Everyone is."

  That comment made Breanna smile—a fleeting smile that tugged at her lips, then vanished—almost as if she'd enjoyed a private joke she alone was privy to. "If you say so." She gathered up her skirts. "Anyway, if you'll both excuse me, I'll head over to the ladies' corner. It will be entertaining to hear the latest gossip." She paused, squeezing Anastasia's arm. "Good luck finding investors, Stacie. My fingers are crossed."

  Anastasia watched her cousin weave her way across the room. "Sometimes I forget how much Breanna is deprived of," she murmured to herself. "So much so that a chat with a group of women is like an extraordinary gift. How in God's name can Uncle George…" She broke off, realizing she'd spoken her thoughts aloud.

  "I don't know," Lord Sheldrake surprised her by answering. "But it can't stay that way. Nor will it, now that you're home. You're very good for Breanna. I've never heard her speak her mind before. It's a healthy sign."

  Before Anastasia could respond or even contemplate the marquess's words, he dropped the subject. Turning on his heel, he tightened his grasp on her arm and began drawing her toward the refreshment table. "Come. It's time to accost Lord Dutton."

  Anastasia complied, although Lord Sheldrake's subtle taunt was not lost on her. In response, she tossed him a saucy look. "I'm not going to accost him," she retorted. "I'm going to offer him the chance of a lifetime."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Unfortunately, Lord Dutton didn't seem to share Anastasia's opinion. Oh, he gleefully acknowledged Lord Sheldrake's introduction, swaggered his fat little body when he heard she wanted to speak with him alone, then gobbled her up with his eyes when the marquess walked away. But when he heard the nature of her business—or rather, that all she wanted to discuss was business—his entire demeanor changed. He looked shocked, then offended, and finally scornful, not even waiting to hear the details before he brought the conversation to a rapid close and made his way back to the desserts.

  She received similar responses from the other eleven businessmen she approached—from Edgar Lyman, the shipbuilder, to Arthur Landow, the wealthy manufacturer, to Viscount Crompton, a retired military general who invested his inherited fortune just for diversion, even to William Bates, a London magistrate who received huge stipends for keeping dangerous criminals off the streets and who reputedly had a knack for making large amounts of money through various business ventures—to every other prospective investor on her list.

  No one was interested in conducting business with a woman, much less investing their funds in an American bank.

  An hour later, Anastasia was more discouraged than she could bear.

  Easing her way through the throng of intoxicated guests, she slipped out onto the balcony, hoping to have a few minutes to herself. She needed to collect her thoughts before her uncle summoned her for the inevitable formal introduction to the room at large—an introduction that would be happening at any moment, given that almost all the guests had now arrived.

  The night sky was clear, and filled with stars. Anastasia leaned against the railing, gazing up at the bright specks of light and remembering when she and Breanna used to count them, trying to get closer to the heavens by climbing that favorite oak of theirs.

  Somehow Anastasia never felt she'd climbed high enough.

  But Grandfather always believed she would someday, that both she and Breanna would reach their own symbolic peak.

  With a wistful smile, Anastasia gazed off to the right, fond memories of her grandfather and her childhood surging to the forefront of her mind.

  It was too dark to make out the outlines of specific buildings, but she knew the stables were in the direction she was facing. She remembered the dawn when she and Grandfather had walked there to see a new foal being born. Life, Grandfather had explained to her, was the most precious gift God offered. And the ties born of that life were equally precious. Even animals knew that, he'd explained. Even they possessed that unique, priceless instinct to love those who belonged to them.

  He'd shown her the natural affinity between mare and foal, a bond that was only a fraction of what human beings felt toward their young.

  Family. That was even more important than personal accomplishments—not only to Grandfather, but to her. But what if one was integrally tied to the other? What if accomplishing a feat was the first step in carrying on a lineage, perhaps even in restoring ties that should never have been broken?

  Anastasia massaged her temples, contemplating not only her immediate goals—to pay tribute to her father and unite and expand Colby and Sons—but the enormous sum of money Grandfather had left her and Breanna. How would they put that money to work in order to do their grandfather justice, to reap the rewards he was determined that they reap, not only for themselves, but f
or their children, their future?

  If tonight was any indication, then Anastasia feared Grandfather's hopes and dreams would fall by the way-side.

  Dear God, what if she let him down?

  "Here you are."

  Damen Lockewood strolled out onto the balcony, coming up to stand beside her. He leaned his elbow on the railing and angled himself to face her. "You're discouraged. After twelve fruitless efforts, I can't blame you."

  Anastasia continued to stare off into space, hovering somewhere between dejection and nostalgia. "Have you come out here to gloat?"

  "Hardly." He fell silent for a moment, studying her profile intently as he chose his next words. "Tell me something, my lady. Is your original offer still open—the one regarding a potential partnership between us?"

  Whatever Anastasia had been expecting, it hadn't been this.