The Gold Coin Page 4

  With regard to Anastasia's proper guardianship: Should she choose to remain in Philadelphia upon his and Anne's death, and should she, at that time, be unmarried and under the age of twenty-one, appropriate instructions had been left with Frederick Carter, his American solicitor, and would be read and carried out by the same. Should she, however, choose to return to England as he believed she would, his brother George would assume the role of her guardian, to properly reintroduce her to English society and to do his best to ensure her future happiness and well-being. To that end, and for that sole purpose alone, the sum of ten thousand pounds had been deposited at the House of Lockewood, from which George could withdraw whatever amounts were necessary to provide for Anastasia's coming-out.

  At that point, Mr. Fenshaw paused and looked up, something about the intensity of his expression, the gravity of his stare as he glanced from one of them to the other, making them all aware that something unexpected was about to occur.

  "Continue, Fenshaw," George instructed, waving his hand impatiently so as to hear the remainder of his brother's provisions.

  Fenshaw cleared his throat. "'With regard to the above guardianship, I have several stipulations to make. First, Anastasia shall not be forced to abide any circumstances she finds intolerable; specifically, unduly harsh or unfeeling treatment, or excessive discipline that might result in squelching her spirit. Second, she shall never be forced to marry against her will, for while she needs a guardian's hand to guide her through the portals of society, she must be allowed to wed as her heart dictates.

  "'If either of these stipulations is violated, if Anastasia should find herself unhappy or ill-treated in any manner, she will advise Mr. Fenshaw of such, at which point alternate provisions will be made for her guardianship. Should that occur, the funds set aside for Anastasia's coming-out will be transferred to her newly appointed guardian and will no longer be available to my brother, George.

  "'Second, and more painful, is the matter of managing my daughter's newly acquired inheritance. It is no secret that my brother, George, and I do not agree about the importance of money, nor about the fervor through which it is earned or hoarded. Therefore, and excepting the sum set aside for Anastasia's coming-out, I specify that George's guidance and control over my daughter's life be limited only to non-financial matters. Specifically, in the event Anne and I should both die either before Anastasia is well and truly wed, or before her twenty-first birthday, I hereby appoint an administrator to oversee my daughter's inheritance, including her interest in Colby and Sons, and to advise her in her capacity as beneficiary. The man I have chosen to serve as that administrator is Damen Lockewood.

  "'His lordship is a man of great honor and integrity, as well as one whose knowledge of my assets is surpassed only by his wisdom at investing them. He shall, therefore, be the sole overseer of Anastasia's financial resources, until or unless she weds, at which point the responsibility shall be transferred to her husband, or in the event of her death without husband or issue prior to the age of twenty-one, at which point my funds shall be equally divided between my brother George and his daughter Breanna."'

  Halting, Mr. Fenshaw took an uncomfortable sip of water from the glass perched on his desk. "That, in essence, is that."

  Scarcely had the words been uttered when George rose to his feet. His movements were controlled, deliberate, but Anastasia could feel the anger emanating from him.

  "Those stipulations are absurd, Fenshaw," he stated, pressing his palms flat on the desk and leaning toward the solicitor. "Henry must not have been himself when he devised them."

  "I assure you, he was quite himself, my lord," Fenshaw replied with the kind of quiet certainty that indicated he'd readied himself for just such a reaction. "The will was drawn eleven years ago, just before Henry took his family to America. We've been in constant touch ever since, and he remained adamant that the will stay as is. Mr. Carter, Henry's American solicitor, was advised to adhere to the terms and conditions as well, the only difference being he was given different guardianship provisions to comply with in the event Anastasia chose to remain in Philadelphia. However, in either case, the marquess was designated to administer Henry's estate for the next three months."

  "Three months?" Damen spoke up for the first time, his tone probing rather than stunned. His expression was intent as he studied Mr. Fenshaw, his entire demeanor suggesting that he liked to be in possession of all the facts before he reacted.

  "Yes," Anastasia heard herself reply, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. She was grappling with an onslaught of emotions besieging her all at once—emotions that required all her energy to sort out and master. There was bittersweet comfort that her father had taken the time to so carefully consider her future, weak-kneed relief that her uncle George would have minimal control over her life.

  And bone-deep resentment that this total stranger sitting beside her would have ultimate say over her financial decisions. Especially given the plans she'd made in her father's memory.

  Just pondering this unexpected constraint made her chin come up a mutinous notch. "Yes," she repeated, staring directly at Damen Lockewood. "Three months. I'll be twenty-one in October."

  One dark brow lifted ever so slightly. "I see." His sharp gaze flickered past Anastasia and Breanna, focusing on George and assessing his obvious displeasure. "Does this provision of Henry's will present a problem for you, George?"

  The marquess was certainly direct, Anastasia thought, automatically tensing as she awaited her uncle's response. No one spoke so boldly to George Colby—not without expecting to be cut off at the knees. Then again, few if any had Damen Lockewood's power.

  She sneaked a peek to her left. Sure enough, her uncle was shaking his head, even as a muscle worked furiously in his jaw.

  "No, Sheldrake," he managed to say. "A shock, perhaps, but not a problem."

  "Are you certain?" Damen pressed. "Because if so, we'd best discuss it—now."

  Curiously, Anastasia angled her gaze at the marquess, noting his unwavering stare and unruffled composure. Doubtless her uncle George noted them, too. "Consider it from my standpoint," he offered. "By appointing you to administer his funds, my brother has all but labeled me a financial buffoon. It's bad enough he intimated—in a less-than-subtle manner—that I might somehow mistreat Anastasia. But this…" He shook his head. "I always knew how deeply he disliked me, and how deeply he disapproved of my preoccupation with our business. But I never thought he'd doubt my judgment to the point where he'd refuse to grant me control, not only of his funds but of his interest in Colby and Sons. It's disgraceful."

  Damen frowned. "I don't think Henry is doing any such thing. I think he wants an unbiased eye kept on the family business—which I do anyway, given my involvement in your company—and a knowledgeable banker who will advise Lady Anastasia in a manner that reflects the way her father would advise her were he alive. Dislike is not the issue here, George. Objectivity is."

  Even as he spoke, Damen nodded his conviction. "Actually, I think Henry's decision is a prudent one, one that will ensure his daughter's happiness and continued prosperity, as well as that of his company. Remember, I have far more contacts in America than you. I can easily oversee the Philadelphian branch of Colby and Sons." A pointed cough, and Anastasia could swear the marquess was speaking more to her than to her uncle. "Besides, it's only for three months. After that, your niece will be mistress of her own fate." His lips twitched the tiniest bit. "Unless, of course, some gentleman sweeps her off her feet before that time and she decides to wed."

  "I seriously doubt that will happen, my lord," Anastasia informed him, torn between annoyance at his absurd comment and admiration at the shrewd, concise way he had of explaining things so as best to soothe her volatile uncle's pride. "My feet are planted firmly on the ground and not likely to be swept anywhere."

  This time Damen made no attempt to hide his grin.

  "Very well, then, three months it is." He made to rise. "Shall we set up an
appointment to review your newly acquired assets?"

  "Wait." Fenshaw forestalled Anastasia's reply, holding up a deterring palm. "There's another matter to be addressed before you leave."

  Anastasia frowned. "I thought you said you'd concluded Papa's will reading."

  "I have." The solicitor folded up the will and tucked it away, extracting a second document from inside his desk. "But now that you've returned to England, I have another legal matter to conclude." He paused, amending his own choice of words. "Actually, your return to England made this far easier for me. Had you opted to remain in Philadelphia, I would have had to summon you anyway. The terms must be carried out by you and Breanna prior to your respective twenty-first birthdays—which will occur in October and December of this year."

  "Is this matter you're referring to the reason I was summoned to this meeting as well, Mr. Fenshaw?" Breanna asked.

  "Yes, Breanna. It is."

  "Henry left a document other than his will?" George demanded.

  "No, my lord. Your father did."

  George blinked, although neither Breanna nor Anastasia were stunned by Mr. Fenshaw's announcement. Given the wording of his written message, they'd expected something of this sort.

  Fenshaw smoothed out the page, looking from one cousin to the other. "The late viscount's provisions are simple. Prior to his death, he set aside a sizable trust fund for each of you, to be inherited upon your respective twenty-first birthdays."

  "How large a trust fund?" George asked.

  "Fifty thousand pounds apiece."

  "Good Lord." George sucked in his breath. "I was never told about this fund."

  "Nor was your brother," Mr. Fenshaw advised him. "No one knew of the trust funds' existence but your father and myself. And, of course, Lord Sheldrake, whose bank holds the funds." His gaze flickered in Damen's direction, then leveled on Anastasia and Breanna. "There is a condition to your receiving this money. Many years ago, your grandfather gifted each of you with a coin. Do you recall that fact?"

  "Yes, Mr. Fenshaw," Anastasia replied, answering for them both. "We do."

  "And did you bring those coins with you today, as instructed?"

  "No, Mr. Fenshaw, we did not."

  The solicitor looked intrigued. "And why not?"

  "Because when Grandfather gave us the coins, he told us to put them in a safe place—permanently. Which is what we've done."

  "I see." Mr. Fenshaw turned a quill over in his hands. "That presents a problem."

  "What coins?" George bit out. "What problem? What is this all about?"

  "In a minute, my lord," Mr. Fenshaw assured him. He continued addressing the girls. "You say you don't have the coins with you. Let me explain why you need to produce them. At the time your grandfather gifted them to you, did he not tell you the coins had great significance, if not great value?"

  "He did."

  "You're about to discover what he meant. In order to collect your inheritances, you must both turn your coins over to me. At that time, I will sign the money over to you, due and payable on your twenty-first birthdays."

  Neither girl moved.

  "Breanna, what coin is Mr. Fenshaw referring to?" George demanded, turning to face his daughter. "You've never spoken a word to me of a coin."

  Breanna paled but didn't falter. "Grandfather asked that we keep it between us. No one was to know about the coins but him, Stacie, and me."

  Her father drew a harsh breath, looking as if he wanted to lash out at her for deceiving him, yet unwilling to do so given the advantageous outcome of her silence. "An odd arrangement," he said at last, his syllables clipped. "However, there's no point in berating you for something you did as a child. We'll simply go home, get the coin, and you can give it to Mr. Fenshaw, thus satisfying your grandfather's peculiar terms."

  "I can't do that, Father."

  George started. "What did you say?"

  "We can't turn over the coins, Uncle George," Anastasia confirmed. "Not even for an inheritance, no matter how vast. Grandfather's instructions were for us to keep the coins safe, and to never, under any circumstances, give them to anyone else." An uncomfortable pause. "Not even to our fathers."

  Her Uncle George swore softly under his breath.

  Trying to ignore his anger, Anastasia focused her gaze on Mr. Fenshaw. "When I was six, I didn't fully understand Grandfather's reasons. But I think I do now. He wanted Breanna and me to hold fast to something he feared was doomed to die along with him: our family. The coins display our family crest on one side, and Medford Manor on the other. They're a symbol—one that Grandfather felt was up to us to sustain. He said nothing about trading them in; in fact, he emphasized the contrary, insisting we keep them with us always. Well, if those were his wishes, then keep them we will. Unless you can read something from that document that gives us reason to believe Grandfather changed his mind. But in all due respect, an inheritance isn't that reason."

  "Your logic is ridiculous…" George began anew.

  Again, Mr. Fenshaw held up his palm, never looking away from Anastasia. "You refuse to give me your coin?"

  "Yes, Mr. Fenshaw, I do. Please understand. I mean you no disrespect. You're a dear family friend. But even if my own father were to have asked, I wouldn't have given him that coin. Not when Grandfather specifically told me not to."

  "I see." Fenshaw averted his head, studied Breanna. "And you?"

  Breanna straightened her shoulders and folded her hands rigidly in her lap—as defiant a gesture as Anastasia had ever seen her make. "I feel the same way Stacie does," she declared without hesitation. "My coin remains where it is."

  "You're both mad," George exclaimed, coming to his feet. Briskly, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Fenshaw, let me talk to them. We still have several months before their birthdays. I'm certain they'll change their minds by then."

  "There's no need," Fenshaw responded.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I said, there's no need. I've heard all I must." He set down his quill, interlacing his fingers on the desk. "Clearly, your grandfather was right about you. You have all the qualities he most prayed you would have, loyalty not being the least of them. You've more than passed his test."

  "Test?" both girls asked simultaneously.

  "Yes. The viscount did indeed want you to keep those coins, not only then but forever—for all the reasons Anastasia just enumerated. He wanted to be certain you couldn't be tempted to part with them, not even for a large inheritance." Fenshaw's round cheeks glowed. "A fabricated inheritance, I might add."

  George seemed to wilt on his feet. "You mean, there is no inheritance?"

  "Oh, there's an inheritance, just not the one I spoke of."

  "You said fifty thousand pounds apiece."

  "Yes. The actual inheritance is one the late viscount began amassing the day Anastasia was born, compiled from profits he made over the ensuing years. It totals over four hundred thousand pounds—two hundred thousand pounds apiece."

  "Four hundred thousand…" George murmured faintly.

  "Actually, it's closer to six hundred thousand pounds," Kamen supplied. "Including all the interest that's accrued aver the years."

  George swallowed, his eyes a bit glazed as they shifted from Damen to Fenshaw. "You're saying my father kept that amount of money separate and apart from what he left Henry and me?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying," Fenshaw confirmed. "For reasons of his own, your father wanted that sum to go directly to his granddaughters, rather than by way of his sons. So he made provisions to do just that—and modified those provisions the day he gave your daughter and niece their coins. Had Breanna and Anastasia willingly turned over their coins for fifty thousand pounds apiece, the entire four—pardon me—six hundred thousand pounds would have been donated to charity. Further, if both the girls were to die childless, the remainder of the fortune would go to charity after their deaths."

  Mr. Fenshaw pointed to the bottom of the document. "It's clearly stipulated here that the mon
ey is to pass only to Breanna and Anastasia, then on to their children; or, should either of them die childless, the full amount is to pass to the other cousin. Under no circumstances were either you or Lord Henry to have access to this fortune."

  "He would donate it to charity," George repeated woodenly. "My own father would have given away his money rather than leave it to me."

  "To you or Lord Henry," Fenshaw reminded him. "Sir, I don't think the late viscount's decision was meant as an indignity, either to you or your brother. It was simply his way of ensuring the continuity of the Colby family."

  Anastasia was scarcely listening at this point, so dazed was she by the steps her grandfather had taken. The six hundred thousand pounds was staggering enough. But what it represented—his faith in her and Breanna, in their ability to preserve what their fathers could not—that was even more overwhelming.