The Gold Coin Page 5

  "Stacie?" Breanna touched her sleeve, speaking in an undertone so as to keep their conversation separate and apart from her father's discussion with Mr. Fenshaw. "Are you as astounded as I am?"

  "I'm reeling," Anastasia replied. She inclined her head toward her cousin. "Breanna, do you realize how sure Grandfather was that you and I could do what our fathers could not?"

  Solemnly, Breanna nodded.

  "We won't let him down," Anastasia said fiercely. "Not under any circumstances." She tensed as her uncle snapped out a few final words to Mr. Fenshaw, reminding herself that—on the subject of not-under-any-circumstances—her uncle's resentment was at the top of the list. Combating it was going to be a formidable challenge, indeed.

  "Pardon me, my lady." Damen Lockewood's voice broke into her thoughts.

  Anastasia pivoted in her chair, watching as the marquess rose, regarding her from beneath hooded lids.

  "I have two meetings I'm already late for," he informed her in a crisp, businesslike tone. "Before I leave, I'd like to set up that appointment regarding your inheritance. Would tomorrow at eleven be convenient?"

  Feeling dwarfed by his height and less than pleased by that decided disadvantage, Anastasia stood as well, tilting back her head to meet his gaze. "Tomorrow?" A rush of irrational resentment surged anew. What was the man's hurry? Did he hope to quickly rid her of all financial responsibilities, take over full authority of her financial investments?

  If so, he was going to be in for the surprise of a lifetime. "I admire your initiative, my lord," she replied coolly. "You're certainly eager to assume your role as my business adviser. By the way, how is it possible to be late for two meetings at the same time?"

  He looked more amused than put off. "The House of Lockewood has its main offices right here in London. The building runs almost the full length of Bishopsgate Street

  . Inside are many offices in which I confer with clients. Sometimes I meet with one while another reviews documents I've prepared." His lips curved. "I assure you, I give my full attention to each and every person I advise. You won't be neglected."

  Anastasia had a strong urge to strike him. "Trust me, my lord, being neglected was the least of my worries. As for our meeting, it will have to wait. I can't possibly impose upon Uncle George to return to London again tomorrow."

  "Understandable." The marquess acknowledged the obstacle she'd erected, never breaking stride as he scaled it. "Fine. I'll ride to Kent, then. Expect me tomorrow morning at eleven."

  The more insistent he became, the deeper Anastasia dug in her heels. "That's very considerate of you. But I have no need of your assistance. Rest assured, I won't squander my funds away by morning. And I don't want to inconvenience my uncle."

  "Ah, of course not. Let's address that issue, shall we?" Without awaiting her reply, the marquess glanced over her head, assessing George's fervent conversation with Mr. Fenshaw and interrupting it with the slightest lift of his brows. "Pardon me, George. I need to meet with your niece about her inheritance. Would it be possible for me to drop by Medford Manor at eleven o'clock tomorrow?"

  "H-m-m? Why, yes, I suppose so." George's forehead was still deeply furrowed, his lips thinned in a tight line of annoyance as he contemplated the morning's revelations.

  Abruptly, Damen's request sank in, and George whipped out his timepiece, blinking in surprise when he saw it was nearing three o'clock.

  "Actually your visiting tomorrow morning would work out nicely," he announced with a frown. "As I mentioned earlier, I have another meeting this afternoon—one I'm already an hour late for, and which I suspect will go on for some time. Your riding out in the morning would ease my time constraints. If it's agreeable with you, I'll have my driver take Breanna and Anastasia back to Kent directly from here, while I stay on to conduct my business. After that, I can spend the night in Town and ride home with you tomorrow."

  Lord Sheldrake nodded. "That's perfectly acceptable."

  "Good." For the first time since entering Mr. Fenshaw's office, Uncle George looked pleased by an outcome. "We'll arrive at Medford Manor by eleven o'clock. You'll stay for lunch, of course."

  "How can I resist one of Mrs. Rhodes's fine meals?" the marquess responded, gathering up his portfolio and putting a purposeful end to the discussion. "So, on that pleasant note, I'll be on my way. Fenshaw, I'll be in touch. George, Breanna—I'll see you both tomorrow. And Lady Anastasia—" He bowed, a corner of his mouth lifting as his gaze found hers. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Oh, and by the way," he added in an offhanded tone—although Anastasia could swear she saw a baiting look flash in those steel-gray eyes—"I wasn't concerned about your squandering your funds, at least not for the next three months. You can't. You'd need my signature to do so."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  The Thames was bustling as the business day came to a close.

  Iron cranes loaded and unloaded cargo from the various ships tied up in the harbor, and a stream of workers shuttled freight into the slew of waiting warehouses.

  This surge of activity was clearly visible from the offices of Lyman Shipping Company. Overlooking the river, the company's spacious front room window provided a lovely view of Westminster Bridge and of the dignified cluster of buildings surrounding Westminster Hall.

  The charm of the view was lost on George Colby. Scowling, he peered into the gathering dusk, feeling choked by fate and its unexpected limitations.

  "I expected to be paid today, Medford," Edgar Lyman reminded him for the second time, his voice fraught with tension. Abandoning his chair, the stocky man with the square jaw and watery blue eyes paced about his office, palms sweating as he rubbed them together. "I need that money."

  "I know. I thought I'd have it." George ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed the nape of his neck in frustration. "Unfortunately, the cash I expected to come into will be delayed—temporarily."

  "Then the shipment will have to be delayed—temporarily."

  "The hell it will." George's head whipped around, his eyes darkening with anger. "Don't threaten me, Lyman. You won't like the results."

  "I wasn't threatening you." Lyman recoiled from George's menacing tone, taking a precautionary step backward. "I'm just stating a fact. Expenses are mounting. So are risks. Meade's pressuring me. He wants higher wages. Says there's more at stake now."

  "Then deal with him," George snapped. "Meade's your problem, not mine. But that merchandise is expected. Arrangements have been made to receive it. It will go out—on schedule. I don't care if you have to use your personal funds to get it there. I've certainly spent enough of mine. You'll make your profit. You always do. So does Meade—more than that browbeating son of a bitch is worth. Now get that shipment out by week's end."

  A resigned nod. "Fine. I'll take care of it. But with regard to payment…"

  "I said, I'm working on it. An unexpected obstacle's been thrown in my path."

  "An insurmountable obstacle?"

  George's lips thinned into a grim line. "No obstacle is insurmountable. I'll either bypass it or remove it. Just as Meade is your problem, this is mine. And I'll resolve it. Soon." He walked to the door. "Contact me when the shipment reaches port."

  Alone in his London Town home, George abandoned the facade of self-assurance. Cursing under his breath, he poured himself a brandy, tossing it off in three swallows.

  Damn life and its ugly, unforeseen twists. Damn Anne for giving birth to that little chit. Damn Henry for his exasperating stipulations. And now, the most stunning twist of all—damn their father for leaving a bloody fortune to two stupid girls who hadn't a notion what to do with it.

  Six hundred thousand pounds. Six hundred thousand pounds. Every pence of which should have been his. Instead, he hadn't even known of its existence. And, now that he did know, he'd been advised—in the very same breath—that he couldn't touch a single pound of it. Not now. Not ever.

  Furiously, he refilled his goblet, his thoughts jumping fr
om his father to his brother.

  Henry's estate wasn't worth a third of their father's unexpected trust fund, but it was a sizable estate nonetheless. More important, it was money George had counted on having access to. Why else would he have invited his niece to come live at Medford Manor? Oh, he'd expected Henry to have found a way to limit his power, probably by directing Fenshaw to keep an eye on things, possibly even assigning the solicitor some say in the management of Anastasia's inheritance. Neither of those restrictions would have amounted to a major stumbling block. The situation would simply have required a touch of creativity—something George was more than capable of providing. But for Henry to snatch his inheritance away entirely? To leave full control of it to a non-family member, no matter how trusted? That was a blatant slap in the face—and a major impediment to his plan.

  Which brought him to the man Henry had entrusted his funds to: Damen Lockewood.

  Having the marquess in charge was indeed a double-edged sword. On the one hand, George felt confident that his own relationship with Sheldrake was good—good enough that he might be able to use it to make inroads to Henry's money. On the other hand, Sheldrake was smart as a whip and ethical—especially when it came to financial matters. So how the hell could George avail himself of Henry's estate without alerting the marquess to his intentions?

  Then there was the additional matter of Colby and Sons, which George had fully anticipated having to himself after today's will reading. Not directly, of course. He'd second-guessed Henry's decision to bequeath his shares of the company to Anastasia. Nevertheless, that wouldn't have posed a major problem. After all, George's grieving niece was living under his roof now. And things being what they were, he was confident he could have convinced her, with relative ease, to let him represent her interests in the family business. But now, with Sheldrake managing her shares? George would have to tread very carefully. As it was, the marquess was integrally involved in their company. This new duty would make his role that much more pivotal—and the profits that much more difficult for George to skim.

  He had to get his hands on those profits—fast.

  That realization brought him full circle, back to the ultimate shock: his father's six hundred thousand pounds. The old man had always been too bloody sentimental. But to leave a fortune of that size to a pair of women? Mere girls at that, he reminded himself. The pathetic old fool must have snapped altogether.

  George's fist struck the sideboard. None of this was doing him any good. The bottom line was that his hands were tied. He had no access to his father's trust fund and—thanks to Henry—he'd also be hard-pressed to get at the remaining Colby resources. Dammit, he needed that cash. And he needed it now.

  But how to get it, without answering any questions or arousing any suspicions … now that was his dilemma. He'd have to go about things slowly. And the logical approach was to begin with what was legally available to him.

  Anastasia's coming-out funds.

  True, it was only ten thousand pounds. But it was a start. And a start was all he needed—for now.

  * * *

  Late morning sunlight trickled into Anastasia's bedchamber, a sticky summer breeze heralding yet another July day.

  Breanna sat, perched at the edge of the carved armchair, watching as Anastasia brushed her hair at the dressing table. "Stacie, what is it?" she asked. "You've been frowning since we left Mr. Fenshaw's office yesterday. What's troubling you so much?"

  "H-m-m?" Anastasia looked up, realizing Breanna had spoken to her. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"

  "The same thing I said to you last night before we went to bed. You're obviously upset. Is it grief? Are you missing your parents? Did yesterday's will reading worsen the pain? If so, tell me. I'd like to help."

  Anastasia lowered her eyes, staring at the handle of her brush with a wistful expression. "If anyone could help, it would be you. And, yes, I miss Mama and Papa. I always will. That's what's weighing on my heart. But my mind—now that's another story."

  "And what story is that? Is it the money Grandfather left us? Are you worried over how he'd want us to spend it?"

  "Oddly enough, no. I have a feeling we'll know just what to do with that money when the time comes. I think Grandfather believed that, too."

  "I agree." Breanna fell silent, waiting expectantly.

  Anastasia chewed her lip, met her cousin's gaze in the looking glass, and sighed. "Actually, it's the money Father left me that's on my mind. Or, more specifically, the man who'll be overseeing how I spend it." She lay down her brush, turning to face Breanna. "It's nearly eleven o'clock," she blurted. "Before I force myself to go downstairs and attend this meeting, tell me more about Damen Lockewood."

  "Ah." Breanna propped her chin on her hand, regarding her cousin with amused interest. "Damen Lockewood. That was my third guess. He really rankled you, didn't he?"

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Oh, I don't know—probably because you sprang up and confronted him like a hissing cat about to strike."

  A rueful grin. "Was I that obvious?"

  "Let's say you weren't subtle."

  "Wonderful." Anastasia rolled her eyes. "Now I'll not only have an arrogant, opinionated overseer, I'll have an arrogant, opinionated overseer who dislikes me."

  "I didn't say he dislikes you," Breanna refuted, tucking a stray ringlet back into her smooth knot of upswept hair. "In fact, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say he was more fascinated by you than annoyed. You are unique, Stacie. What's more, I doubt many women challenge Lord Sheldrake's authority, much less his skill."

  "I didn't challenge his skill." In one impatient motion, Anastasia gave up trying to arrange her own auburn waves, letting them tumble unimpeded down her back. "I'm sure he's every bit the financial genius Papa claimed him to be. But that doesn't mean I want him as a guardian—monetary or otherwise."

  "So I gathered." Breanna gave a quizzical shrug. "Why not? Surely you can benefit from his knowledge."

  "I'm sure I can. But I'm not sure I want to." Rising, Anastasia shook out the folds of her lime green day dress. "What do you know of him—besides the fact that he's brilliant, wealthy, and, if Uncle George has his way, your future husband?"

  A flush stained Breanna's cheeks. "I wouldn't place much faith in the last. As for the rest, yes, he's both brilliant and wealthy. He's also charming, handsome, and polite. I'm not sure how much more I can tell you. From what little I saw during my sole London Season, I suspect he's never at a loss for female companionship. On the other hand, I truly believe business is his primary passion—and his primary pastime. While he did attend a few balls that Season, he didn't seem particularly enthused and he didn't stay long. I only danced with him twice. As for other women…"

  "What type of investor is he?"

  Breanna blinked. "Pardon me?"

  "When he invests your father's money, is he narrow-minded in his choices, rigid in his approach? Or is he willing to try new things, hear new ideas?"

  "How on earth would I know?"

  Anastasia's hand balled into a frustrated fist, her arm helplessly slicing the air before falling to her side. "I suppose you wouldn't. But I need to. I have specific ideas for how that money should be invested—how Papa would want it to be invested. And I must know if…"

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  "Come in," Anastasia called.

  "Pardon me." Kate, the rotund, smiling, middle-aged woman who'd been assigned—in whatever limited capacity her new mistress would allow—the role of Anastasia's lady's maid, entered the room. "The viscount and Lord Sheldrake have arrived," she informed Anastasia. "They're awaiting you in the yellow salon." A concerned, motherly look. "Shall I fix your hair, m'lady? I can put it up like Lady Breanna's, or weave some pearls through the crown and…"

  "Thank you, no, Kate." Anastasia waved away the suggestion. "I'll just tie it back. That should suffice. After all, I'm going to a meeting, not a ball." So saying, she snatched up a satin ribbon, tugging it into place as
she walked. "Very well. Let's get this over with." She glanced at Breanna. "Are you coming?"

  Her cousin stood, a spark lighting her eyes. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  Both George and Lord Sheldrake rose to their feet when Anastasia and Breanna entered the salon. Anastasia's gaze bypassed her uncle altogether, going straight to the man who, for the next three months, held her financial future in his hands.

  The marquess was as impeccably groomed and mannered today as he had been yesterday, his commanding presence—those bold good looks and that profound self-assurance—seeming to fill the room. Alongside his chair was propped the same portfolio he'd carried to Mr. Fenshaw's office yesterday, only this morning it was twice as thick as it had been then.

  "Excellent," George pronounced, nodding his approval at the girls' promptness. "You're both here." His glance flickered from Anastasia to Breanna and back again—and Anastasia had the distinct impression he hadn't a notion which of them was his daughter.