The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

Interesting. It was as if several generations had had a hand in fashioning this place, each adding its own strokes to the canvas, yet together creating a painting that blended together as naturally as dawn and day.

He was growing more and more curious about the cousins he was about to meet. He knew little about them, other than the fact that they strongly resembled each other, and that Anastasia had been raised in the States—Philadelphia, if he correctly recalled. She must be extraordinary for Damen to have fallen so hard, so fast, not to mention brilliant for him to have entered into a business partnership with her—a part­nership that, according to Damen, had been forged on his respect for Anastasia's business acumen rather than his personal feelings for her.

Where did Lady Breanna fit into all this? Royce mused. She hadn't been raised in America. She'd been raised right here, by a father who'd effectively sealed her off from the world, relegated her to the manor while he tried to manipulate her future in order to cling to his own. A father who'd turned out to be, not only a felon and a scoundrel, but a cold-hearted bas­tard who'd resort to murder to achieve his ends.

What effect had that had on her?

He was about to find out.

“Lord Royce has arrived,” Wells announced in the sitting room doorway.

All three of the room's occupants rose.

/> “Royce, come in.” Damen moved forward, his arm wrapped around the waist of a beautiful young woman with delicate features, jade green eyes, and auburn hair that tumbled, unbound, about her shoul­ders. “This is my wife, Anastasia.”

Boldly, Anastasia Lockewood appraised Royce as he approached, kissed her hand.

“Lady Sheldrake. It's a pleasure.”

“I'm happy to .meet you, my lord,” she replied, still studying his face. “I didn't even know of your exis­tence until today. .But, based on Damen's description of the investigations you conduct for him, I have the feeling you helped fit together the pieces to a very ugly puzzle several months ago that ended up saving my life. For that, I thank you.”

Royce inclined his head with interest. A straightfor­ward, candid woman—now that was refreshing.

“You're welcome,” he responded with a hint of a smile. “But I'm afraid I can't take credit for the inves­tigation you're describing. I was in India when Damen sought me out. My associate is the one who did the probing.”

Damen's wife smiled, an open, infectious grin. “Then please thank him for me. As for you—your as­sociate's skill speaks just as highly of you. After all, you chose him. And only the cleverest of businessmen are shrewd enough to ally themselves with equally clever partners. Just look at Damen.”

A chuckle. “I see what you mean.” Royce's gaze shifted, as a flash of color and movement from beside the settee caught his eye, drew his attention to the room's final occupant.

He found himself gazing at a woman who ap­peared, at first glance, to be a very close replica of Anas t asia .

At second glance, he realized she was no replica, but an original.

Breanna Colby was a portrait come to life, all flaw­less lines and subtle hues—and yet, decidedly inac­cessible.

She was nothing short of exquisite—a graceful, del­icate, punch-in-the-gut beauty. True, her features were seemingly identical to her cousin's. Still, they were somehow different. Or perhaps it was the personality he could sense hovering behind the vivid coloring and fine features that made it so.

To begin with, Breanna's eyes, the same jade green as Anastasia's, were softer, more remote than her cousin's—as if she were guarding a part of herself she was reluctant to share, reserving judgment while let­ting you know you had to earn the right to be allowed in. Her expression was thoughtful, speculative, but carefully schooled. And her hair, that same glorious auburn color as Anastasia's, was upswept, perfectly arranged atop her head without a single str and mussed or out of place. She was lovely, proper, self-contained—a lady through and through.

Abruptly, Royce knew why Damen had said Brean­na would never weep or swoon. This was a woman who kept her emotions in check. Her feelings, her thoughts, certainly her fears, would remain private, known only to her and to the select few she chose to trust.

He could even guess why. She'd survived George Colby. But he'd left his mark—in ways others could only imagine.

Yes, there was more to Lady Breanna than met the eye. Much more. Royce was willing to bet his life on it.

Damen cleared his throat, alerting Royce to the fact that he'd been staring. “Royce, may I present Lady Breanna Colby. Breanna—Lord Royce Chadwick.”

“Lady Breanna.” Royce said politely, bowing at the waist, then walking over to kiss her hand.

“Welcome to Medford Manor, my lord.” Breanna's tone was measured, her voice soft, lilting. Whereas Anastasia's crisp English inflections had been muted by years in America, Breanna's speech was utterly precise, the epitome of refinement.

Royce's lips grazed her knuckles. “Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you. Not only for the compliment, but for your kind intentions.” She hesitated, then added, “I appreciate your riding out here so late in the day Damen seems to think you can help us.”

Royce straightened, one brow arching in question. “But you don't?”

She rubbed the folds of her lavender day dress be­tween her fingers. “I'm not certain. It's not that I don't trust Damen's instincts. I do. It's just that—”