The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"Why, Bates. I'm s

urprised you have to ask."

"My God, Medford. You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" A biting laugh. "I'll get Henry's inheritance, Rouge's generous payment, and the perfect son-in-law from one swift, ingenious transaction. Who am I sending? Why, my niece, Anastasia, of course."

* * *

Chapter 14

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All the color drained from Anastasia's face, as she clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. Uncle George was selling women. And she was next.

"Oh my God," she heard Breanna gasp. An instant later, distraught hands grasped her arms, and Breanna gave her a hard, insistent shake. "Stacie, come on. We've got to get out of here. We've got to go—now."

Anastasia turned her head, stared blankly at Breanna as shock continued to ripple through her.

Abruptly, her cousin's words sank in and she sprang to life.

Gathering up her skirts so as not to make a sound, she slipped past Breanna to lead the way. They tiptoed halfway down the hall, then abandoned precautions and dashed the remaining distance to the stairway, tearing up the steps and down the corridor to Anastasia's room.

Breanna shut the door firmly behind them, turning to gape at her cousin.

"Do you realize what's been happening? Worse, what's going to happen?" She pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I can't believe what I just heard, what my father is capable of."

Now that the shock of discovery was fading, Anastasia felt reason seep back into her brain. "Even I never suspected…" She sucked in her breath. "Women. The man is actually peddling women, selling them as possessions." She shot her cousin a look of utter revulsion. "I shudder to think how many unsuspecting girls he's done this to."

"Obviously many. At least according to what Bates said."

"Bates," Anastasia echoed in disgust. "Well, he should certainly know. He's been supplying them. It's barbaric." With an appalled shiver, she wrapped her arms about herself, as if to ward off her uncle's vile intentions. "And lucrative," she continued bitterly. "And, in my case, the perfect way to even a long-unsettled score."

"Oh, Stacie." Breanna looked as if she were going to be sick. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

"Don't you dare apologize. You and I have always known that all you and Uncle George share is blood. You're nothing like him. And the onus of who he is, what he does—that's his alone to bear." Anastasia laced her fingers together, contemplating the current dilemma. "We could analyze this for hours, and we'd probably come up with all the missing details. Unfortunately, I seem to have run out of time. I suspect that Meade and his ship will be leaving soon—with me on it, if Uncle George has his way."

"Well, he won't." Breanna dashed across the room, pulling out Anastasia's bags and tugging her gowns from her wardrobe, one by one. "You're leaving Medford Manor. Today. Right away."

Anastasia frowned, stayed Breanna with her hand. "And do what—run away? I won't do that. Nor will I leave you here alone with that monster."

Breanna straightened, facing Anastasia, hands on hips, in that rare but unyielding stance she used when her mind was utterly made up. "I won't be alone. I'll have Wells—who is clearly more than a little suspicious of Father—and a houseful of servants, any of whom would come to my aid if need be. As for you, I think the more distance you put between yourself and Father, the safer you'll be. Go to Mr. Fenshaw, ask him to put you up at a local inn…" She broke off, seeing the insightful spark that lit Anastasia's eyes. "You have a plan," she realized aloud. "What is it?"

"I need a quill and some paper." Anastasia marched over to the desk, extracting both. "I'm going to write your father a note. Then, I'm going to help you pack my things. I'll be gone within the hour."

"A note? Saying what?"

"That I'm off to supervise the opening of my new bank."

Breanna started. "In Philadelphia?"

"Exactly." A hint of a smile. "Every new business needs overseeing in order to ensure a smooth onset. And if I know that, your father will, too. Actually," she added thoughtfully, beginning to write, "I have him to thank for my plan. After all, it was he who first came up with the idea that I should return to America—allegedly."

"Allegedly." Brows drawn, Breanna studied her cousin's face. "So you won't really be leaving England."

"No. Definitely not." Anastasia tossed her cousin a sideways look. "Did you actually think I'd leave you, leave all Grandfather wanted for us—especially now, when everything is about to explode in our faces?"

"Truthfully? No." A quizzical glance. "Where do you intend to go—or need I ask?"