The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

Then there was Sheldrake.

The fact that he was joining Breanna here tonight was the main reason George had arrived so early. It was imperative that Anastasia's evidence be destroyed before Sheldrake could see it. That was the only prayer George had of seeing his plan through, regaining all that was his, and still acquiring Sheldrake as a son-in-law. Oh, the marquess would never really trust him again, of that he was certain. But Damen Lockewood was a pragmatic man. And without proof,

he wouldn't do anything to ruin George, not given the strong history that existed between their families. Nor would he allow whatever indiscretions George might or might not have committed to cloud his opinion of Breanna. After all, even if her father wasn't all Sheldrake had hoped, that was in no way Breanna's doing. She was as honorable as the day was long. Sheldrake knew that firsthand. He might not love Breanna, but he most certainly liked her. Moreover, despite Anastasia's intrusive presence hovering between them, he and Breanna had grown much closer these past weeks.

And they'd grow closer still as a result of Anastasia's tragic death. Why, within a few short months, Breanna would probably become Mrs. Damen Lockewood.

The very notion eased George's rage.

But not his trepidation.

He had to carry tonight off perfectly. He'd get the proof from Anastasia, hold it high over his head so the assassin could see it, then watch Anastasia take her last breath.

With any luck, he'd be gone by the time Sheldrake and Breanna arrived. If so, the marquess would never know he'd been here, much less that he was involved in Anastasia's shooting. As her uncle, he could grieve beside Sheldrake at her funeral. After which, the marquess would need some time to mourn her death—a period of bereavement Breanna could help him through.

If things happened that way, then everything could turn out just as he'd planned.

But if not, if Breanna and Sheldrake burst into view before he had time to bolt, he'd play the scene of a lifetime. He'd rush over to Anastasia's lifeless body, lament her untimely passing, caused by a smuggler's stray bullet. Hell, he'd shed real tears if he had to. Between those tears, he'd explain how Anastasia had summoned him, expressed her regret over being too impulsive, believing him guilty of trying to wrest away her inheritance, only to find she'd been wrong. The proof she'd been so sure was incriminating had turned out to be false.

It had been her intention, he'd claim, to offer him a formal apology at tonight's meeting with Breanna meeting she'd scheduled before she realized her mistake.

But now she was gone … and it was too late … George's lips thinned into a grim line. No matter what happened here tonight, he had to convince Sheldrake or, at the very least, give him pause, make him contemplate the possibility of George's innocence. He had to.

Reaching the end of the road, George pulled the phaeton over and left it behind a warehouse.

He'd go the rest of the way by foot.

Warily, he headed toward the Thames, trying to see through the fog and make out the shape of a woman moving along the docks.

All was still.

Pebbles crunched under his feet, and the smell of the river grew stronger, the silence thicker.

The Tower of London was just on the other side of this section of warehouses, he thought, veering to his right. She had to be hiding near here somewhere.

He peered around the corner of the first building he reached, eyeing the deserted area beyond, strewn with empty bottles and a few scurrying rats.

"Breanna?" a tentative voice called. "You're early."

A slender shadow eased out of the shadows about twenty feet away from where George stood. She took a step, then halted when she saw the larger frame of her arrival. "Damen?" she tried. "Is that you?"

"Yes," George hissed back, his whisper too fleeting to be differentiated as his and not Sheldrake's.

"Where's Breanna?" Anastasia took a few more cautious steps in his direction.

It was enough.

"With Sheldrake, I presume," George replied in his normal tone. He lunged forward, grabbed Anastasia's arm. "What's the matter?" he bit out, seeing the shock register on her face. "Aren't you pleased to see your uncle?"

"What are you doing here?" she managed, struggling to free herself.

"You know the answer to that. I'm here to collect what's mine."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stop lying, Anastasia." He dragged her to him, his eyes blazing with rage. "And don't play games with me. Whatever proof you've found, I want it. I want it now."

"And then what?" Anastasia shot back, abandoning all pretense. "Will you throw me on the nearest ship to Calais, ship me off to Rouge?"