Prologue
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Kent, England August 1803
They made the pact when they were six.
They hadn't planned on making it. But drastic circumstances required drastic actions. And drastic circumstances were precisely what they found themselves in on that fateful night.
Fearfully, the two little girls hesitated at the doorway.
Crackling tension permeated the dining room. They peeked inside, freezing in their tracks as angry voices assailed them. They scooted backward, pressing themselves flat against the wall so as not to be spied.
"What the hell is wrong with discussing profits?" Lord George Colby barked, his sharp words hurled at his brother. "The fact that our business is making a fortune should please you as much as it does me."
"Tonight is not about profits, George," Lord Henry reminded him in a voice that was taut with repressed ire. "It's about family."
"Family? As in brotherly devotion?" A mocking laugh. "Don't insult me, Henry. The business is the only meaningful thing you and I share."
"You're right. More and more right every day. And I'm getting damned tired of trying to change that."
"Well, so much for sentiment," George noted scornfully. "And so much for this whole sham of a reunion."
"It wasn't meant to be a reunion." Clearly, Henry was striving for control. "It's Father's sixtieth birthday celebration. Or had you forgotten?"
"I've forgotten nothing. Nothing. Have you?"
The pointed barb sank in, blanketing the room in silence.
"They're fighting loud," Anastasia hissed, inching farther away from the doorway, and shoving one unruly auburn tress off her face. "Especially Uncle George. We're in trouble. Big trouble."
"I know." Her cousin Breanna gazed down at herself, her delicate features screwed up in distress as she surveyed her soiled party frock—which was identical to Anastasia's, only much filthier. "Father sounds really mad. And if he sees I got all dirty … and ruined the dress Grandfather gave me…" She began rubbing furiously at the mud and grass stains, pausing only to wipe streaks of dirt from her forearms.
Anastasia watched, chewing her lip, knowing this whole disaster was her fault. She'd been the one who insisted they sneak out of Medford Manor to play while the grown-ups talked. Now she wished she'd never suggested it. In fact, she wished it had been she, rather than Breanna, who had fallen into the puddle outside. Her father would have forgiven her. He was gentle and kind—well, at least when it came to her. When it came to almost everyone, in fact. Except for one person: his brother. He and Uncle George, though twins, were practically enemies.
Maybe that was because they were so different—except for their looks, which were identical, right down to their vivid coloring: jade green eyes and thick cinnamon hair, both of which she and Breanna had inherited. But in every other way their fathers were like day and night. Her own father had a quick mind and an easy nature. He embraced life, creative business ventures, and his family, while Uncle George was stiff in manner, rigid in expectations, and downright intimidating when crossed.
Especially when the one who crossed him was his daughter.
"Stacie!" Breanna's frantic hiss yanked Anastasia out of her reverie. "What should I do?"
Anastasia was used to being the one whose ideas got them both in and out of trouble. But this time the trouble they'd be facing was bad. And the person who'd be paying the price would be Breanna. Well, that was something Anastasia couldn't—wouldn't—allow.
Her mind began racing, seeking ways to keep Uncle George from seeing Breanna—or at least from seeing her frock.