The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"An ally," Damen muttered. "I'm hardly that."

"But Father doesn't know that, at least not yet."

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"Where is Uncle George now?" Anastasia asked.

"With Mr. Lyman," Breanna supplied. "Wells said that's who Father dashed off a note to last night."

Anastasia and Damen exchanged glances.

"He's arranging for Meade to find me," Anastasia murmured, catching her lower lip between her teeth. "That doesn't give us much time. The ship I allegedly took is only one day ahead of him. And how many ships could have left for the States in that amount of time? Not many."

"You didn't necessarily have to have boarded a packet ship. You could just as easily have paid your way on a smaller craft," Damen pointed out. "Lyman will have to check every ship's manifest. He and Meade still have their work cut out for them."

"I'm not sure they'll be looking at all," Breanna inserted.

Anastasia's head whipped around. "What do you mean?"

Her cousin frowned, rubbing her gloved palms together. "Something Father said last night really puzzled me. I haven't been able to get it out of my mind."

"What did he say?"

"While he was accusing me of knowing your whereabouts, he demanded to know if you'd truly left England. He seemed to think you might not have. I tried to convince him that it was perfectly natural for you to be going to Philadelphia since it was half your investment you'd be protecting. He sneered at me and asked, 'What of the investment she's leaving behind? Her personal financial adviser, the marquess. Her partner in business and in bed.' I realize Father was drunk, but his words were quite lucid." Breanna gazed anxiously at her cousin. "He wasn't guessing, Stacie. It's as if he knew you and Damen are involved. But how could he?"

A ponderous silence, punctuated only by the clack-clack of the carriage wheels.

Abruptly, Damen muttered an oath, his fist striking his knee with furious awareness. "He did know about Stacie and me," he bit out. "How? From his informant."

"What informant?" Breanna demanded.

"The one in my bank."

Breanna sucked in her breath. "You'd better explain."

Tersely, Damen told her about the letter he'd received from his Paris office, and the information it conveyed, as well as what that information signified. He leaned forward, growing more definitive as he spoke. "Think about it. For the past few weeks, you and Anastasia have switched places every time I visited Medford Manor. Your father believed it was you I was courting, and he was thrilled with our presumably whirlwind courtship. If he'd realized the truth … well, suffice it to say, he would have made us aware of that realization. So, up to and including my latest visit, he had no idea it was really Stacie I was with. Right?"

"Right," Breanna concurred.

"Now let's get to Stacie and me. It was only during the last few days that we've let down our guard, spent any intimate time together. And where were we? At my bank, in my office." A muscle worked in Damen's jaw. "Which means that our secret is out. And that it was discovered at the House of Lockewood."

"Of course," Anastasia breathed, her eyes wide with realization. "That explains what pushed Uncle George over the edge. Not only was he worried about losing Papa's inheritance, he was now frantic about losing you, too. That's what he meant when he told Bates about his plan, and added the part about how he'd be getting the perfect son-in-law from this transaction. He must have just found out we'd been deceiving him."

"Yes. And he found out from one of my bank officers." Damen's voice was rough with anger and betrayal. "There's no other explanation, Stacie. No one but my officers have keys to that door marked 'Private.' Only they have access to my office area, which was the only place we talked and acted in any intimate manner. Whoever this son of a bitch is, he's someone I trust. He's also a duplicitous cad who's using my bank to communicate with Rouge and spy on me."

Anastasia inclined her head, her brows drawn in mystification. "There's a hole in that logic. If what you're saying is true, if this informant eavesdropped on our private conversations, then he'd certainly rush off and tell Uncle George everything he'd overheard, including our suspicions of my uncle's guilt. Well, if that's the case, why is Uncle George still counting on your welcoming him with open arms as your father-in-law? That makes no sense."

Damen stared broodingly at the carriage floor, analyzing Anastasia's well-taken point, and trying to remember the last few meetings the two of them had shared. "My office door was shut," he recalled aloud. "Maybe only snatches of what we said were audible. Or maybe George's snitch didn't wait around long for fear of getting caught. I don't know. But think about it. It wouldn't take more than thirty seconds of eavesdropping to figure out the way we feel about each other. That's the only explanation I can come up with. He knows some part of the truth, but not all of it." A scowl. "The question is, how much is some?"

Her mind darting from the issues to the suspects, Anastasia zeroed in on a possibility. "Damen, do you think it could be Booth? I've mentioned to you before how uneasy he makes me. He seems to hover around whenever you and I are together. On my last visit, he greeted me in the lobby and stayed right by my side, flattering my appearance, until you rescued me. A short while later, when Cunnings interrupted us to look for Mr. Crompton's portfolio, Booth magically appeared in your office doorway and flourished it. I told you—there's something about that man, the way he ogles me, rambles on and on about my beauty, and about Breanna's." Anastasia paused, chewed her lip. "Maybe he hasn't been ogling me at all. Maybe he's been spying for my uncle."

"Mr. Booth?" Breanna interrupted in surprise. "I never thought of him as anything but harmless. You're right about the flattery; he's been very solicitous of me on those few occasions when I visited the bank with Father. Still, a spy for Father? That's hard to imagine."

"I agree," Damen said. "And not out of a stubborn sense of loyalty, by the way. Hell, at this point, I don't know who to trust." He considered the notion, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Booth has a keen mind when it comes to managing money. But he's very awkward around people—too awkward, I think, to serve George's purpose." A slight shrug. "Then again, my instincts are apparently more flawed than I realized. Maybe Booth is guilty. Maybe he's a superb actor. I don't know."

"We'll figure it out." Gently, Anastasia wrapped her fingers around Damen's. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know how hard this is for you. But at least what Breanna's told us narrows down our search." She paused, watching his expression. "Damen, this doesn't demean your instincts. None of us is clearheaded when it comes to those we trust. And in your case, the handful of men who are now potential suspects have been valued colleagues—and friends—for years."

"You're right." Damen kissed her gloved fingertips, his brooding supplanted by determination. "And not just about my instincts. About the fact that we've narrowed down the choices. There are only four men—five, if you count Graff—who have access to my office. I'll do thorough checks on all of them, find out if they've come into any recent funds from unknown sources, if they've been seen coming and going from their homes at unusual hours. By tomorrow, we'll have our informant."