The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"You and Sheldrake seem to be of the same mind with regard to many things," George bit out, a vein throbbing at his temple.

Anastasia's brows lifted. "I don't understand."

"Oh, I think you do. Especially given the amount of time you and he spent together at your coming-out party."

"He's the administrator of my inheritance, and now my business partner. Of course we spent time together."

"And that's all there is to it?"

"What else could there be?"

Thunderclouds erupted on George's face, and he sliced the air with his palm. "Don't be coy with me, Anastasia. I'm not stupid. Nor are you. So I'll spell out the situation for you. I intend for Lord Sheldrake to marry Breanna. In fact, I expect to be announcing their betrothal any day now. Your cousin will have a wonderful life with the marquess. He'll give her everything she could ever want or need. And I don't plan to let anything, or anyone, stand between them. Am I making myself clear?"

Anastasia swallowed—hard—keeping her expression as nondescript as possible. "Perfectly clear."

"Good. I'll hold you to that. One, because I know how much Breanna's happiness means to you, and two, because I know you'd never purposely undermine me. Not when you know how dire the consequences could be. And I do mean dire."

A chill ran up Anastasia's spine at the biting intensity of her uncle's words. She stared at him, trying to decipher his precise state of mind. She saw bitterness and anger in his eyes, as well as a dislike and resentment that was far older than she. But she also saw desperation—a desperation she couldn't quite fathom.

What was prompting it? Was it simply a grasping desire for Damen's money and power—greed combined with a need for retribution? Or was it more? Just how depleted were Uncle George's personal funds? Colby and Sons might be flourishing, but that told her nothing about what her uncle did with his portion of the profits, nor about how he handled any of his personal investments. Damen himself had bluntly told her he didn't have much faith in her uncle's business acumen, adding that he suspected her uncle might be struggling financially. Just how badly was he struggling? Enough to breed this level of desperation?

A sixth sense told Anastasia there was more here than met the eye.

"I take your silence to signify agreement." Her uncle interrupted her thoughts, his gaze narrowed on her face. "Am I correct?"

Careful, Anastasia. Don't provoke him. Not until you have all the facts. He'll only take it out on Breanna.

"You know how deeply I care for Breanna." She lowered her chin in a gesture of compliance. "I'd never do anything to stand in the way of her happiness. Never."

"Fine. Then we understand each other."

Anastasia nodded, still staring at the carpet. "Yes, Uncle George. We understand each other very well."

* * *

"Was it as bad as I expected?" Breanna asked the minute Stacie slipped into her room that night. Anxiously, she scrutinized her cousin, returning the porcelain figurine she'd been holding to the top of her nightstand.

Anastasia shrugged, tying her wrapper more firmly about her waist and pacing restlessly about. "Let's say there were no surprises."

She headed toward a chair, pausing to glance at her cousin's nightstand. A reminiscent smile touched her lips, and she walked over, gingerly touching the porcelain horse that had always been Breanna's favorite. "Every one of them, just as I remembered," she murmured, her gaze shifting to the bureau where rows of delicate figurines stood—tiny statues depicting everything from children to animals to vases with flowers. "The entire collection, as if time stood still. Then again, I suppose for these beautiful statues, it does."

"There are a few you haven't seen. I added them over the years." Breanna pointed out the new additions, including one of two little girls, laughing and picking flowers. "This one reminded me of us," she said, lifting it up and cradling it tenderly in her hands. "

I first saw it about a year after you left England. I admired it in the shop window for months. I fully intended to save my pence, one at a time, until I could buy it. But Wells—dear man that he is—surprised me instead. He bought it for me that Christmas. It's the most precious figure in my collection. If you look closely, you'll see why."

Quizzically, Anastasia inclined her head, taking the porcelain object and inspecting it up close. Two little girls, their bright heads bent over the row of flowers they were picking.

A glistening object caught Anastasia's eye, and she peered closer, spotting the sliver of metal wedged between the flowers and the children.

The silver coin.

She reached out, touched it ever so gently. "So this is where you kept it. I thought it was under the base of your porcelain horse."

"It was. Until Wells bought me this. It reminded me so much of us, I couldn't help but feel the coin belonged here."

A tender nod. "The gold coin is still in my jewel box—the one Mama got me when I was four. It was supposed to hold my hairpins and ribbons, so I'd find them in time to make my hair look presentable when need be. Of course, I lost every ribbon and hairpin I ever owned, so the box was never used for that. Instead, I kept my treasures in it: that wonderful multicolored stone you and I found near Medford Manor's pond, that odd-shaped leaf I plucked off our oak—things like that. Years later, I added new, equally precious treasures: every letter I received from you when I was in America, special mementos of Mama and Papa. The gold coin has never left that box. Except when I needed to see it, touch it, hold it to feel closer to Grandfather—and to believe that you and I really would be reunited one day."

"Well, now we are." Breanna's voice was choked, and Anastasia felt her own heart constrict with emotion.