The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"And?" George could feel his stomach knot.

"And I went after them as soon as the area was deserted. I missed the first part of their conversation between the noise of the bank and the thickness of the door. But I sure as hell heard the last part."

"Stop playing cat and mouse games with me," George snapped. "Tell me what you heard."

"Two people making plans to spend the rest of their lives together, for starters."

Dead silence. Then: "You'd better explain."

"Your niece and Sheldrake are all but at the altar taking their vows. Your whole plan to see him married to your daughter is never going to happen."

"But his visits to my home … their walks … the way he looks at her…"

"That's Ana

stasia he's looking at, not Breanna." Suddenly realizing the magnitude of the fury he was about to incite, George's contact opted to have a cheroot after all. He shoved it between his lips, lit it with unsteady hands. "Your daughter and niece have been playing games with you," he continued, keeping his tone as light as he could. "Whenever Sheldrake visits, they change places, each one pretending to be the other. That way, Anastasia can spend time with the marquess without any interference from you—given that you believe it's Breanna he's out strolling with."

"What?" Rage contorted George's features. "You're saying…"

"There's more." The other man stabbed out his cheroot, lit another. "Evidently, Anastasia has some suspicions about you. She said something about your being involved in something illegal. I'm not sure what, only that it's criminal. Whatever it is has her all agitated."

George could feel the room spinning. "And she told this to Sheldrake?"

"I don't know what she told him. As I said, I couldn't hear the beginning of their conversation. And at the end … well, at the end they weren't doing very much talking. They were … absorbed in doing other things, shall we say."

"I don't believe this." George dragged a hand over his face, his heart pounding like a drum. "They were carrying on in Sheldrake's office?" His mind wouldn't stay still long enough to wait for a reply. "And Sheldrake—what did he say about Anastasia's suspicions? Did he believe her?"

A shrug. "He seemed more worried about what would happen to her if you found out what she and Breanna were up to. He knew you'd be furious."

George wet his lips, panic washing over him like an icy wave. It dragged him under, and mentally he thrashed about, desperately seeking a buoy to cling to. His wild gaze darted about the room, seeing nothing but the undoing of his life.

Questions erupted, screaming over the roaring in his head in their efforts to be heard. What part of this madness should he focus on first? What should he do first? How much did Anastasia know? What had she discovered in his office? It had to have been in his office—didn't it? Had she recognized Bates? Found something in the files? And how much had she told Sheldrake? Enough to convince him? Had her visit to his bank been to report on the embezzling going on at Colby and Sons, or had it been a prearranged tryst between her and Sheldrake?

The last made uncontrollable rage explode inside George's head, supplanting panic with fury.

The little trollop. All this time. Luring Sheldrake into private alcoves on the grounds of Medford Manor. Convincing Breanna to help her. Wresting away the final chance George had to restore himself and his fortune.

Henry's fortune … their father's fortune … the company … now Sheldrake…

Hatred, absolute and consuming, boiled up inside him, spilling over rather than abating. It extinguished all traces of panic and fear, permeated his very being with its intensity.

And in that frozen moment, George made his decision. He'd see the bitch in hell.

"Medford, I'm getting you a drink." Observing the play of emotions on George's face, his mottled color, the other man signaled to a barmaid, gestured for her to bring two ales to the table.

Dutifully, she complied.

"Down that," the other man instructed, shoving the mug toward George. "I don't care what it tastes like. You need a drink."

"You're right," George replied in an odd, tight voice, staring at the mug for a long unseeing moment before grasping its handle, tossing down the entire contents in a few gulps. "I need a drink—and a great deal more. She thinks she's won, the wanton bitch, that she's taken it all. Well, she's about to learn otherwise. I'll see her dead before I let her destroy my life. Dead." He slammed the mug to the table, undeterred by the few nearby sailors who turned to gape. At this point he didn't give a damn if he were noticed or not.

"Is there something I can do to help?" his contact asked carefully.

The question echoed eerily in George's head. Help? No, he didn't need help. He needed Anastasia to die—to die and take the threats and memories with her. Then, it would finally be over.

"Medford?" the other man pressed.

"No," George bit out. "You can't help. Not unless killing people is also your forte. Because my survival is contingent upon Anastasia's untimely death. Interested?" he added scornfully.