The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

Dammit, he had to find her.

Furiously, George polished off his next brandy, then slammed down his empty goblet and abandoned it, for the time being.

There was only one place to turn to for answers. Because if anyone knew Anastasia's plans, her whereabouts, it was her loving cousin.

Fine. He'd get his information from Breanna.

He made his way down the hall and toward the stairway, pausing to grip the banister and right the dizziness in his head. He probably shouldn't have had that last brandy. He needed his wits about him so he'd recall every word Breanna said, as well as what she didn't say. And if she dared lie to him… His hand balled into a trembling fist. If she did, he'd thrash her.

"Can I help you with something, sir?" Wells approached the stairway, hands clasped behind his back.

"H-m-m?" George scowled at the butler. "Help me? No … yes. You can tell me where Breanna is."

Wells pursed his lips, his astute gaze flickering over his employer, taking in his besotted state, as well as the fact that he was angry. Very angry. "I believe Lady Breanna went upstairs to rest, my lord. She'd gone for an afternoon ride. And the sun is unusually strong today. She looked quite peaked when she returned. My guess is she's already asleep."

"Then I'll just have to awaken her." Ignoring Wells's protest, George climbed the stairs, rounded the second-floor landing, and marched down to Breanna's chambers.

He rapped purposefully at the door, simultaneously twisting the handle, only to find the door was bolted. "Yes?" Breanna's voice was muffled, as if she had indeed been asleep.

"It's your father. Let me in at once."

Some muffled sounds, then footsteps as Breanna crossed the room. She turned the bolt and opened the door, peeking into the hall, her wrapper clutched tightly about her. "Can it wait, Father? I was resting."

"No. It can't." He shoved past her, striding into the room and veering about to face her. "I want to hear everything you know about Anastasia."

Breanna blinked, smoothing back her hair. "I don't understand what you mean. She explained everything in the note."

"Don't toy with me, daughter." George massaged his temples, feeling rage pound through his skull like gunfire. "I don't believe a word of that note. I want the truth. And I want it now."

With a wary expression, Breanna walked back toward her bed, doubtless considering her answer. She perched on a side chair, reaching for the cup of chocolate that was sitting atop her nightstand. "I don't know what truth you mean, Father. As I told you, Stacie didn't confide in me. She probably knew I'd try to talk her out of leaving—which I would have, given how long we've been apart. But you know how headstrong she is. She must have decided this was the best way to follow Lord Sheldrake's instructions without upsetting…"

"Sheldrake would never have sent her to oversee that bank," George bit out.

"He trusts Stacie," Breanna reasoned quietly. "She understands business better than most men do. And it is half her investment she's protecting."

"And what of the investment she's leaving behind?" he sneered. "Her personal financial adviser, the marquess. Her partner in business and in bed."

Breanna's eyes widened. "I don't know what you mean."

"Damn you, Breanna." George lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders and hauling her to her feet. He shook her—hard—sending her cup and saucer clattering to the floor. "I won't be lied to, do you understand? I want to know where Anastasia is. Did she really leave England? Where did she go—to the Continent? Is she doing something with that inheritance of hers?" His hand drew back, and he slapped Breanna across the face, not once but twice, sending her head jerking sideways from the impact. "Where is she?"

"You've had too much to drink, Father." Breanna twisted herself free, a defiant light flickering in her eyes as she rubbed her smarting cheeks. "I think we should discuss this later."

"We'll discuss this now." George reached into his pocket and flourished a strap. He gripped Breanna's arm, twisting her around so her back was to him. "I'll ask you again, where is Anastasia, and what were her real reasons for le

aving?"

Breanna went rigid. "And I'll answer you again, I don't know anything more than you do."

The strap lashed out, striking Breanna's back and biting through the delicate material of her gown and wrapper, which did little to buffer the pain. She flinched, cried out.

"Answer me!" George bellowed.

It was as if something inside her snapped.

In one swift motion, Breanna wrenched herself away and yanked open the nightstand drawer. Whirling about, she faced her father, a pistol gripped tightly in her hands. "Don't strike me again," she commanded.

George's jaw dropped, and he stared at her, as taken aback by the vehemence of her tone as he was by the weapon in her hand.