Andrea Kane (2 page)

“We won’t be staying,” George said, cutting her off, his jaw clenching even tighter as he faced his brother’s wife. “So you needn’t bother.”

She winced at the harshness of his tone and the bitterness that glittered in his eyes. But she answered him quietly, and without averting her gaze. “It’s late, George. Surely your trip can wait until morning.”

“It could. I choose for it not to.”

Anastasia and Breanna exchanged glances. They both hated this part most of all—the icy antagonism Breanna’s father displayed when forced to address his brother’s wife.

The antagonism
and
its guaranteed outcome.

They’d be split up again soon. And Lord knew when they’d see each other next.

Quickly, Breanna rose. “Breanna and I will wait in the blue salon, Uncle George,” she said, still playing the part of her cousin. “We’ll stay there until you’re ready to leave.”

George was too caught up in his thoughts to spare her more than a cursory nod.

It was all the girls needed.

Without giving him an instant to change his mind, they scampered out of the room. Pausing only to heave sighs of relief, they bolted down the hall and dashed into the blue salon.

“We were wonderful!” Anastasia squealed, plopping onto the sofa. “Even
I
wasn’t sure who was who after a while.”

Breanna laughed softly. “Nor I,” she agreed, squirming onto the cushion alongside her cousin.

“Let’s make a pact,” Anastasia piped up suddenly. “Whenever we’re together and one of us gets in trouble— the kind of trouble that would go away if people believed I was you or you were me—let’s switch places like we did tonight. Okay?”

After a brief instant of consideration, Breanna arched a brow. “Good for me, but what about you? When could you ever be in enough trouble to need to be me?”

“You never know.”

“I suppose not.” Breanna sounded decidedly unconvinced.

“So? Is it a pact?” Anastasia pressed, bouncing up and down on the sofa.

Apparently her enthusiasm was contagious, because abruptly Breanna grinned. “It’s a pact.”

With proper formality they shook hands.

A knock interrupted their private moment together.

“Girls?” Their grandfather entered the salon, closing the door behind him. “May I speak with you both for a moment?”

“Of course, Grandfather.” Anastasia eased over and patted the space between her and Breanna, a curious glint in her eye. “Come sit with Brea—with Stacie and me,” she hastily rectified.

“Thank you—Anastasia.” With a whisper of a smile, the viscount lowered himself between the girls, chuckling as he saw surprise, then disappointment, flash across Anastasia’s face.

“You knew?” she demanded.

“Of course, my headstrong Stacie.
I
knew,” he clarified, leaning over and patting each of their hands. “But no one else did. Especially not your father,” he assured Breanna. “A brilliant tactic on both your parts. I do, however, suggest you swap frocks right after our chat, in case your visit is cut short. I’ll do my best to keep peace in the library, but I’m not sure how long your fathers will stay in the same room together.”

“Good idea,” Anastasia agreed at once.

“Not good,” Breanna amended with utter resignation. “Just wise.”

Both girls fell silent.

A shadow crossed the viscount’s face, and he gazed sadly from Anastasia to Breanna and back. “You’re both extraordinarily special. I only wish your fathers could share the bond you do. But I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why do they fight, Grandfather?” Breanna asked. “And why does Papa dislike Aunt Anne so much?”

The viscount sighed, feeling far older than his sixty years. What could he say? How could he tell them the truth when they were far too young to understand?

He couldn’t.

But what he could do was to ensure their futures. Their futures and that of the Colby family.

“Tell me, girls,” he asked, “which would you value more, gold or silver?”

Anastasia shrugged. “That depends on which of us you ask. I love gold—it’s the color of the sun when it rises and the stars when they glow in the sky. Breanna loves silver—it’s the color of the trim on her favorite porcelain horse, and the color of the necklace and earrings her mama left her.”

“It’s also the color of the pond here at nighttime,” Breanna pointed out. “When the moon hits it, it looks all silvery and magical.”

Their grandfather’s smile was gentle. “I’m glad you feel so much at home at Medford Manor,” he said, moved by the irony that neither of his granddaughters had equated value with actual monetary worth. “You do know that gold is worth more than silver, like a sovereign is worth more than a crown?”

Breanna frowned. “Of course. Father says things like that all the time. But that’s not what you asked.”

“No,” the viscount agreed in an odd tone. “It’s not, is it?” With that, he dug into his pocket, extracted two shiny objects, one silver, one gold. “Do you see what I have here?”

Both girls leaned closer, studying the objects. “They’re coins,” Anastasia announced.

“Indeed they are. Identical coins, other than the fact that one is silver, the other gold.” He held them closer. “They’re also very special. Can you see what’s engraved on them?”

“That’s Medford Manor!” Anastasia exclaimed, pointing. “On both coins.”

“Um-hum. And on the back of each coin is the Colby family crest.” The viscount caressed each veneer lovingly, then slipped the gold coin into Anastasia’s hand, the silver one into Breanna’s. “They remind me of you two: very much alike and yet so very different, each unique and rare, both worth far more than any bank’s holdings.” He squeezed their little fingers, closing them around their respective coins. “I want you both to promise me something.”

“Of course.” Breanna’s eyes were wide.

“Each of you hold on to your coin. They’re special gifts, from me to you. Keep them safe, somewhere you’ll always be able to find them. Don’t tell anyone else about the coins, or about your hiding places. We’ll make the whole thing our secret. All right?”

Solemnly, the girls nodded.

The viscount gazed intently from one girl to the other. “The day may come when you’re asked to give up your coins, for what might seem to be a very good reason, even one that’s offered by someone you trust. Don’t do it. Don’t
ever,
under any circumstances, give the coins to anyone else, not even to your fathers.” His mouth thinned into a grim line. “They wouldn’t understand the coins’ significance, anyway. But you will—perhaps not now, not entirely, for you’re too young. Someday, however, you will. These coins represent each of you, and your commitment to our family. Wherever your lives take you, let them remind you of this moment and bring you back together again, to renew our family name and sustain it, knowing that you yourselves are the riches that bequeath it its value. Do that for me—and for each other.”

Somehow both girls understood the importance, if not the full meaning, of what they were being asked. Together, they murmured, “We will, Grandfather.”

“Good.” With that, he rose, kissing the tops of each of their heads. “I’ll leave you now, so you can exchange clothes. Remember what I said: you’re extraordinarily special. I don’t doubt you’ll accomplish all your fathers didn’t and more.” He straightened, regarding them for a long, thoughtful moment. “I only wish I could make your paths home easier,” he murmured half to himself.

Crossing the room, he stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind him to ensure the girls’ privacy and protect them from discovery. Then he veered toward the entranceway, determined to complete one crucial task before returning to the library to assume his role as peacemaker.

“Wells,” he summoned, beckoning to his butler.

“Yes, sir?”

The viscount withdrew a sealed envelope from his coat pocket. “Have this delivered to my solicitor at once. It’s imperative that he receive it—and that I receive written confirmation of that fact.”

“I’ll see to it immediately, my lord,” Wells replied.

Nodding, the viscount handed over the envelope, fully aware of how drastic an action he was taking, how explosive the results might be.

He only prayed the rewards would outweigh the consequences.

S
HE WAS HOME.

Glancing out the carriage window, Anastasia drank in the sprawling countryside and the lovingly familiar roads of Kent, the winding path of oak trees and lush, colorful gardens that led to Medford Manor.

More than ten years had passed since she’d last been here. And yet she remembered that final day as if it were yesterday—a foggy, drizzly March morning when she and her parents had left England.

It had been the worst day of her life.

No, actually it had been a culmination of worst days, beginning a fortnight earlier when her beloved grandfather had died. Then had come the funeral—where she’d wept and wept—and the reading of the will, a formality that did nothing to ease her hollow sense of loss. She and Breanna had huddled together in the back of Mr. Fenshaw’s office, alternately crying and comforting each other as the solicitor summarized the provisions their grandfather had made—something about dividing his assets in half and passing ownership of Colby and Sons to their fathers, to be shared equally.

Those are only things,
Anastasia had wanted to scream.
None of them can bring Grandfather back.

But she’d bitten her lip, swallowed her grief, and said nothing.

The next day, the unthinkable had happened.

Her father had taken her aside, explained that he, Mama, and she were about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime. They were sailing for the States, opening an American branch of Colby and Sons in the thriving city of Philadelphia, starting a whole new life in a whole new country.

Anastasia had understood—far more than he’d realized.

With Grandfather’s passing, the Colby family had ceased to exist. The final vestiges of it had died along with him, been dispensed along with his possessions. Uncle George and her father no longer had a reason to strive for the mutual tolerance they’d exerted during their father’s lifetime. In fact, they wanted nothing more than to put an ocean between them.

Well, to her father that might have meant new beginnings and the thrill of expansion.

To Anastasia, it had meant something entirely different: that she’d never see Breanna again.

Which was why, on that foggy spring morning, she’d felt as if she were living a nightmare. She was bidding a final farewell to everything she held dear: Grandfather, England, Medford Manor—and Breanna.

She and her cousin had exchanged a tearful good-bye on the steps of Medford Manor—a brief one, given that Uncle George refused to take Breanna to see them off. Not only didn’t he share her anguish, he was also far too busy moving into his new home. He was, after all, the new Viscount Medford, a title he’d craved for years and which passed to him by right since he was older than his twin by twelve minutes.

Thus, Breanna and Anastasia had parted, hugging each other fiercely, exchanging their good-bye’s amid promises to write every week.

They’d kept their word.

Throughout the years, weekly letters had sailed back and forth from England to the States, as the girls kept each other apprised of their lives. How different those lives had become—Breanna being groomed for the role of a proper English lady and Anastasia enjoying the slightly less sophisticated but more independent role afforded by life in Philadelphia. She’d never quite felt she belonged; she wasn’t an American, for England was still, would always be, her home. Yet she wasn’t a traditional English noblewoman either. And while she never stopped yearning for her country, she had to admit she felt a tremendous admiration for the American ideals and those who held them.

She’d also seen a thousand opportunities for expansion in the States; a great untapped world of natural resources to cultivate and trade. She’d asked her father dozens of questions, learned as much as she could about Colby and Sons: what an import and export company did, the kinds of goods her father traded, the contacts he made, even the lengths he went to to ensure neutral trade continued during the years America and Britain were at war.

Abruptly, eighteen months after the war ended, Anastasia’s foundation was snatched away. Her mother died of a fever, leaving her father grief-stricken and in shock. He never recovered. Eight months later, he passed away in his sleep, leaving Anastasia utterly, excruciatingly, alone.

Henry Colby’s American solicitor, Mr. Carter, had sent for Anastasia, explaining that her father’s will was held in England, given that Henry had assumed his daughter would choose to return there upon his death. However, if such was not the case, Mr. Fenshaw could forward the will to Philadelphia, where Mr. Carter would read it.

Anastasia had smiled softly, realizing how well her father had understood where her heart was. She’d thanked Mr. Carter, arranged to have him continue to oversee her father’s local assets and to act as the American agent to Colby and Sons—a role he’d been groomed for—then packed her bags and booked passage on the next packet ship to Liverpool.

Breanna’s letter had arrived in Philadelphia that very day, begging Anastasia to come home, to come straight to Medford Manor and move in with them.
Even Father agrees this is the best thing for you,
she’d added with a touch of ironic amusement.

Gratefully, Anastasia had decided to do just that. The last thing she wanted was to be totally alone. And being with Breanna again would bring great joy at a dismal time.

The ship had docked three days ago, at which time Uncle George’s carriage had been ready and waiting. She’d spied the family crest instantly, and had nearly wept with happiness at the familiar sight.

She hadn’t minded the length of the drive from Liverpool to Kent. She’d used the time to savor the winding country roads, the quaint villages and towns the carriage rolled through. She’d reacquainted herself with her country, reveled in the sheer joy of being back after more than a decade away.