Andrea Kane (21 page)

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

Her gaze returned to the exquisite figure in her hands, and she studied the tiny glazed sculpture. Two girls, sharing laughter and confidences, and an absolute trust that not even distance could sever.

A trust as precious as the gold and silver coins themselves—and all they represented.

“Breanna, we need to talk.” On that thought Anastasia acted, setting down the delicate statue and marching over to the bed. She perched at the edge, her expression determined.

Nodding, Breanna gathered up the folds of her night robe, tucking them around her as she lowered herself to the armchair alongside the bed. “Tell me what Father said,” she urged, her green eyes searching Anastasia’s face.

“He lectured me about approaching his guests on such a scandalous matter as business. He interrogated me about my partnership with Lord Sheldrake. And he warned me not to come between you and the marquess.” Anastasia dispensed with the facts as quickly as possible, sensitive to Breanna’s concern, yet focused on getting at the more significant matter of Damen, and how Breanna perceived—or
didn’t
perceive—her future with him.

“I see,” Breanna reflected aloud. “And did you set Father straight about Lord Sheldrake?”

There it was again. That feeling that Breanna was referring to something far deeper than that which they’d already discussed.

“That depends on what you mean by setting Uncle George straight,” Anastasia replied, carefully gauging her cousin’s reaction. “I apologized for upsetting his guests. With regard to Damen, I told him the truth about our partnership…”

“And about your feelings for each other? Did you tell him about those, as well?”

Anastasia caught her lower lip between her teeth, taken aback—not by Breanna’s insight, but about the forthright way she gave voice to it. It was unlike her cousin to be so direct. Then again, it was better that she’d chosen this opportunity to be as such. This issue needed to be resolved—now.

“No,” Anastasia responded, equally blunt. “I said nothing about my feelings. For many reasons.” She scrutinized Breanna’s expression, looking for some sign—any sign—that her cousin was upset. But all she saw there was curiosity; curiosity and a touch of confusion. “Breanna,” she blurted, leaning forward and clutching the folds of her robe. “I’d rather die than hurt you. I wish you hadn’t guessed my feelings, because I’m determined to know yours before I even allow myself to contemplate mine. If you love this man, if you
could
love this man, if you can even imagine—by some remote chance—that you might be happy with him …”

“Stop right there,” Breanna interrupted, holding up a deterring palm. “Is that what’s holding you back?
My
feelings?” Shaking her head, she reached over, took Anastasia’s hand in hers. “I already told you there’s nothing between the marquess and me. He’s a charming, charismatic man. He’s been very kind about diffusing Father’s anger—pretending to be captivated by me, spending hours at my side. But, Stacie, I have no romantic interest in Lord Sheldrake.” An impish grin.
“You,
on the other hand, do. And as for the marquess, he’s so smitten, he can scarcely tear himself from your side.”

“Did he actually tell you that?” Anastasia heard herself ask.

Breanna’s eyes twinkled. “No. But he stepped on my feet four times when you were dancing with Lord Percy. Also, twice he mistakenly called me by your name—and not because he didn’t know who he was dancing with.”

Despite her best intentions, Anastasia couldn’t deny the rush of pleasure that revelation brought. Still…

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Stacie,” Breanna assured her softly. “Not about something as important as this. I’d sooner challenge you for the marquess’s affections—
if
I had feelings for him. Not because I’d place my needs above yours, but because I know you’d forever blame yourself if I forfeited a man I cared for just to ensure your happiness. But that’s not the case. So put the notion out of your head.” Her grip tightened, her cheeks glowing with excitement. “Instead, tell me what it feels like. Has he kissed you yet?”

Anastasia’s lips curved as relief swept through her—relief more powerful than even she’d anticipated. “Yes. I thought my knees were going to buckle.” She eased back, tugged her hand free to run it through her tumbled waves of hair. “It’s all happening so fast—and I’m not even sure what
it
is.”

A dubious glance. “Aren’t you?”

“No. All I know is that I want to find out.” Abruptly, Anastasia’s smile faded. “But I can’t. Not with Uncle George as vehement as he is.”

“Don’t be a fool, Stacie. You never let Father stop you before. You certainly can’t start now, not when your whole future could be at stake.”

“It’s
your
future I’m worrying about—and what will happen to it if your father discovers the truth.”

Breanna’s jaw set in that rare but unyielding way of hers. “He’ll get over it. He’ll have to.”

“I doubt it will be as simple as that. Not given all the instigating factors involved.” Anastasia paused, knowing it was time to fill Breanna in on the pieces of the past she’d never been told, praying it wouldn’t cause her cousin too much distress. “This adamancy of Uncle George’s is prompted by more than just his plans for you, even more than his plans for himself. It’s prompted by feelings of bitterness and resentment that began over two decades ago and have sprouted like ugly weeds ever since.”

“You’re talking about our fathers’ hostility for each other,” Breanna murmured. Her forehead creased with puzzlement. “You think Father wants to wed me to Lord Sheldrake just to outdo Uncle Henry?”

“Not to outdo him—to punish him. More specifically, to punish him through me.”

“Now you’ve lost me. How would my marrying Lord Sheldrake punish Uncle Henry? It might satisfy some warped need on Father’s part to attain a higher level of power and position than Uncle Henry ever did. But that’s all.”

“No, that’s not all.” Slowly, Anastasia rose to her feet, gripping the bedpost and turning to face her cousin. “Uncle George hated Papa for more than just their differing principles. He hated him for marrying Mama.”

A baffled pucker formed between Breanna’s brows. “It’s no secret that Father disliked Aunt Anne. You and I both sensed that, even as children. But how does his dislike for her …” Abruptly, her eyes widened. “You know the reason for that animosity, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Anastasia confirmed. She paused, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and provided the truth. “It was because Uncle George wanted—no, expected—that it would be
he
who wed Mama.”

Breanna started. “What?”

“Mama told me the whole story several years ago.” Anastasia leaned her head against the bedpost. “Evidently, she was introduced to Uncle George during her very first London Season. He began courting her, intent on winning her hand. A month later she and Papa met. It was by sheer chance. She was coming out of a shop on Bond Street when she saw a man—whom she presumed to be Uncle George—leap from the path of a speeding carriage. He fell against a lamppost, twisting his ankle in the process, after which he crept to a nearby bench to nurse the swelling. Naturally, Mama hurried over to help—only to discover that the victim was not Uncle George, but his twin brother. They fell in love during that first chance encounter. Papa tried everything to make Uncle George understand, but to no avail. He never forgave either of my parents.”

“Nevertheless, they married,” Breanna murmured, the pieces falling rapidly into place. “And Father’s hatred festered. That explains so much: why he always acted so strained around Aunt Anne; why he never stayed in the room with her unless he had to.” A quizzical tilt of her head. “Did he love my mother? Or did he marry her as a substitute for Aunt Anne?”

Anastasia chewed her lip. “I honestly don’t know. Your parents got married a few months after Mama wed Papa.”

“Our mothers were sisters. They looked so much alike. They were only a year apart. And Father married my mother right after he lost Aunt Anne to Uncle Henry. Surely that can’t all have been a coincidence.”

“Knowing Uncle George, I’d have to agree.” Anastasia frowned, intent on clarifying what she
did
know. “I’ve hesitated telling you this because I didn’t want to upset you. But, Breanna, please believe this: you
were
wanted. Quite fiercely, from what Mama told me. Aunt Dorothy was a gentle, caring person. She yearned with all her heart for a child—possibly so she could share her love with someone who craved it, given that her husband undoubtedly didn’t. If she were still alive, I’m sure …”

“Stacie, don’t.” Breanna waved away her cousin’s assurances. “I don’t doubt that my mother wanted me. Aunt Anne told me stories about her, too—as did Wells. Enough so that I know what kind of a person she was, and how eagerly she awaited my birth. As for my father, I also recognize what kind of a person he is. Still, it’s crucial that I know all the details of the past so I can comprehend why Father hated—
hates
…” she corrected herself. “… Uncle Henry so vehemently. What you just divulged saddens me, but it doesn’t shock or wound me.”

“I’m glad.” Anastasia felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, until she remembered why she’d told Breanna the truth in the first place. “Surely now you realize why Uncle George is so hellbent on winning this battle to see you become Mrs. Damen Lockewood. It’s not just about ensuring that you end up with Damen, but about ensuring that I don’t. I shudder to think how he’d react if the reverse were to occur. Couple that with the fact that he seems to need Damen’s wealth and influence so badly …” Anastasia gave a hard shake of her head. “… and the thought of telling him the truth becomes untenable. I refuse to put you in that position.”

‘You’re not putting me in that position. I am. And since it’s my fate in question, I’m the one to decide whether or not I’ll walk into the lion’s den…” Abruptly, Breanna broke off, a sudden, reminiscent spark lighting her eyes. “Let me amend that,” she murmured, the spark igniting to a full-fledged glow as her idea took hold. “There is a way for you to explore this fascination between you and Lord Sheldrake without arousing my father’s wrath.”

“And just how am I going to accomplish that? It’s you Uncle George wants to see with Damen.”

“Then that’s precisely what he’ll see. Beginning tomorrow morning, when Lord Sheldrake comes for breakfast, as per Father’s invitation.” Breanna stood, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, shaking the tresses free. “You said once that a day might come when you’d need to be me. Well, that day has arrived.” She smiled triumphantly. “Come,
Breanna.
It’s time to tousle my hair and restore your accent to its former clipped tones. Tomorrow morning we reinstate our pact.”

The pub was small, dark, almost unnoticeable from the main road. Its walls were chipped and peeling, but the ale was cheap—a factor that was most crucial to those who frequented the establishment. And nobody asked questions, not if your money was good.

Which made it the perfect place for these meetings.

George rubbed his palms distastefully down the front of his coat, as if by doing so he could dispel the odious feel of the room. He hovered in the entranceway, wincing at the filth and clutter, and trying to ignore the raucous laughter that exploded as drunken sailors sank deeper into their cups. It took every ounce of his self-control not to gag at the offensive smells accosting his nose.

But right now he had more important things on his mind.

Swiftly, he perused the room, eager to conduct his business and be gone.

At last, he spied the telltale flare of light from the pub’s far corner.

He crossed over, slipped into his seat.

“What did you find out?” he demanded.

His companion lit a cheroot, gazed calmly back at him. “The partnership’s real. The terms are standard. They each invested twenty-five thousand pounds.”

“Twenty-five thousand … dammit!” George nearly forgot himself and slammed his fist to the table.

“Easy, Medford. That’s going to get you noticed. Which is the one thing you don’t want.”

A terse nod. “What about my niece and Sheldrake? What can you tell me?”

“Your niece is beautiful. Every bit as beautiful as your daughter.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. I asked you what was going on between her and Sheldrake.”

“Nothing I could see. Then again, they were alone in his office for about a half hour. I have no idea what went on during that time. But otherwise, it was only business.”

“Make sure it stays that way,” George hissed. “And if it changes, let me know. Immediately.” He scowled. “Any word on that damned trust fund my father set up?”

“I had the terms checked into. They’re solid as steel. Forget that money, Medford. You won’t be touching it— ever.”

A bitter laugh. “All the more reason why I’ve got to get my hands on the rest of that inheritance. Before my bloody niece squanders away every last pence.” He leaned forward, glared at his companion. “Did you get that message off to the Continent?”

“The very night I got it.”

“Good. Now keep your eyes on Sheldrake. And make sure he keeps his eyes off Anastasia.”

B
Y HALF AFTER NINE
that morning, the girls were—even to the most discerning observer—each other.

The transformation took a surprisingly short time to complete: a swap of gowns, a few quick pointers on how to keep Anastasia’s hair from tumbling free, some powder on Breanna’s bruise, and a few practice sessions— Anastasia on the proper articulation of words, and Breanna on the fundamental points underlying Anastasia and Damen’s partnership.

“I’d forgotten how much I enjoy being assertive,” Breanna teased, parading around the bedchamber in Anastasia’s bolder, more confident stride. “I’ll be sure to voice all my opinions between mouthfuls.”

“I wouldn’t,” Anastasia cautioned dryly, holding her perfectly coiffed head at just the right angle. “Uncle George made it clear to me he doesn’t welcome honesty. He’s also not too thrilled with me right now. So I would curb my forthrightness, if I were you.”