Andrea Kane (3 page)

And now, at long last, Medford Manor loomed ahead, a beacon of light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

Anastasia leaned out the carriage window, watching the manor draw closer, the gardens flowing around her like a cluster of dear friends, welcoming her home.

The front door burst open as the carriage rounded the drive, and a young woman rushed down the steps.

Anastasia didn’t need to ask who it was.

It was like peering into a looking-glass, seeing a mirror image of herself gazing back at her. Even now, at almost twenty-one years old, they still looked like twins.

“Stacie!” Breanna waved frantically, and Anastasia nearly knocked over the footman in her haste to alight.

“Breanna!” She flung her arms around her cousin, alternately laughing and crying, more overwhelmed by this moment than even she’d realized.

The two girls, now women, drew back, stared at each other in joy and wonder.

“After all this time, I can’t believe I’m seeing you.” Anastasia grinned. “Seeing
me
,” she corrected, taking in Breanna’s delicate features and vibrant coloring.

“It is amazing,” Breanna agreed, returning her cousin’s scrutiny with rapt fascination. “I always wondered if we’d still look alike after all this time. Well, now I know.” Her eyes sparkled. “I have a twin.” She gripped Anastasia’s hands. “I can’t believe you’re finally here.”

“Nor can I. I feel as if an eternity’s passed since I left. And yet, in some ways, it’s like I never left at all. Never and forever all rolled into one.” As she spoke, Anastasia gazed up at the manor, a knot of emotion tightening her throat. Here, after all these years, was the estate on which she and Breanna had frolicked as children. Only now their childhood was over, and she was entering Medford Manor with the maturity and self-sufficiency of an adult.

It was a sobering thought.

“Forever and never… yes, I feel the same way,” Breanna agreed. “But more the former than the latter. Without your letters, I don’t know what I would have done. I can’t tell you how I missed you.” She paused, watched the play of emotions on her cousin’s face. “Stacie,” she added softly. “I’m so sorry about your parents.”

“I know you are.” Anastasia blinked away her tears. “Now let’s go inside. We have a decade to catch up on.”

As if on cue, Wells stepped outside—an older, grayer Wells, perhaps, but Wells nonetheless, his sharp features softening as he gazed at Anastasia.

“Miss Stacie … forgive me, Lady Anastasia—welcome.”

Anastasia abandoned the formalities and hurried up the steps to hug the elderly butler. “Thank you, Wells,” she whispered, a tremor catching in her voice. “And I’m still Stacie. Everything else might have changed, but that’s the same.”

He chuckled, looking a bit misty-eyed. “I’m glad to hear that.” He shook his head in wonder. “There’s one other thing that hasn’t changed. You and Miss Breanna still look too much alike to distinguish one of you from the other. It’s startling. I remember your father saying he couldn’t tell…” Wells’s mouth snapped shut.

“It’s all right,” Anastasia told him gently. “Mentioning Papa doesn’t make it hurt any more than it already does. Besides—” Her chin came up a notch as she sought the internal strength she’d come to count upon. “He’s with Mama now. Which is precisely what he wanted.”

“And you’re with us.” Breanna ascended the stairs, squeezed Anastasia’s shoulders, and led her inside the house. “Let’s get you settled. You must be exhausted. Mrs. Charles has made sure your room is all ready. We gave you the one right next to mine—so we can talk all night, just like we used to.”

Anastasia stepped into the house, feeling a surge of warmth encompass her. It was like greeting a long-lost friend, or being enfolded in safe, loving arms. Medford Manor was precisely as she remembered it, its tasteful Oriental carpet running the full length of what had seemed to a child’s eyes to be an endless hallway filled with paintings and flanked on either side by two elegant, winding staircases.

All that was missing was Grandfather.

Again, grief coiled in her stomach.

“It’s just the same as it was then,” Breanna told Anastasia, touching her arm gently. “Just as Grandfather would have wanted it.”

“Yes. It is.” Anastasia drank in every tiny beloved detail, a twinge of surprise accompanying the realization of just how true Breanna’s statement was. “Actually, I thought Uncle George would have made a few changes, given that this is his home now and that he and Grandfather didn’t exactly have similar taste. Or similar views, for that matter.”

“The same honest Stacie,” Breanna noted with fond amusement and perhaps a touch of awe. “You’re right. They didn’t. I suspect Father scarcely notices what the house looks like. Decorating doesn’t interest him—business does.”

“Breanna, you didn’t tell me your cousin had arrived.” George Colby interrupted their conversation, emerging from the sitting room and making his way slowly toward them. “Anastasia—welcome to Medford Manor.”

Anastasia tensed a bit at the well-remembered patronizing tone, and her gaze darted over to study the man who was her father’s twin.

She’d been almost afraid to see him again; afraid he’d remind her so much of her father that her loss would become impossible to bear. But that wasn’t the case. Uncle George hadn’t aged well. He was far grayer than her father had been, his face more lined, his shoulders stooped. And his eyes, though the same striking jade green hue as that of all the Colbys, were lackluster, devoid of the intelligent spark that had lit her father’s eyes or the laughter and insight that had glistened in her grandfather’s.

The years had not been kind to her uncle. Then again, kindness was not a trait he valued—nor one he deserved.

“Thank you, Uncle George,” she greeted him cautiously. “It’s good to see you. And I’m very grateful to you for inviting me to stay here.”

He nodded, surveying her with a cool, assessing look. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, you shouldn’t be alone—not at a time like this, and certainly not in a strange country. Not when you have family right here in England to help ease your loss.” He cleared his throat. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

“It was tiring, but fine.” She realized he was making an attempt at polite conversation. Still, she couldn’t help feeling as if he were delivering a rehearsed speech, and she were responding in kind.

“Stacie’s exhausted, Father.” Breanna spoke in that same measured, respectful tone she’d used as a child. “I’d like to show her to her room, perhaps let her rest awhile.”

“Yes, of course.” The viscount gestured toward the second level. “Go ahead. Wells will see that your bags are brought up. Luncheon will be served promptly at two.”

“Thank you,” Anastasia murmured, already heading toward the stairs. She was tired, yes, but she was also eager to see her new room, to spend time with Breanna.

To find a place for herself again.

Waiting for Breanna to catch up, Anastasia ascended the steps, rounding the second-floor landing and following her cousin down the corridor to the fourth room on the right.

“I hope you like it,” Breanna said, waving her into her new chambers. “Gold and green used to be your favorite colors. I hope they still are.”

“They are,” Anastasia assured her, smiling at the sight of the drapes and bedcovers, both a deep green brocade, and the floral needlepoint hanging over the canopied bed—a path of goldenrods amid a tree-lined grove. “Oh, Breanna, it’s lovely.”

“I wanted to do more. I also wanted to meet you at the ship. But there’s only so much Father will allow…” Breanna’s voice trailed off, and she shut the door behind them. “Anyway, feel free to decorate any way you choose,” she continued. “From this moment on, it’s your room.”

Anastasia dropped onto the edge of the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she assessed the chambers. “My room. At Medford Manor. It’s hard to believe.” She studied her cousin with compassionate awareness. “Don’t give another thought to not having met me at the ship. I know Uncle George too well to have contemplated the notion. Oh, he’s being very solicitous. Still—” Her voice dropped to a mock baritone. “—‘Breanna, you didn’t tell me your cousin had arrived’ and ‘luncheon will be served promptly at two.’ ” She rolled her eyes. “Something tells me he hasn’t changed a bit.”

“No, he hasn’t.” Breanna’s lips curved slightly. “Then again, neither have you. You’re still as forthright as ever. Only your accent has changed.”

“My accent?”

“Um-hum. You no longer speak proper English. Now you sound like … like …”

“Like I’ve lived ten years in America?” Anastasia teased.

“Well… yes.” Breanna’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Tell me about Philadelphia. Your letters made it sound so different from here.”

“Not entirely different. But less restrictive.” Anastasia leaned back on her elbows. “Protocol isn’t valued as highly as it is in England. Chaperons aren’t mandatory, there isn’t as wide a chasm between servants and those who employ them. America is less set in its ways than England is. Which makes sense, given that it’s a new country.”

Breanna lowered herself to a chair. “It sounds a lot like you—unorthodox, set on forging its own path. Will you miss living there?”

“Some aspects of it, yes. Others, no. It’s true I fit in, but I never really belonged. We were always glaringly English. It was especially obvious during the war. If Papa hadn’t had such a good rapport with the American farmers and manufacturers, we probably would have had to leave, to go to Canada or come home. But they trusted him. He had integrity—and connections in nearly every neutral country. I guess that when it comes right down to it, profits are profits. And Colby and Sons ensured a healthy revenue for all, war or no war. Father was his usual inventive self, devising creative routes to deliver goods without violating either England or America’s war policies.” She broke off, shot her cousin a questioning look. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“How do you know so much about your father’s business?” Breanna demanded.

“It’s not just Father’s business. It’s our entire family’s business, yours and mine included.” Seeing Breanna’s incredulous expression, Anastasia felt her lips twitch. “Now that I consider it, I suppose my interest in Colby and Sons must seem rather extreme to you. A proper Englishwoman involved in matters of business and money-making? Shocking.”

“Not shocking, just… unusual.” Breanna sighed. “We
do
have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Let’s start with you.” Anastasia leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. “Your letters left far more to the imagination than mine did. For example, I know Uncle George brought you out two Seasons ago. Yet you never went into any detail about the balls you attended, the gentlemen you met. And when I pressed you for details, you avoided the subject altogether. Why is that?”

Breanna lowered her lashes, contemplated the folds of her gown. “The truth? Or what everyone believes to be the truth?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

A nod. “I’ve never told this to a soul. Then again, I’m not in the habit of discussing my private life with anyone—other than you.” Breanna inhaled sharply. “Father is very specific about his plans for my future. Yes, he brought me out, but it was all a formality. My first Season was scarcely under way when a business emergency—an alleged business emergency,” she amended, “necessitated our returning here, where we stayed for the duration of the Season. Last year we didn’t go to London at all— supposedly because I was recovering from a severe bout of influenza. A bout of influenza, which, to be blunt, I never had.”

Anastasia sat straight up, her gaze fixed on her cousin’s veiled expression. “I don’t understand. You’re saying Uncle George is intentionally keeping you from meeting eligible noblemen? That makes no sense. Knowing him, I should think he’d be eager to marry you to the Prince Regent himself.”

Breanna’s lashes lifted, but she didn’t smile. “If that were feasible, I’m sure Father would try to arrange it.”

“Breanna, what aren’t you telling me?” Anastasia felt the old surge of protectiveness swell inside her. “You know you can trust me,” she added, when her cousin remained silent.

“Of course I do. It isn’t that. Frankly, it’s just that this whole situation is horribly embarrassing.” Breanna laced her fingers together, stared down at them. “I feel like a prize horse.”

“A prize horse.” Anastasia’s mind was racing, fitting pieces together. “Then you’re being groomed for something.” A pause. “Or someone.”

“A very specific someone,” Breanna acknowledged. “Father’s plans are to wed me to the wealthiest and most successful nobleman he’s acquainted with, and then share in his wealth and position.”

“And who would that be?”

“The Marquess of Sheldrake.”

“Oh.” Anastasia’s mouth snapped shut.

She needn’t ask who the Marquess of Sheldrake was. He was the one and only Damen Lockewood.

She’d heard his name all her life; first, from her grandfather, who had begun his company at the same time that Damen’s father had opened his first bank, and later from her father, who had developed his most powerful contacts in America thanks to Damen and the long-standing relationship between the Colbys and the Lockewoods.

According to Anastasia’s father, it was Damen who’d always been the true genius of the family, even though in official terms he’d become head of the House of Lockewood only nine years ago, upon his father’s death. Since that time, however, he’d made the House of Lockewood the most influential merchant bankers in England, if not perhaps the world. His advice and counsel were sought by nearly all the nations of Europe, and his business acumen and powerful connections with statesmen and financiers alike garnered his family its reputation.

So, yes, Anastasia knew who the Marquess of Sheldrake was.

She also knew her Uncle George. And, given that Lord Sheldrake was rich, titled, and acclaimed throughout Europe—not to mention serving on the Board of Directors at Colby and Sons—it stood to reason he’d be Uncle George’s choice for a husband for Breanna.

Money. Wealth. Status.
And
enhancing his business. Those were the only things that mattered to Uncle George.