Andrea Kane (9 page)

“What signs?”

“Long, bitter silences. Excessive drinking and brooding—usually following tense business meetings behind closed doors. You know how preoccupied Father is with making money. When things don’t go right, he explodes.”

“And he strikes you?”

“Sometimes. Nothing I can’t bear.”

“You said
yet.
What does that mean?”

Breanna plucked a blade of grass and rubbed it between her fingers. “I don’t know. Lately, his moods seem more intense than they’ve ever been. It’s like he’s seething beneath the surface, fighting the need to erupt. The way he used to act when your mother was in the room.”

“I remember.” Anastasia fell silent, reminding herself that there were pieces to this puzzle Breanna still didn’t know—pieces she herself would supply when the time was right.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, Stacie. I’m probably overreacting. It’s just that this situation with Lord Sheldrake is causing an inordinate amount of friction. My misgivings are infuriating Father. When the marquess is here, I’m embarrassed, ill at ease—and, yes, dubious. I know what Father expects of me. But I can’t promise him I can supply it.”

“Of course not,” Anastasia proclaimed, feeling faintly guilty, and unwilling to ponder why. “You can’t force affection the way you can obedience. Surely Uncle George realizes …”

“He doesn’t. Nor am I apt to convince him.” Breanna propped her chin on her hand, angling her face toward her cousin’s. “I’m not a coward, Stacie,” she said quietly. “It’s important to me that you know that. I’m also not the same frightened little girl I was ten years ago. When I feel strongly enough about a situation, I do challenge Father, regardless of how angry he gets. If Lord Sheldrake turns out to be one of those situations, so be it. The point is, I just don’t defy my father often or without good cause. Frankly, given the outcome, it isn’t worth it.”

“I never thought of you as a coward.” Anastasia took her cousin’s hand and squeezed it. “You’re a survivor. We both are. Sometimes survival means holding one’s tongue—a feat you’re far better at than I. That doesn’t make you fainthearted. It makes you wise. I’d be wise to learn some of your self-restraint. And to use it—such as earlier today.” A sigh. “Ah well. This time survival will have to mean deviating from my original plan.”

Breanna’s expression turned quizzical. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Another sigh, and Anastasia leaned back on her hands, letting her palms sink into the plush green bed of grass. “We’re talking about me and my grand scheme to leave the Colby mark—
my
mark—on the world. A scheme that now needs to be modified, thanks to Lord Sheldrake.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I wanted to use my inheritance to open a bank in Philadelphia—one that would grow and expand and eventually offer all the resources and stability to Americans that the House of Lockewood offers to the Continent and to England. I announced my intentions to Lord Sheldrake, asked him to share in this venture as my partner. He refused. He also refused to let me use Papa’s funds to pursue this investment on my own, either now or for the duration of time in which he’s in control of my inheritance. So I told him I’d seek backing elsewhere, from other prominent businessmen willing to take a chance on something new. He was amused, but dubious. He also realized—right after Uncle George’s announcement—exactly where I meant to begin my campaign for capital: at this gala house party. Thus, his taunt about my never being bored at the ball.”

Breanna’s jaw had dropped a bit farther with each word. “Stacie, you spent your meeting with Lord Sheldrake informing
him
how
you
intend to invest your money?”

“Yes. For all the good it did me. Not that I plan to be dissuaded. I don’t. I’ll simply find another way.”

“A bank. You mean to open a bank—in Philadelphia.” A disturbing possibility, secondary or not, struck Breanna—hard. “Does this mean you’ll be going back to the States?”

“Only to visit,” Anastasia assured her. “England is my home. Breanna, I don’t mean to build the bank’s walls with my bare hands or count out each shilling that’s dispersed. Between the relationships Papa formed and Lord Sheldrake’s contacts and experience, that won’t be necessary. I’m supplying the idea. Now all I need is the capital to get things started. It would succeed. I
know
it would. But the marquess is so damned stubborn …”

“Stacie, he’s a financial genius. Surely he knows better than you what would make a profitable investment.”

“I’m sure he does—or would, if he were willing to listen. But he’s not. He’s convinced that Europe is a sure thing and America an uncertainty. Well, vast empires were founded on risk. Ventures require nothing less. And if Damen Lockewood is too pigheaded to see that, I’ll simply go elsewhere.”

“Seeking funds from whomever you meet at the ball.”

An anticipatory grin lit Anastasia’s face. “Exactly. Which is where you come in. I’ll ask Uncle George for an advance copy of the guest list. Don’t worry,” she added, seeing the anxious pucker form between Breanna’s brows. “I’ll use the excuse that I want to review the names in advance so I don’t embarrass him by mispronouncing anyone’s title. That’s just the type of dutiful gesture Uncle George would applaud.”

“That’s true,” Breanna concurred. “But where do I come in?”

“You’ll study the list with me, and tell me who’s who. I need you to distinguish which guests could be potential backers.” Anastasia waved away Breanna’s anticipated protest. “I realize you don’t involve yourself in Uncle George’s business, but surely you know who his colleagues are, and who are the most successful of the bunch. Then, on the night of the ball, you’ll point those particular gentlemen out to me, and make the proper introductions. I’ll do the rest. By the time my coming-out is complete, my venture will be fully funded.”

Breanna couldn’t help but chuckle at her cousin’s enthusiasm. “Tell me, are you going to enjoy a single hour of this party? In the traditional sense, that is. You know—chatting, meeting interesting people, even dancing. Or are you going to spend the entire time doing business?”

Anastasia’s grin widened. “That depends on how quickly I accomplish my goal.”

Accomplishing his goal, George reflected bitterly one short week later, was a damned, bloody nuisance—one he resented with every fiber of his being.

Fixing a polished smile on his face, he assessed the grand ballroom, which, a mere hour ago, had been empty. Now, it was bursting at the seams, a profusion of color and movement as streams of arriving guests made their entrance, while those already in attendance whirled about the dance floor, chatted in ever-growing groups, or made their way over to the refreshments.

The typical onset to an extravagant house party.

Clasping his hands behind his back, George resumed his role as host. He milled about, dropping a smile to his left and a greeting to his right, all the while mentally tabulating how much this wretched affair had wound up costing. Oh, he’d padded the receipts as best he could, adding fifty pounds here and a hundred pounds there. But he hadn’t dared get too carried away. Not with Sheldrake’s watchful eye overseeing every pence of Henry’s money. As a result, George had scarcely been able to squeeze out enough profit to make this whole bloody affair worth his while. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that, once the final numbers were tallied up, he’d be lucky to come out a thousand pounds ahead.

And what would a thousand pounds buy him? A two-or three-week reprieve, perhaps. No more. It certainly wouldn’t restore his business to its necessary peak.

Dammit.

George paused as he heard Wells announce Lord and Lady Dutton, and cursed under his breath as he watched them make their entrance. So, the pompous windbag had convinced his tyrant of a wife to leave Bath for the occasion after all. That was hardly an inspiring discovery. It wasn’t as if he and Dutton were doing business at the moment. The problem was, that could change at any time. The man was too damned influential to snub, and he had enough money to keep himself that way. Fine, George decided. He’d go over there and do his duty. Then, he’d take a moment or two to find the man he needed to see and set his own dealings back on track.

Resignedly, George headed for the doorway, raising his chin in greeting, and steeling himself for a quarter hour of annoying chatter.

“Good evening, Lady Dutton.” George bowed, kissing her gloved hand and wondering idly how her husband’s protruding belly was going to allow room for the other two hundred guests. “Dutton,” he added, stepping back to welcome the man without slamming into his stomach.

“Medford. Good evening. This is a splendid party,” Dutton proclaimed, nodding his approval as he assessed the other attendees. “I give you credit. You’ve managed a fine gathering on very short notice. And at a very inconvenient time of year. As you know, Penelope here had to be coaxed away from Bath. I’m relieved to see it was worth my efforts in doing so …” A swift man-to-man look together with a subtle roll of the eyes. “… or she’d never let me forget it.”

Ignoring the poisonous glare Lady Dutton threw at her husband, George nodded his understanding. “I’m delighted you could both come.” He gestured for them to enter, half-hoping he could cut the conversation short. “Please, enjoy yourselves.”

“Which young lady is your niece?” Dutton pressed, dashing George’s hopes of an abbreviated chat by remaining where he was, peering over as many heads as his stubby height would allow. “Ah,” he interrupted himself. “I see a familiar face: your Breanna. She’s over there by the French doors—alone, surprisingly. It’s been quite some time, but I’d know her anywhere. Although I do believe she’s grown even lovelier; she’s a veritable vision in yellow.”

Tensing, George pivoted, followed Dutton’s line of vision, and visibly relaxed. “You’re mistaken, Dutton. My daughter is among the crowd enjoying the strings.” He waved his arm in the direction of the musicians. “Her gown is blue, not yellow. And she’s dancing with Sheldrake. The young lady you spied is my niece, Anastasia.”

Dutton’s jaw dropped, and he stared from one girl to the other. “My goodness, they could be sisters. Twins, actually.”

“They’ve been mistaken as such.” George was in no mood to pursue this particular line of conversation. In fact, he’d had about all he could stand of Dutton. Having made the requisite amount of small talk, and having assured himself that Breanna was, indeed, where she was supposed to be—at Sheldrake’s side—he had more important business to attend to than answering this buffoon’s nosy questions. “I’ll be officially presenting Anastasia to everyone once the majority of guests have arrived. In the interim, if you’ll both excuse me, I have a few matters to attend to. Please—partake. My home is yours.”

“Yes. Most gracious of you, Medford.” Dutton licked his chops, easing his wife—and his belly—farther into the room, doubtless toward the refreshments, George thought in disgust.

“Hello, Medford.”

George had scarcely taken a step when Lyman appeared at his elbow, nursing a cup of Regent’s punch and speaking in an undertone. “This ball is elegant—
and
expensive. I’m relieved to see that your financial reverses have righted themselves.”

George stiffened. “Not now,” he muttered under his breath. Without sparing Lyman another look, he moved deeper into the crowd.

He was more determined than ever to conduct his business.

Just inside the double doors leading onto the balcony, Anastasia watched the short, chunky man leave Uncle George’s side and steer his wife into the room. Impatiently, she shifted from one foot to the other, willing the minuet to end so Breanna could perform the introductions. From the description her cousin had provided, Anastasia was almost certain that the new arrival was Lord Dutton. Based on what Breanna had said, Lord Dutton was an affluent nobleman who owned several enormous estates, a shipbuilding company, and a string of smaller businesses. And
that
made him an ideal candidate to finance her bank.

She frowned, her gaze—with a will all its own—shifting back to the same place it had traveled a dozen times: to the dance floor where Lord Sheldrake was gliding Breanna about. Not for any personal reason, she assured herself hastily. Only to see if they were concluding their dance so she could proceed with her plan.

Even as she assured herself of that fact, she knew it was a lie.

The truth was, she couldn’t stop staring at Damen Lockewood. He was easily the most compelling man in the room, his dynamic presence seeming to overshadow everyone around him. He looked devastating in his formal evening clothes, a fact that was evidenced by all the admiring glances cast his way by women of all ages.

Breanna looked breathtaking at his side. She was poised, graceful, incredibly beautiful; her upswept hair— a shimmering crown of auburn laced with pearls—as perfectly in place as if she were reposing rather than dancing. She was refined, captivating, the consummate lady, and Anastasia felt incredibly proud of her.

Ruefully, she tucked a stray tendril of her own hair behind her ear, almost laughing aloud at the realization that, in this one way, little had changed since their childhood. She was still the hoyden, Breanna the lady. And while Breanna might admire her for her forthrightness, Anastasia was in perpetual awe of Breanna’s natural grace and composure.

Still, Anastasia knew her cousin better than anyone. And, composed or not, Breanna looked very strained at the moment, almost as if she were silently willing the minuet to end.

Or was that only wishful thinking on her own part?

Stop it,
Anastasia admonished herself.
Whatever you think happened last week in the yellow salon was all in your mind. Lord Sheldrake is the overseer of your inheritance—and the main obstacle in your path. He’s fervent in his beliefs, which explains the intensity you felt during those unexpected final moments of your meeting. Stop reading anything more into it.

As if on cue, Damen Lockewood raised his head, his gaze spanning the ballroom and finding hers.

Their eyes met—and held.

Feeling that same warmth shimmer through her, Anastasia jerked her gaze away. This reaction was unacceptable, for many reasons. Least of all was the role the marquess had been assigned to play in her life. Most of all was the role he’d been assigned by Uncle George to play in Breanna’s.