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"You have a point." Anastasia tucked her gown around her and lowered herself to the grass. "Either that, or perhaps he's in the midst of a business deal he feels will progress faster in a social setting." She patted the large, flat stone embedded in the earth beside her. "Let's sit for a while, savor the sunshine. You can use this as your chair. That way, you won't get grass stains." A mischievous twinkle. "I assume soiled garments still enrage Uncle George."
Breanna's lips curved at the memories Anastasia's comment elicited, but there was a kind of sad resignation in her eyes. "Everything enrages Father," she replied. "Some things more than others—such as soiled gowns." Gingerly, she gathered up her skirts and perched at the edge of the stone's clean surface.
That all-too-familiar fist of worry knotted Anastasia's gut, worry she'd known since childhood but had been too afraid to address.
Now she did.
"Breanna—he doesn't hurt you, does he? Physically, I mean."
Her cousin stared out across the grounds. Then, she slowly shook her head—a half-hearted gesture that looked suspiciously like she was shading the truth, trying to keep Anastasia from worrying. "No. Not really. Not yet." A pause. "He's always been volatile. You know that. But most of the time he expends his anger by lashing out verbally. Once or twice it's gone beyond that—usually when I question his decisions at the wrong times. I usually know when those times are, and I make myself scarce. But sometimes I approach him before I have time to recognize the signs."
"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?"
