Authors: Brenda Joyce
The Third Heiress (18 page)
He smiled. “You’re going home—before you fall down or pass out. I’ll be dressed in two minutes flat, and after my driver drops me at the Four Seasons, he’ll take you to wherever it is that you live.”
In a way, Jill felt relieved. She wasn’t sure why—perhaps because she had absorbed as much information as she dared that night. She had so much to think about now. On the other hand, she was also nervous about leaving the letters behind. Yet what could happen to them? They were on the C drive, and Alex had promised to copy them. “Lucinda Becke, the director of Uxbridge Hall, also wants the letters. They’re very important, Alex.”
“That’s the second time you said that,” he said, setting his wineglass down. “Trust me, Jill.”
Jill watched him pad barefoot into the bedroom, then heard him whistling as he dressed. It would be a mistake to trust Alex. She had trusted Hal, and look what had happened. He had been involved with Marisa, and he’d hidden a huge chunk of his life from her. No, she should not trust any man, not in this lifetime, and certainly not Alex Preston. She turned and walked back into the office, pulling the single sheet from the printer. Jill sat down and slowly reread the letter, word by painstaking word.
Alex came into the room. “You ready?”
Jill had been so absorbed by the power of Kate’s voice that once again she had forgotten where she was—and even who she was. She leaped to her feet at the sound of Alex’s voice.
“You’re very pale, Jill,” Alex said, not moving from the doorway.
Jill shook her head to clear the cobwebs of another time, another place, from it. She met Alex’s gaze. “Have you ever heard of Robin Hood Bay?” she asked.
It was a moment before he answered. “Actually, I have. It’s a stone’s throw from Stainesmore,” he said. “Our country home in Yorkshire.”
T
he ringing of the telephone jerked Jill out of a deep sleep.
he ringing of the telephone jerked Jill out of a deep sleep.
She groaned, reaching for the clock. Outside, the sun was barely up; the sky was a mauve gray. The illuminated dial told her it was six-thirty. Suddenly she was wide awake. Who could possibly be calling her at such an hour? “Hello?” She flipped on the bedside light. Perhaps it was KC, and she was in trouble.
“Jill, I’m sorry to wake you at this hour. It’s me, Alex.”
Jill was surprised, and she sat up against her pillows. “Alex, is something wrong? It’s the crack of dawn.”
“I know. I’m on my way back to London and I wanted to reach you before my flight boards.”
Suddenly Jill knew that he had called about the letters. “Did you find something in the letters Kate wrote to Anne?” She was more than fully awake. Tension stiffened her entire body.
“Jill, I don’t know how to say this. They’re gone.”
Jill did not understand. “What?”
“When I got home last night there was no power in the entire apartment. At first I thought a fuse must have blown. I’d put the desktop in suspend mode. Half the hard drive was wiped out—there must have been a power surge. I am so sorry.”
Jill stared blindly at her melon-colored wall. “The files are gone?” She was in disbelief.
“I had to call you before I left. I didn’t want you to wake up and start wondering if I’d forgotten you. I didn’t. I’m as upset as you are.”
Suddenly Jill was angry, and she felt betrayed. She tried to calm herself. This wasn’t Alex’s fault. These kinds of things happened. Didn’t they? Unfortunately, computers were hardly Jill’s area of expertise. “Are you certain they’re gone? Maybe I should bring an expert in—”
“I am an expert, Jill. I was up all night trying to locate copies, or find the files stored mistakenly in another folder. They’re gone.”
Jill was so upset she could not speak.
“My flight is about to board,” he said. “I’ll be in the office this afternoon if you need to reach me.”
Jill’s eyes felt moist. Kate filled her thoughts. What if they never recovered the letters themselves? No. Jill dismissed that possibility from her mind. She would find the actual letters. Hal would not have destroyed them.
Alex was saying, “When do you think you’re coming back to London?”
Jill was so upset about the lost letters that he had to repeat the question. “As soon as possible. KC thinks she might know someone who needs a sublet immediately.”
“That’s great,” Alex said, clearly in a rush. “Buzz me when you know for sure.”
She really didn’t hear him. Automatically she wished him a good flight and hung up. As she leaned against the pillows, her cat jumped onto the bed. Jill stroked his silky fur.
She had believed Alex when he’d said he would make copies of the letters later that night. She’d had no reason not to believe him. He had said, “Trust me.” And in spite of her own instincts, she had done just that.
Jill pulled Ezekial close. She was afraid that all of her discoveries about Hal were making her paranoid. The power had gone out; the files had been lost—it was as simple as that.
It was absurd, no, insane, for her to even question Alex’s version of events. Then why was she doing so? Alex had no reason to destroy old letters whose only value was to his family—and to her. Hal’s death and everything that had happened since then was interfering with her ability to think clearly. Thank God she dumped the Xanax last night or her mind would be even more of a mess.
Jill put the tom down and got up, walking toward her kitchenette and taking coffee from the freezer. She was not soothed. What if Alex had lied?
What if he had destroyed the letters himself?
BRIGHTON, JUNE 23, 1906
“M
other, don’t you think these people are boring?” Kate asked.
other, don’t you think these people are boring?” Kate asked.
Mary Gallagher gasped, blanching. She and her daughter were strolling down the promenade that ran parallel to and just above the beach, their long skirts swirling, parasols and reticules in hand, their complexions shielded by elaborate hats. The crowd on the promenade was vast. There were couples, pairs of young ladies with chaperones, mothers and daughters, children and nannies. There were also jauntily clad gentlemen in fine wool jackets and trousers, many of whom glanced at Mary and her beautiful daughter. “Kate! How could you say such a thing?”
Kate was craning her neck to watch several men in bathing costumes launching a skiff from the beach. All along the beach were blue and white beach chairs, but many were empty now, as it was late afternoon. Quite a few parties were packing up their picnics and towels and heading up to the promenade.
“Because it’s true. At least back home we are not alone. There is enough society just like us. These Brits are so … so … contained,” Kate said, ignoring another gasp from her mother. She was accustomed to shocking her mother; she had been doing so ever since she could remember. “New money knows how to have fun,” Kate declared.
Mary moaned, reaching into her reticule and producing a handkerchief. “Do not call the English what you just called them, they will never accept us, not if you are overheard. And never call yourself new … you know what!”
Kate laughed. “But that’s the truth, too.” Her smile faded. She saw a very handsome gentleman perhaps ten years older than herself standing by one of the telescopes that looked out to sea. He made a dashing figure in his suit and bowler as he leaned upon the iron railing of the promenade, looking not through the telescope but at her. Kate wondered if he had just arrived in Brighton, because she had not noticed him in the past few days since her own arrival in town. She realized he was staring at her.
Her heart fluttered, and she ducked her head, surprised by her own sudden shyness. But he was, beyond a doubt, the most stunning man.
Kate glanced back at him, over her shoulder.
He tipped his hat, his teeth flashing white against unusually swarthy skin.
Kate could not hide her pleasure and she smiled once at him. She knew that he continued to watch her as they strolled farther down the promenade, coming abreast of the Palace Pier. She wondered who he was.
“Are you flirting?” Mary cried, aghast, glancing back over her shoulder now.
“Of course I am. There is no harm done, Mother,” Kate said with some exasperation.
Mary was distraught. She was a plump woman with extremely fair skin, blue eyes, and golden ringlets. “I wish you would behave,” she said, dabbing at her cheeks again. “How can we find you a husband if you act so commonly?”
“And I wish Father were alive,” Kate muttered, but Mary did not hear her. Peter Gallagher had always lauded her effrontery—but he had been an ebullient man himself, not giving a damn what the Old World snots thought of him. He had little use for knickerbockers and said so, time and again. But then, he had made his fortune in rubber and the new automobile industry, so much so that he could afford not to care what anyone thought of him. He had died last year, leaving most of his fortune to her, Kate, in the form of company shares and real estate, and an ample pension had also been left to her mother. Mary would live well for the rest of her life. Kate was an heiress.
In New York her father had turned away a dozen suitors—Kate had only been fifteen. He had claimed each and every one of them was not good enough for her—but then he had asked Kate her opinion, and Kate had agreed. Kate knew that had Peter still lived, he would never have forced her to marry against her will.
But he had wanted her to come out in Britain. “It’s the Irish in me,” he
had told her once. “As a boy they spit on me and dropped their horse manure on my feet, watching while I cleaned their streets for them. Now my little girl will marry one o’ them, just you see.”
had told her once. “As a boy they spit on me and dropped their horse manure on my feet, watching while I cleaned their streets for them. Now my little girl will marry one o’ them, just you see.”
It was painful thinking about him. “Let’s go down to the sea,” Kate said suddenly. “We can take off our shoes and walk in the water.”
“We are not in our bathing costumes, and it is too late in the day to bathe in the sea anyway,” Mary replied. “Besides, the beach is all stones. Look. Everyone is leaving the beach even as we speak.”
“Oh, posh,” Kate said, annoyed now. “I know what you are going to tell me. That we have to go back to the Metropole and dress for supper.”
“Well, we do, dear.”
“Supper was horrid last night. All those fat old ladies, staring at us as if we were creatures from the very moon.”
“Kate, stop.”
But Kate was smiling now. “Rather, they were staring at us as if we were creatures from the days of cave dwellers. Don’t you care, Mother? They hate us. We are not good enough for them—savages that we are.” Kate shuddered theatrically.
“If you would be less forthright, they would not stare at us that way! Everyone saw the way you went up to that gentleman and started a conversation with him yesterday,” Mary cried.
“He had lost his croquet partner. Why shouldn’t I have volunteered to take the other gent’s place?”
“It was far too suggestive. Ladies do not offer themselves to gentlemen.”
“I hardly offered myself to him,” Kate said with a laugh. “I only wanted to play the game. Mother, even if I were prim and proper, they would stare. I am not a Brit, Mother. Our money is
new.
And everyone knows it.”
new.
And everyone knows it.”
“Do not use that word! It is so … so … crude.”
“Which word? Brit … or new? I am going to the beach. Come if you want.” Kate called, beginning to run down a ramp, her skirts lifted well above her stocking-clad calves.
“Kate. Come back! You’ll get covered with sand and supper is at eight!”
Kate dashed across the beach, laughing. She ignored her mother purposefully—otherwise she feared she would turn into an exact replica of her. There was a breeze on the beach that was brisk and salty and wonderful, and she felt it tugging at her hat. She did not stop, ignoring the stares of the last few bathers of the day as they packed up their things. Ladies and gentlemen gawked at Kate as she ran by.
Everyone was so boring.
Who could live that way? Fettered and shackled by rules? Afraid of what others might think?
Her white straw hat finally flew off of her head. Kate paused to shut her white parasol, pick up the boater, and tuck it under her arm. Her hair, which was well past her shoulders, long and red and curly, was coming out of its chignon. Kate did not care. She shook her head to encourage it to fall free, and as it did, she skipped down to the water, the tiny stones of the beach finally getting caught in her shoes. As waves rushed toward her, she waited until the very last moment before running backward, out of their way. Her white kid shoes remained miraculously dry.
Kate laughed, feeling happy and free. If she was very clever, she would manage to enjoy herself this summer, and she would also manage to avoid becoming engaged to some boring Brit. Kate pranced toward the surf again. She waited until the very last possible moment before darting out of the way of another incoming wave. As she did so, instinct made her glance back toward the promenade, but not toward her mother, who waited for her on a wooden observation deck. The dashing, dark-as-midnight gentleman stood at the edge of the promenade, a tall silhouette leaning on the fancy wrought-iron railing, staring in her direction.
For one instant, Kate’s heart skipped and she faltered. Breathless, she quickly gave him her back, and too late, was covered with foaming surf as a wave crashed over her shoes and the hem of her skirt. Her cheeks felt terribly hot.
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