Authors: Brenda Joyce

The Third Heiress (38 page)

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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“You’re not going crazy.” Alex was firm. He cupped her shoulders. “In the past five weeks you’ve been through hell, Jill. It was only
a
dream. You’ve been living and breathing Kate’s life. Why wouldn’t you dream about Kate and Edward? I think it’s pretty natural, and I think you’re very
romantic, and you would dream about them being in love and happy—I’m sure they were, for a while. And it makes complete sense that you would not dream as vividly about Anne—because Anne doesn’t interest you, and in this quest of yours, you haven’t learned anything about her, yet.” He smiled, but it was fleeting. “Kate is dead, Jill, she’s not here, haunting you.”

Jill stared at him. She did not smile back. “I want to believe you. I do. But I don’t. I can’t.”

Jill just looked at him. He didn’t understand. How could he? He wasn’t the one who had to find out the truth about Kate. He wasn’t the one with the weird dreams. He wasn’t the one who was completely alone in the world.

Alex slid his arm around her and guided her to the table. “I have a great idea. Why don’t you take a long weekend on the coast somewhere? There are some very pleasant resorts scattered about this country, you know. Maybe I can even swing some more time for myself, and I’ll go with you.”

Their eyes held. Jill tried, desperately, to search their depths, but she could not read him. “Let’s face the fact that you want me to go home. To
rest,
” she said.

He shifted. “That’s right. And what is suspicious about that? If I care about you, I don’t want to see you hurting yourself.”

“Your family covered up Kate’s death,” Jill said. “Your family, Alex.”

“There is no proof,” he said flatly. “You’re clinging to dreams, Jill, because you’re hurt and alone and desperate for a family of your own.”

“And if I find proof?”

“If you find proof,” Alex said evenly, “then I’d like to see it.”

“You’d be the first,” she returned, turning away. Her tote was on another chair, not far from the bed. Jill sat down, digging inside. She extracted the wedding photo of her parents, the one of Jack and Shirley surrounded by the best man and maid of honor, Shirley’s parents behind them, alongside Peter. Suddenly Jill’s vision blurred.

Sweet dreams, pumpkin
.

Good night, dear
.

Jill felt terribly alone. What she wouldn’t give for one moment in her mother’s or her father’s arms.

“What’s that?” Alex asked, wandering over.

Jill handed him the photograph. “My parents, the best man and maid of honor, my maternal grandparents, and Peter.”

Alex’s eyes widened and he stared.

“What is it?” Jill asked sharply, but as she spoke, the dream she’d had
flashed through her mind, Edward smiling at Kate, that silent salute with the flute, Edward …

“Nothing,” Alex said, shoving the photo back at her.

Jill stood, staring down at the photograph, her eyes on Peter. “Oh, my God,” she inhaled. “Now I know why he looks so familiar. My grandfather is almost sixty here—and he looks like an exact older version of Edward in that portrait at Uxbridge Hall—doesn’t he?” she cried. And it was a challenge.

Alex met her gaze. He seemed reluctant. “Yeah,” he finally said.

December 1, 1907

Dear Diary,

I know I have not written in several months, but so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin! I miss Kate so much I hardly know what to do with myself—yet, in some unfathomable way, I am relieved that she has gone home. She departed for New York in great haste, so much so that I hardly know what happened. But Mother, of course, is so very pleased that she is gone. I think Mother knows about Kate’s affair—but I am jumping ahead of myself.

How odd it is. I remember, before Kate left, how we would go to all the parties and fetes together, how no one ever noticed me, how they all remarked on Kate—the men and the women, even though I am as great an heiress as she, and of course, I come from an ancient and noble lineage. How different it is with Kate gone. Now, when I go to a dinner party or a ball or even shopping on Bond Street, I am noticed instantly. Gentlemen cross the street in order to bow over my hand. Ladies extend more invitations than ever, so many I cannot possibly accept them all. Mother says Kate was a terribly negative influence in my life, preventing me from numerous opportunities. I am beginning to believe that she is right.

I must take a great big breath and calm myself. That is easier said than done! One hardly knows what to do when one suddenly becomes en vogue! And now, smiling, I do use dear Kate’s fondest expression. Ah, Kate. I must write her and tell her how popular I have become—without ever telling her the truth, of course.

I am even beginning to think that I might marry not just for position, but for love.

I can almost hear Kate applauding me now for my bold thinking. How pleased she would be for me. Yet thinking about Kate saddens me, too. The past few months were the most wonderful of my life. Kate was—is—the best friend I shall ever have. Sometimes I miss her so that I almost
weep. But then I think about my popularity now that she is gone, and the sorrow diminishes. Mother keeps reminding me that if Kate were still here, it would drive my most respectable and preeminent suitors away.

That is why it is best that Kate has gone home. If I knew about her love affair (which she denied), then others undoubtedly suspected, as well I am sure that Mother guessed. Kate is so headstrong. She refused to listen to my words of caution, and every time she stole out of my window to meet her lover, I envisioned the worst. Kate swore to me that their every rendezvous remained chaste. I hardly believe that. I know Kate too well. How often did Kate not tell me that one must live life in the present, instead of waiting for a future time that might never come?

I am haunted by her love affair. I think about it constantly, Kate in the arms of some faceless stranger. (For she refused to reveal his identity to me.) I admit, I admire her daring. I could never slip out at night to meet my paramour—if I had one—much less climb down from a second-story window to do so! I also admit that a part of myself is filled with envy. Imagine those heated nights, spent in a lover’s strong arms! I have never been kissed and I wonder, continually, what it must be like.

I do wonder who this paragon of men is, to have so well stolen my dear friend’s heart. I have concluded that he is married, and the worst of rogues. Because if he were not, he would court Kate openly. Either that, or his lineage is so ancient, so impeccable, that he could never consider Kate as a bride.

And, writing of paragons, I must come to the most exciting part of my tale. I have met a man. Dear Diary, he is the most charming, handsome, clever gentleman, a man who outshines all his peers. When he walks into the room, I can see no one else—it is as if he stands there alone. Actually, I first met him at Lord Willow’s box in Swinton last summer. His name is Edward Sheldon, and he is the earl of Collinsworth’s heir. I am falling in love, dearest Diary!

I
ndeed, I do think I have heard several dowagers discussing my prospects at several recent gatherings—and Lord Braxton’s name was mentioned along with mine! I have already hinted of my interest to Papa. Oh, to recall the look in his eyes! And I have actually heard Mother and Lady Cecilia scheming over the union.

He is not courting me. But then, he has not courted anyone. The gossips say he is a rogue, with no intention of ever settling down, at least, not until the earl himself is dead. But then there are other rumors too, that his heart is taken, but by some inferior type, perhaps a French actress, who can never aspire to more than being his mistress, and that is why he
is so reticent, why he seems to bored with all the available young ladies of the ton, why he is forever so aloof and elusive.

I know that such a man could never love a French tart. Briefly, at Swinton Hall, I thought he might be interested in Kate. I must admit, I was somewhat taken by him even then, but last summer, with Kate beside me, outshining me, I was a true wallflower—and hardly confidant enough to even speak with him. How that has changed. Still, I do confess, I was jealous when I saw his flirtation with Kate. But whatever interest he might have had for her, or she for him, it was either in my imagination or they both found other, newer pursuits. I have seen them in the same room many times since that week at Swinton Hall. They never even look at one another—if they did have a flirtation, it ended when our week in the country did.

I am glad. I love Kate, truly, and I want her to marry well (she should find an American husband, from among the nouveau riche), but I am going to marry Lord Braxton. I love him even now, as I write to you, dear Diary, and I shall be his wife, I shall bear his children, I shall manage his homes and estates. And one day, I shall be the countess of Collinsworth. This I have promised myself. I have no doubts.

Tomorrow Mother is allowing me to attend a small Christmas party. Edward shall also be there. I cannot wait.

EIGHTEEN

J
ill let herself into the flat, holding the door ajar with her hip, her hands full with her small duffel bag and tote. She turned to watch Alex drive away in his sleek silver monster. She wanted to wave, but she couldn’t. She smiled instead but was certain he had not seen her.

She entered the house. The flat felt like home. It was cozy and inviting and she was so glad to be back. Yorkshire had not been what she had expected. Jill shivered, thinking of all she had learned.

And sitting there on the stairs facing her was Lady Eleanor, licking one of her velvety paws.

Jill stepped inside, putting her bags down, letting the front door slam shut. “Hi, Lady E.,” she said quietly.

The cat stopped bathing itself and meowed at her.

Jill walked over to the stairs and sat down beside the Siamese. She was aware of being very alone—and she had not felt that way during the weekend. But then, she had not been alone in Yorkshire. She’d had Alex as a companion—and as a lover for that one single night.

Jill shook herself free of such unwelcome thoughts. Lady E. had not leaped away. Jill touched her soft fur. The cat began to purr and Jill continued to caress her back.

She was aware of being exhausted, and she thought longingly of crawling into bed, even though it was only one in the afternoon. But she was
afraid to sleep because she was afraid to dream—and what if she walked in her sleep again, as she had done last night? Somehow, the idea was more than frightening, it was terrifying.

“What’s happening to me, Lady E.?” Jill whispered. She couldn’t stop thinking about Kate, but now she was also haunted by someone who was very much alive. If only she hadn’t slept with Alex, if only she could trust him completely.

Jill dialed up her neighbor, determined to concentrate on solving the mystery of Kate and not get sidetracked by personal feelings she hadn’t ever wanted in the first place. “How was Yorkshire?” Lucinda asked after they had exchanged greetings.

“I have found out so much,” Jill said. Immediately, her temples began to throb. “Lucinda, do you know of a handwriting expert who could compare signatures for me? Quickly?”

“Actually, I do. Having worked at so many museums, we’ve often used handwriting experts to authenticate works of art, old letters, and other artifacts of that nature.” Lucinda gave her the name and telephone number of an Arthur Kingston, whose office suite was in Cheapside. “Why do you need a handwriting expert, Jill?”

Jill told her about the hospital records, the birth certificate, and the receipt signed by Jonathan Barclay.

“Well,” Lucinda said slowly. “You most certainly have come up with some interesting clues. What did you think of Stainesmore?”

“I think it’s lovely,” Jill said. “Lucinda. We found Kate’s grave.”

There was a brief pause, in which Jill felt Lucinda’s surprise. “You what?!”

Jill told her about the small, barely noticeable headstone and the engraved date. “Can you believe it?”

“Actually, I am stunned,” Lucinda replied. “I hardly know what to think.” She lapsed into silence and Jill knew she was thinking about the effort and risk someone had taken to bury Kate—and the fact that that someone had known she was dead, where her body was, and the day she died. “And to think the authorities never knew.”

“Was Hal in love with Kate, Lucinda?”

Lucinda made a small sound of surprise. “I don’t know, my dear. Wouldn’t that have been rather, er, bizarre?”

“It would have been more than bizarre, it would have been an obsession.” Jill told Lucinda about the portrait in the attic, and Hal having discovered it when he was thirteen. Hal’s odd interest in Kate—his obsession—had
begun then, that summer. She was certain of it. And Alex must have also known. Hadn’t he said, more than once, that he and Hal had been very close as boys?

“What a fabulous discovery!” Lucinda cried excitedly.

“I think so.” Jill sighed. “I still need some kind of proof that Kate is my great-grandmother. But if those signatures match up, then Edward Collinsworth was the father of her child.”

Lucinda was absolutely silent.

“Lucinda? Are you still there?”

“Are you certain, Jill?”

“Yeah.” Jill was about to elaborate when she heard a click on her phone. “Lucinda, can we talk later? I have another call.”

“Of course, dear,” Lucinda said.

Jill was about to depress the hook. “Lucinda, are you friendly with the Sheldons?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I saw—or I think I saw—one of their cars out front a few minutes ago. No one buzzed me—but I was wondering if someone stopped in on you.”

“Dear, I adore that family—but I am merely a paid employee. I would hardly receive a social call from the earl.”

Jill thanked her, saying good-bye. And the instant she hung up the phone, having lost her other caller, something clicked in her mind. Jill froze. She hadn’t asked Lucinda if William had dropped by. She hadn’t been that specific. She had been asking about Lucinda’s relationship with the entire family.

Jill would bet her last dime that Lucinda had just had a visit from the earl. What she couldn’t figure out was, why?

J
ill awoke, startled from a deep sleep by a noise she could not identify. For one moment she was disoriented and confused, and then, squinting through the darkness, she realized she had fallen asleep on the sofa in the parlor and it was already dark.

A cat yowled.

Jill sat up, unbearably groggy, reaching for the lamp on the table beside the couch. She missed and the next thing she knew, she heard the lamp crashing to the floor.

Jill cursed, because the lamp was porcelain and an antique. She wondered what time it was and if one of her cats had cried out in the backyard. A neighbor had a German shepherd puppy. Lucinda had told her
that he’d gotten off his chain and out of his yard twice during the weekend while Jill was away, causing the cats no small amount of distress. Sir John had been treed, and had refused to come down for hours.

Groping, Jill found her way past the coffee table and armchair to the light switch on the wall by the front door. She flicked it and the entry was flooded with light. She immediately saw that the lamp had not been broken. She was relieved; it would have been nearly impossible to replace.

She looked at her watch. It was half past eight in the evening. She did not remember lying down, much less falling asleep. Had she slept all afternoon? Suddenly she was famished, and dialed out for a pizza.

Immediately she thought about Kate. At least she hadn’t dreamed, thank God.

Something crashed outside in the backyard.

Jill hurried through the parlor, not pausing to right the lamp. In the kitchen she flicked on more lights, stepping out onto the back stoop. The backyard was only illuminated in the vicinity of the stoop, for there were no outdoor lights in the garden. When her neighbors were at home, their lights would shine brightly in the farthest corners of the yard. But tonight, apparently, they were out, because the two houses facing her garden were utterly dark.

“Lady E.! Sir John! Psst, psst!” Jill called, still fighting the deep grogginess she was afflicted with.

She scanned the yard, but saw no dog, and neither cat. Well, the cats could undoubtedly take care of themselves, and she did not have a clue as to what had fallen over, but she’d worry about it tomorrow in the light of another day.

A strange crying sound seemed to drift through the house.

Jill had just opened up a can of Coke and she froze. For a moment, she thought she was hearing a woman’s weeping—and the first woman she thought of was Kate.

But the sound was so faint. Jill put the Coke down, straining to hear. Then she heard it again. A soft, pitiful crying.

Kate was dead. And Jill might believe in ghosts—sort of—but she had never seen one, nor did she want to. Her skin crawled. Anxiously, she glanced around the kitchen and at the night-blackened windows.

She told herself that she wasn’t hearing anything. It was her imagination.

But the pervasive crying seemed to linger.

Her heart began to thud. Sweat dampened her skin. Jill told herself not to be an idiot. A television was probably on next door—never mind that
she had not heard it or any appliance or even voices from next door since she had taken up residence in the flat. She walked out of the kitchen. As she did so, she heard nothing, but when she stopped in the center of the parlor, her footsteps no longer softly sounding, she heard the noise again.

Her gaze shot to the stairs. Was it coming from upstairs?

Shit, Jill thought. The upstairs was cast in blackness, and she did not want to go up.

The light switch was on the landing above.

The crying—more like a mewling—continued.

It seemed very real.

I’m a coward, Jill thought. She looked around, for an object with which to defend herself, then decided, if she was about to confront a ghost, nothing would help. She started cautiously toward the stairs. She went up them slowly. On the landing she paused, in utter darkness, the moaning now distinct.

It seemed to be coming from her bedroom, by God.

Jill hit the light. It flooded the hall. Was it the cat?

No longer afraid of ghosts, Jill rushed into the bedroom, turning on the lights, glancing around. The pitiful sound came from under the bed.

Jill got down on all fours, her pulse pounding. “John? John?” She crept forward. She did not understand. Sir John never came into any room when she was present, and he had not set foot in this bedroom while she was in it, either. But now she saw him crouching beneath the bed, mewling, his gaze wide and fixated on her.

“Come here, sweetie,” Jill called. “What’s wrong, darling?” She knew better than to reach out to him.

The cat stopped crying. It stared at her, its expression unbelievably human—incredibly distraught.

The hairs rose up on every inch of Jill’s body just as the knocker on the front door sounded. Jill jumped, scared out of her wits. Then she told herself it was probably the pizza. She glanced back at the bottom of the bed. What was wrong with Sir John?

The knocker sounded again, more insistently. Jill hurried from the room, stumbling downstairs. She had the sense to pause in the entry. “Who is it?”

“Pizza.”

Relieved, yet still very distressed with the cat’s behavior, Jill opened the door. A chubby freckle-faced boy held the box toward her with one hand, and with the other, he pointed—to his left. “Miss,” he said.

Jill looked in the direction he was pointing.

“You have a dead cat on your porch, miss,” he said.

As he spoke, Jill saw the decapitated cat, lying in a pool of bright red blood.

As the primal scream started to form deep inside her chest, she realized it was Lady E.

Jill screamed.

BOOK: The Third Heiress

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