Secrets

Secrets Page 27

by Brenda Joyce

  Her re­la­ti­ves al­so did not want her so­li­ci­ting law­yers on her own, kno­wing full well that she wo­uld be an easy prey for blac­k­ma­il. If a di­vor­ce was on the agen­da, Brett in­ten­ded for it to be kept hus­hed up. The­re wo­uld be no scan­dal for his ni­ece. He was not, ho­we­ver, thril­led with her di­vor­cing Sla­de as pre­ci­pi­to­usly as she had mar­ri­ed him. He had tri­ed to per­su­ade her to wa­it for her fat­her's ar­ri­val in the city be­fo­re en­ga­ging in such a mo­nu­men­tal, li­fe-al­te­ring ac­ti­on. But that wo­uld not be for anot­her ten days or two we­eks. Re­gi­na wo­uld not even he­ar of it.

  Re­gi­na had al­so beg­ged her un­c­le not to in­ter­ve­ne. She knew both men too well. Brett had a tem­per and he was angry; she co­uld ima­gi­ne him get­ting he­avy-han­ded aro­und Sla­de. In such an event, Sla­de wo­uld not bud­ge. He wo­uld be­co­me ob­s­ti­na­te if pus­hed to the wall. She was even af­ra­id he and Brett might co­me to blows, for Sla­de's tem­per was even hot­ter than her un­c­le's.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not re­lax. As he had pro­mi­sed, Ed­ward was at her si­de in the car­ri­age they had ta­ken from her un­c­le's stab­le. The Fel­d­c­rest Bu­il­ding was new, Ed­ward had sa­id, ten sto­ri­es of gra­ni­te and li­mes­to­ne on the cor­ner of Van Ness Ave­nue and Eddy Stre­et. They had long sin­ce tur­ned on­to Van Ness, a ma­j­or tho­ro­ug­h­fa­re, tra­ve­ling so­uth. A cab­le car was ahe­ad of them, slo­wing them down. A hor­se-drawn trol­ley pas­sed them, then a be­er wa­gon and a mil­k­man's wa­gon. They ma­na­ged to cut thro­ugh the he­avy traf­fic and pass the elec­t­ric car. Re­gi­na saw an auto­mo­bi­le fil­led with a qu­ar­tet of grin­ning yo­ung gen­t­le­men, but she did not smi­le. Auto­mo­bi­les we­re be­co­ming in­c­re­asingly po­pu­lar, al­t­ho­ugh they we­re out­ra­ge­o­usly ex­pen­si­ve. This one lo­oked very much li­ke the one her co­usin Lucy ow­ned, the Dur­yea.

  Most of the bu­il­dings on this stre­et we­re com­mer­ci­al on the stre­et le­vel and re­si­den­ti­al abo­ve-sta­irs, and did not top three flo­ors. But up ahe­ad on the left she co­uld see a tall of­fi­ce bu­il­ding. She was cer­ta­in that that was the­ir des­ti­na­ti­on, and was pro­ved right when the dri­ver tur­ned the­ir car­ri­age left at the next in­ter­sec­ti­on.

  Her pul­se was po­un­ding. Even tho­ugh it was a ple­asantly mild day, she was per­s­pi­ring. She kept se­e­ing Sla­de's dark fa­ce in her mind, his ex­p­res­si­on cha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly in­s­c­ru­tab­le or cha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly angry. She clut­c­hed her re­ti­cu­le and a lar­ge brown en­ve­lo­pe very tightly in her glo­ved hands. In the en­ve­lo­pe we­re the di­vor­ce pa­pers he must sign.

  They alig­h­ted and qu­ickly en­te­red the bu­il­ding, cros­sing the spa­ci­o­us mar­b­le-flo­ored lobby and pa­using at the ele­va­tor. Re­gi­na re­ali­zed that she was out of bre­ath. And it had not­hing to do with the short walk ac­ross the lobby.

  "Half of the tenth flo­or is gi­ven over to Mann's staff," Ed­ward sa­id as they ro­de up in the ele­va­tor.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not res­pond. Her thro­at was too tight.

  Edward to­ok her arm when the ele­va­tor do­ors ope­ned. He led her up the hall, per­haps sen­sing that she ne­eded his sup­port now mo­re than ever, which she did. The pros­pect of se­e­ing her er­rant hus­band aga­in was ma­king her ner­vo­us. Ed­ward wal­ked past se­ve­ral do­ors, all with opa­que glass win­dows, and pa­used at the last one on the left si­de of the cor­ri­dor. He knoc­ked.

  Sla­de's vo­ice an­s­we­red. "Enter."

  Edward swung open the do­or and step­ped asi­de to al­low Re­gi­na to pre­ce­de him. Trem­b­ling, Re­gi­na pa­used bri­efly to col­lect her­self. It was too la­te to back out now. For Sla­de had al­re­ady se­en her.

  Chapter 18

  He was sit­ting at a lar­ge desk with his back to a win­dow over­lo­oking the busy com­mer­ci­al traf­fic of Eddy Stre­et. He was in his shir­t­s­le­eves, which we­re rol­led up to his el­bows, and bu­ri­ed in pa­per­work. Re­gi­na co­uld see at a glan­ce, ho­we­ver, that it was a fi­ne whi­te bro­ad­c­loth shirt he wo­re, so dif­fe­rent from tho­se he cho­se at ho­me, and that his dark tie was of equ­al qu­ality, al­t­ho­ugh it was ca­re­les­sly lo­ose­ned. Be­hind him a black wo­ol su­it jac­ket hung on a peg. He was sta­ring at her.

  She sta­red back, awa­re of the thun­de­ring of her he­art.

  In the next in­s­tant she saw that he wasn't alo­ne. If she had be­en ex­pec­ting him to be with an­yo­ne, she had be­en ex­pec­ting to see him with Char­les Mann. But he wasn't with anot­her man. Stan­ding be­hind him, her back to the win­dow, was a tall, sta­tu­es­que wo­man who wo­uld be con­si­de­red be­a­uti­ful by any stan­dard in the world.

  "Her­ma­no mio," Ed­ward sa­id, grin­ning. "How con­ve­ni­ent to find you he­re!" But his glan­ce was sli­ding past Sla­de, and it set­tled ab­ruptly on the bru­net­te.

  The wo­man re­gar­ded Ed­ward, and then she tur­ned to lo­ok at Re­gi­na.

  Re­gi­na sto­od ri­gidly in the do­or­way, un­mo­ving. The ot­her wo­man was ol­der than she, even ol­der than Sla­de, hut she was at that age when a wo­man is at her best- in her early thir­ti­es. The very ar­t­ful­ly ap­pli­ed ro­uge and pow­der en­han­ced her stri­king lo­oks. Fresh hurt swept thro­ugh Re­gi­na. Hard an­ger swept thro­ugh her. Now she knew why he had be­en so eager to co­me to San Fran­cis­co.

  Sla­de didn't get to his fe­et. In­s­te­ad, a tight ex­p­res­si­on cros­sing his fa­ce, he le­aned for­ward in his cha­ir. "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  Re­gi­na re­min­ded her­self that she was a lady. La­di­es did not ha­ve tem­pers. The wo­man in the dark-red en­sem­b­le was de­fi­ni­tely not a lady, ot­her­wi­se she wo­uld not be car­rying on with Sla­de out­si­de of mar­ri­age, and that fact spur­red Re­gi­na even mo­re to­ward self-con­t­rol. She wo­uld not sto­op to eit­her of the­ir le­vels. Her vo­ice was calm. She might ha­ve be­en ad­dres­sing a stran­ger. "For­gi­ve me if I'm dis­tur­bing you."

  "Hel­lo, Xan­d­ria," Ed­ward sa­id softly, as if he and Xan­d­ria we­re alo­ne in the ro­om.

  Xan­d­ria was re­gar­ding Re­gi­na and Sla­de with wi­de, alert eyes. She met Ed­ward's ga­ze only bri­efly be­fo­re re­tur­ning her in­te­res­ted at­ten­ti­on to Re­gi­na. She had big blue eyes.

  "What are you do­ing he­re?" Sla­de de­man­ded aga­in. He lo­oked as if he might ex­p­lo­de from his cha­ir in an in­s­tant. He lo­oked as if he wan­ted to throt­tle her.

  "I ha­ve co­me on bu­si­ness," Re­gi­na sa­id.

  "What bu­si­ness?"

  "Per­so­nal bu­si­ness. If you ha­ve the ti­me."

  He sta­red at her. Si­len­ce fol­lo­wed her words.

  The wo­man, Xan­d­ria, bro­ke it, mo­ving briskly for­ward from be­hind his desk. "I see I had bet­ter le­ave."

  Re­gi­na wan­ted not­hing mo­re than for her to le­ave. Her pre­sen­ce was thre­ate­ning her con­t­rol. She was trying very hard not to trem­b­le, to hold on­to her icy ve­ne­er. "Excu­se me, but I do not be­li­eve we ha­ve met."

  Xan­d­ria pa­used, then lo­oked qu­ickly at Sla­de as if for ap­pro­val. Sla­de was stan­ding. He sa­id darkly, "Xan­d­ria, this is my wi­fe. Eli­za­beth, this is Xan­d­ria Kingsly."

  Xan­d­ria was ob­vi­o­usly stun­ned.

  Re­gi­na co­uld al­most fe­el sorry for her. Sla­de's mis­t­ress ob­vi­o­usly had no idea that he had got­ten him­self mar­ri­ed. What a bas­tard he was.

  Xan­d­ria sud­denly smi­led. "How ple­ased I am to me­et you."

  Re­gi­na was ta­ken aback. She did not mo­ve. Per­haps Xan­d­ria tho­ught her na­ive eno­ugh to be­li­eve such the­at­rics, to think her re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Sla­de pla�
�to­nic. Re­gi­na ex­ten­ded her hand. "Li­ke­wi­se," she sa­id stiffly. In­si­de she bur­ned with the de­si­re to scratch the ot­her wo­man's eyes out. And to scratch her hus­band's eyes out.

  Xan­d­ria lo­oked from Re­gi­na to Sla­de. Her full mo­uth tig­h­te­ned. "I ha­ve an ap­po­in­t­ment," she mur­mu­red. Her vo­ice was na­tu­ral­ly low and husky. "Excu­se me."

  Re­gi­na ba­rely nod­ded. Her fa­ce was as im­pas­si­ve as pos­sib­le, but she co­uld not stop her­self from gla­ring at Sla­de. He mat­c­hed her sta­re in in­ten­sity, in an­ger.

  Edward jum­ped for­ward. "I'll see you out," he told Xan­d­ria. Re­gi­na sto­le a glim­p­se at him and saw the way he was lo­oking at the Ama­zon. All men, she gu­es­sed, wo­uld buzz abo­ut this vo­lup­tu­o­us wo­man li­ke be­es af­ter ho­ney.

  Xan­d­ria ga­ve him a long, as­ses­sing lo­ok. "Thank you."

  She lif­ted a hand at Sla­de, then gli­ded out. Ed­ward, lo­oking ple­ased, fol­lo­wed.

  They we­re alo­ne.

  Sud­denly all the so­unds from the stre­et out­si­de drif­ted thro­ugh the open win­dows. Bells and horns, the rum­b­le of whe­els on cob­bles­to­nes, the clip-clop­ping of hor­ses' ho­oves, a po­li­ce­man's whis­t­le, sho­uts. Pi­ge­ons co­o­ed on the led­ge thro­ugh it all.

  Abruptly Sla­de sto­od and ca­me aro­und his desk. "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  "May­be I sho­uld ask you that," Re­gi­na sa­id very po­li­tely. At the mo­ment she was re­fer­ring to his tryst, not to his de­ser­ti­on.

  "Ob­vi­o­usly I am busy at work."

  "Ob­vi­o­usly."

  His jaw clen­c­hed. "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  "Per­haps you've for­got­ten," she sa­id, the words com- ing qu­ite un­bid­den, "but a wi­fe's pla­ce is by her hus­band's si­de."

  "Not in this ca­se."

  The hurt cras­hed over her li­ke a ti­dal wa­ve. "No. Not in this ca­se. You ha­ve ma­de yo­ur­self very cle­ar."

  "I ne­ver sa­id I was plan­ning on sta­ying," he sa­id, but the­re was a catch in his vo­ice and his eyes ne­ver left hers.

  She trem­b­led. He had se­en her an­gu­ish, but it was too la­te. "You ne­ver sa­id an­y­t­hing!"

  "You ne­ver as­ked."

  They sta­red at each ot­her aga­in. Re­gi­na was sha­king, fe­eling very ne­ar col­lap­se. She wan­ted to vent her ra­ge and her hurt. She wan­ted to bre­ak things. She wan­ted to ha­ve a tan­t­rum. She wan­ted to hit her hus­band and hurt him back. Most of all, she wan­ted to scre­am at him wildly, scre­am the qu­es­ti­on she wan­ted an­s­we­red the most. How co­uld he ha­ve left her af­ter such a night? How co­uld he ha­ve aban­do­ned her, de­ser­ted her?

  But she did not gi­ve in to such self-in­dul­gen­ce. She sto­od still, only the ri­se and fall of her bo­som hin­ting at the tur­mo­il wit­hin.

  Sla­de was som­ber. "I'm sorry."

  She was go­ing to cry. "I d-do not ac­cept yo­ur apo­logy-"

  He he­si­ta­ted, then re­ac­hed out to to­uch her. "That nig­ht-it sho­uld ha­ve ne­ver hap­pe­ned."

  She bat­ted his hand away, fury ap­pa­rent in her one short mo­ve­ment. "Don't to­uch me."

  He drop­ped his hands, clen­c­hing his fists at his si­des. "You ha­ve every right to be up­set."

  She did not bot­her to res­pond. "Upset" in no way co­uld even be­gin to des­c­ri­be her fe­elings. And she did not want him to even gu­ess at how dis­t­ra­ught she was.

  "You sho­uldn't ha­ve co­me he­re, Eli­za­beth," Sla­de sa­id une­venly. "Why in hell did you co­me? I want you at Mi­ra­mar."

  She grit­ted her te­eth. "Whi­le you are he­re." With that wo­man, in his ot­her li­fe. "You are a fra­ud."

  Her ac­cu­sa­ti­on stra­ined his ex­p­res­si­on. "I know. I know bet­ter than an­yo­ne."

  She blin­ked. That was one res­pon­se she had not ex­pec­ted. Yet she knew he had a def­la­ted vi­ew of him­self. On­ce, she had cham­pi­oned him; on­ce, she had be­li­eved the best of him. On­ce upon a ti­me she wo­uld ha­ve pro­tes­ted his sta­te­ment. No mo­re. Even if the in­sa­ne ur­ge to gi­ve in to old ha­bits still da­red ste­al in­to her he­art.

  Sla­de sho­ved his hands in his poc­kets, as if af­fec­ted by her blur­red sta­re. "I've hurt you. I didn't me­an to."

  She al­most la­ug­hed. The so­und ca­me out cho­ked, li­ke a sob. "How tho­ug­h­t­ful you are."

  "All right!" he sho­uted. "But let me re­mind you that I did not co­me to yo­ur bed that night. You ca­me to mi­ne. I ne­ver had any in­ten­ti­on of con­sum­ma­ting our mar­ri­age. I wan­ted to be nob­le. But you threw yo­ur­self at me, dam­mit!"

  She cri­ed out. His bru­tal­ly ho­nest words we­re li­ke a slap in the fa­ce. But so much wor­se was his sta­te­ment that he had ne­ver in­ten­ded to con­sum­ma­te the mar­ri­age. She re­eled from his on­s­la­ught.

  He pa­ced away from her, to sta­re out of the win­dow.

  She was wi­de-eyed, still stun­ned. She fo­ught to re­co­ver her wits. "You ne­ver in­ten­ded a re­al mar­ri­age?"

  He didn't turn to fa­ce her. "No."

  She fo­ught for bre­ath.

  He tur­ned. "I gu­ess I sho­uld ha­ve ma­de myself cle­ar. I as­su­med that you wo­uld be ple­ased abo­ut get­ting mar­ri­ed, and that ha­ving a ho­me and my na­me wo­uld be eno­ugh."

  "Yo­ur as­sum­p­ti­on was wrong."

  Sla­de gri­ma­ced. "Dam­mit, I'm sorry. Mo­re sorry than you'll ever know."

  She didn't spe­ak be­ca­use she co­uldn't.

  "I'll put you up in the ho­tel to­night. You can ta­ke the tra­in back to Tem­p­le­ton to­mor­row. Ed­ward bro­ught you he­re-he can ta­ke you ho­me."

  She had tho­ught she un­der­s­to­od this man a lit­tle. She did not un­der­s­tand him at all. "No."

  He flin­c­hed. "You can't stay."

  "That's right." Briskly she ope­ned the en­ve­lo­pe, ho­ping he wo­uld not see that she was bat­ting back hot, stin­ging te­ars. She wit­h­d­rew the pa­pers. "I want a di­vor­ce, Sla­de, and I want it im­me­di­ately."

  "What?"

  "I want a di­vor­ce."

  He did not mo­ve, he did not res­pond.

  "Why are you so sur­p­ri­sed?"

  Very slowly, lif­ting his ga­ze to her, he sa­id, "May­be I'm not sur­p­ri­sed at all."

  She did not li­ke the dark, hurt lo­ok in his eyes. She was the one suf­fe­ring. She did not ca­re if he suf­fe­red too, he sho­uld suf­fer-she did not owe him one sin­g­le drop of sympathy.

  "I tho­ught you wan­ted to be the mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar."

  "No." She felt li­ke scre­aming at him that it had be­en a sham, that what she had wan­ted was to be his wi­fe-, to be not the mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar, but the mis­t­ress of his he­art. But that was an im­pos­sib­le dre­am. "I want not­hing to do with you or Mi­ra­mar."

  He sta­red at his clut­te­red desk.

  "I think you sho­uld know, I am not go­ing to al­low you to ha­ve a sin­g­le penny of my in­he­ri­tan­ce."

  "Is that ven­ge­an­ce?"

  "La­bel it what you will." Her chin ro­se slightly. "Per­haps it is. Su­rely you can see that the­re's no po­int in con­ti­nu­ing this mar­ri­age in na­me only."

  "You no lon­ger con­t­rol yo­ur funds. A wi­fe's pos­ses­si­ons be­long to her hus­band. Su­rely you can see that."

  Per­haps in the ca­se of Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. In her ca­se it was not so. Her fat­her was gi­ving her the in­he­ri­tan­ce upon her mar­ri­age. He had yet to do so. But she co­uld not po­int that out to him. Not wit­ho­ut re­ve­aling her true iden­tity, which she pre­fer­red to avo­id. Ob­vi­o­usly he was in­tent on her mo­ney. If he knew she was a Bragg, he wo­uld ne­ver let her go.

  Her hand tre
m­b­led, hol­ding the di­vor­ce pa­pers. "Just let me go, Sla­de. Per­haps we can ar­ri­ve at a mo­ne­tary set­tle­ment." Her law­yer had sug­ges­ted that co­ur­se as a last re­sort. Yet he had ad­vi­sed her not to even men­ti­on it. Sen­sing Sla­de's ob­s­ti­nan­ce, she cho­se to ig­no­re her law­yer's ad­vi­ce.

  His ex­p­res­si­on har­de­ned. "How much is a di­vor­ce worth to you?"

  For so­me re­ason, she felt sic­ker in­si­de than be­fo­re. "I-I don't know."

  His smi­le was un­p­le­asant. "Why not?" He step­ped to­ward her.

  Re­gi­na to­ok a step bac­k­ward, not li­king the lo­ok in his eyes or the ex­p­res­si­on on his fa­ce.

  He crow­ded her, bac­king her up aga­inst the wall. "Why don't you know? I me­an, if you're go­ing to pay me off, you sho­uld ha­ve a pri­ce in mind."

  Her he­art was po­un­ding. She did not want him this clo­se to her. His pro­xi­mity dis­t­res­sed her. So did his ill-con­ce­aled an­ger. "You ma­ke it so­und so… sor­did."

  "Isn't it sor­did?"

  She clo­sed her eyes. "Yes." Di­vor­ce was the most sor­did event she co­uld think of.

  "How much?" he grit­ted. "How god­damn much?"

  She was frig­h­te­ned. But her back was aga­inst the wall, so she co­uld not mo­ve away from him. "Our law­yers-"

  "No law­yers," he sho­uted, rip­ping the pa­pers from her hand. "No law­yers, no pa­yoff, no not­hing!"

  "What are you sa­ying?" she cri­ed.

  He sho­ved his fa­ce clo­se to hers. "I'm sa­ying no. N-O. No."

  She fro­ze.

  He ba­red his te­eth. "This is what I think of yo­ur de­mand, Eli­za­beth." He held up the pa­pers in both hands. Un­der­s­tan­ding his in­ten­ti­ons, she cri­ed out. Sa­va­gely, he to­re them in two. And he smi­led at her.

 

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