The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Yes, dear Anne, I am smiling now.

  Anne, I am becoming heavy with the child. Soon, by May, the physician has said, I will give birth. He anticipates no problems—I have large hips which he says are perfect for childbearing, and my health is so good, again, due to my daily rides, my bicycling, and

  those long walks which you have so complained about. And, of course, I have insisted upon delivering my child in the best Infant's Hospital; I refuse to be at the mercy of some village midwife! But I remain nearly terrified, no matter what the good physician says. How many women do we know who have died trying to bring new souls into the world? Remember Lady Caswell, who died just last summer? And she was told that there would not be any problem, either! What if I die trying to give birth to our child?

  What if God will punish me for my sins? Not just the sin of loving a man out of wedlock, but for my entire reckless, shameless past?

  And the worst part of it is, I have no regrets! And surely He knows this!

  Can you blame me, dear Anne, for being terrified? How I wish that you were here.

  I am trying to be strong. Truly, I am. But I am only eighteen. There is so much I want to do, there are continents to explore, oceans to traverse, people to meet, books to read, ideas to entertain and debate, balls to attend, and, yes, more skies to fly, and having this baby and becoming this man's wife is only the beginning of the rest of my life. Or so I pray. If only I could regret my past, repent my sins, but dear God, I cannot!

  Please do not reproach me when we next meet. I intend to return to town shortly after the child is bom. And because I must keep my whereabouts a secret—I have sworn on the Bible that I would—I cannot even give you an address with which to write me. Pray for me, Anne. Your prayers will reach me, you know I will feel them, and I will feel better just knowing that you have read this, and that you are there, caring about me, sending me your love and affection from afar.

  I miss you.

  With the greatest affection, your loving and loyal, most sincere, best friend.

  Kate

  Jill's heart was pounding wildly as she finished reading the letter. She was so absorbed in Kate's words, so stricken by her emotions, that she completely forgot where she was. She could see Kate, her belly swollen with child, gracefully dressed in a floral-sprigged white gown, as she sat at a writing table and penned the poignant letter to her best friend, in the shadows of some poorly lit country house. The salon she was in would be well furnished. Rain streaked the window-panes. Outside the day was dark and damp with mist and fog. A fire crackled beneath the wood mantel of the hearth. And a dour-faced housekeeper in black with a starched white apron stood in the doorway, watching Kate.

  "Jill? Jill, are you okay?"

  Alex's voice was a rude and shocking interruption to Jill's flight of fantasy. She blinked and reahzed she was leaning over him so tensely that she was pressed against his back, her hand on the desk, gripping it, beside his. Their gazes met. It took Jill a long and almost painful moment to release the past and bring herself back into the present. She straightened, inhaling loudly.

  She felt disoriented.

  He swiveled in the seat in order to stare very closely at her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

  She was aware of trembling now, and she shook her head. "Poor Kate," she whispered.

  "That was a very powerful letter. I feel sorry for her, too." He turned back to the computer and moved the mouse. The printer began to whir.

  Jill remained shaken. She walked away from the desk, running a hand through her hair. Kate had gone to the countryside to have her baby. She had let a small manor near Robin Hood Bay, wherever that was. The physician had said the baby was due in May. "Kate Gallagher had a child, out of wedlock, in May of 1908," Jill said slowly. Her grandfather, Peter, had been bom in Yorkshire in 1908. A coincidence?

  Alex stood. "Yes, that's what the letter says. You're as white as a ghost." His scrutiny was blatant, but Jill remained overwhelmed by what she had just read and the coincidence

  of the birth dates, and was only vaguely aware of it. "I think you need a glass of water, better yet, a glass of wine."

  Jill did not answer. Had Kate ever married? What if her child had been a boy? What if Kate was more than a mere ancestor of Jill's? What if she was her great-grandmother?

  Jill knew she was leaping to conclusions. She knew the odds were a million to one. Except. . . Hal had cherished that photograph, she and Hal had been lovers, she herself looked like Kate, and Peter had been bom in the same year as Kate's own child, and in the same country, too.

  "Jill? Where are you?"

  Jill jumped out of her skin when Alex spoke. He was standing in front of her, so closely that their knees brushed. She had not heard him get up and walk to her. His hands were cupping her shoulders, and his eyes were intent, probing hers.

  She pulled away from him. She did not want physical contact. "I'm fine. I just feel so sorry for her. I wonder if he ever married her?"

  Alex gave her a look of incredulous disbelief.

  "What does that look mean?" Jill asked, following him from the office into the kitchen, but reluctantly. The image of Kate writing at the small desk in the dimly lit room haunted her. And of course, if her lover had married Kate, then she could not be Jill's great-grandmother.

  "It means that a guy who jumps through hoops for his parents and leaves an eighteen-year-old girl in the country to have his baby alone is not about to marry her." He produced a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. "The guy was a coward. He was also a shit."

  Jill watched him uncork it. She could not shake the letter from her mind, or Kate's voice, which had been mesmerizing. "That's not fair, is it? In those days, one had a very strong duty to one's parents. I believe one needed permission to marry." -i

  Alex poured them both glasses of pino grigio. "Honey, I'm a guy. The times may change, but the rules do not. Love, honor, honesty—tho.se sentiments are timeless. Either a man

  has integrity or he doesn't. That's one of the few instances in life that is black or white."

  Jill stared at Alex, really focusing on him for the first time since they had discovered Kate's letter—or maybe even since they had met. He was an unusual man—self-made, successful, keenly intelligent, yet sensitive and astute. He could obviously swim with sharks or he wouldn't have the power that he had. Yet he had ethics. Or so it seemed.

  Then she thought about Hal, the ache distinct. Where had Hal's integrity been? "You're an interesting man," she heard herself say.

  "One of my girlfriends told me I was boring."

  Jill looked at him, actually smiling. "What was her complaint? That you work too much or you didn't want to get married?"

  He smiled. "Smart cookie," he said. "Both."

  Jill continued to smile, until she realized that they were sharing a light moment. She turned her back on him, shaken. She did not want to enjoy his company, not his or any other man's. She wasn't looking for anything now, other than the truth about Kate Gallagher, not even friendship from Alex— especially as friendship could lead where she did not want to go and had no intention of ever going.

  "Where is that mind of yours now?" Alex asked, handing her a glass of wine.

  Jill started. Fortunately he could not read her thoughts. "The letter," she lied.

  He eyed her with obvious skepticism, still leaning one slim hip against the granite kitchen counter, sipping the icy cold Italian wine with obvious appreciation. He had his own kind of magnetism, too, she realized. And she was only just noticing it, probably because of the shock of Hal's death and deceptions. It was not movie-star bold, like Thomas's. When he entered a room, every head would not turn instantaneously. But after a few minutes, Jill had not a doubt that the women present would start looking in his direction, wondering who he was and what he did.

  "You're staring," he said.

  Jill grimaced. "I was thinking."

  "About Kate?"

  "Yeah." What a He. She avoided his eyes
. Whatever was happening here was wrong. Hal had just died. She did not want to find him interesting or attractive, not even for an instant.

  "I know you've been through a lot, but you need to loosen up, Jill." His tone made her jerk and meet his gaze. He knew she'd been thinking about him. He probably knew she was finding him attractive, too. He was smiling at her, but not really with amusement. Jill didn't know what his smile meant. But it was a smile that reached his blue gaze. It was a good, solid, genuine smile.

  "Why should I loosen up?" Jill rebutted immediately. Her thoughts were straying dangerously and she was determined to go back to where she'd been before she'd run into him in the apartment. "So you can make a pass at me?"

  His eyes widened. "Is that what you want?"

  "Hell, no," she said, meaning it.

  He stared. His expression was inscrutable. And a silence fell between (hem, like a heavy black thundercloud or, better yet, like a rock.

  "I apologize," Jill said abruptly, turning away. He was being kind, she was being a bitch. What was wrong with her?

  "It's okay. I understand." His tone was flat. Jill looked up and thought that she had angered him.

  "You need some downtime—badly," he said firmly. "Drink your wine and I'll take you home."

  Jill wanted nothing more than to go. It would be a relief. "What about the files?"

  "I'll print the rest of the files out for you and make a copy on a floppy, too." He glanced at his watch. He did not wear a flashy 18-karat Rolex like his cousin, but a stainless-steel Audemars Piguet with a dark blue dial. It was heavy yet sleek, at once outstanding and modest. Jill stared at his watch, then at him. It suited him perfectly, right down to the tiny diamond points that indicated the face's numbers. "I'll have to do it later, after I get back from my meetings," he said. His gaze remained steady, unwavering. Was there a question in his eyes?

  Jill nodded jerkily. She had to get out of there. She decided she was exhausted, maybe overly medicated. Should she even be drinking? The answer was obvious. "Will you have time? You seem terribly busy."

  "I'll make the time."

  She knew he would do as he said. But she thought about the letters sitting there on file on the computer hard drive. "Alex, I could go and do that while you dress—and if it takes longer, I could stay—if you don't mind leaving me here alone?"

  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 painst£iking 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.

  The Third Heiress J49

  "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."

  The 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

  "Mother, 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.