by Brenda Joyce
September 10, 1906 Dear Diary,
/ have met the most extraordinary woman. Her name is Kate Gallagher. I met Kate in Brighton. She is in Britain with her mother, hoping to catch herself a titled husband. Indeed, she confessed as much to me within moments of our meeting — and we were not even properly introduced. But that is Kate. She is bold and forthright, recklessly so. I have never before met anyone like her, neither man nor woman.
Being with Kate is like being in the center of a whirlwind. Of course, I have only read about such events of nature in novels, but a whirlwind must feel like Kate. She cannot sit still for more than a few minutes, and is always expounding upon her ideas, which are, to say the least, unconventional. She expects to marry for true love! She expects me to do the same! I understand that she does not understand our society, or the fact that I must marry well, and that the alliance must suit both families. I have tried to explain it to her, but she refuses to even try to comprehend me.
Alas, I do believe that is why I am so drawn to her. The other day we had a picnic by a pond. Kate took off all of her clothes and went swimming in the nude. I must say, after my shock faded, it did look like fun. But what if other strollers had happened upon us? Tshud-
der to think of how Kate's reputation would have been torn to shreds. Truly, Kate does not think twice about anything she wishes to do, and I think that is why I am so infatuated with her. I wish, for at least a day, I could be as brave as she is.
I have thrown my first extreme fit of temper. I was determined to have Mama invite Kate and her mother to Bensonhurst for the Season. I wish for Kate to come out with me, and when I told Mama as much, she was horrified. Mama does not like Kate. It is silly, but understandable, she fears Kate's wild nature will manifest itself in me! I cried and sobbed for hours, until Papa complained, which he never does, and told Mama to give me my way. I am deliriously happy. This shall be the best Season a lady could ever have. There is not a dull moment when Kate is around.
However, I do have some anxiety. You see, dear Diary, Mama's friends dislike Kate as well. I have overheard, more than once, that they think her trash. I am also afraid that her suitors do not have the most honorable intentions toward her. Have I mentioned that the gentlemen flock to her like bees to honey? A mere smile from Kate, and an admirer comes running. Most of her current beaux have horrid reputations as rakes and scoundrels. Kate is an heiress herself, but that cannot compensate for her reckless behavior. (She was caught alone in the gardens at midnight at a soiree with a much older gentleman quite recently, in spite of my warnings not to allow him near.) I fear she will only snag the worst sort of husband, a callous fortune hunter at best. And that, I know, would break my dear Kate's heart.
I must go. Today Kate and her mother arrive at Bensonhurst for their stay with us.
Jill clutched a small bag of groceries with one hand and fumbled with her keys with the other. It wasn't even seven o'clock the following morning, but her jet lag and excitement had caused her to rise hours ago. As she pushed the door
Open with her hip, she heard something inside crash to the floor.
Jill stiffened, alarmed. For one instant, she was afraid of an intruder, in the next instant, she saw one of the cats flying out of the salon and upstairs—a blur of silvery brown fur. She smiled. No one had told her that Allen Barrows's cats were temperamental Siamese, and she had yet to make friends with either Lady Eleanor or Sir John.
"Jill?"
Jill turned at the sound of Lucinda's voice. "Good morning," she said as the other woman came up the stone path, dressed casually in black trousers and a black wool sweater. The day was cloudy and gray, hinting of rain. The sun was barely up.
Lucinda smiled widely, as usual, wearing her oversized tortoiseshell eyeglasses. "I got home very late last night and was afraid to call because of the time change. But I saw you go out this morning and I wanted to come over and welcome you to your flat."
"I'm glad you did. I've been up for hours. Come on in," Jill said.
Lucinda followed her into the kitchen, smiling as she glanced around the apartment. "How do you like it?"
"I love it," Jill said. "Isn't this the kind of place Kate might have stayed back in 1906?"
"Well, I think Kate would have resided in a more upscale house, certainly in a more posh neighborhood like Mayfair," Lucinda said. "Don't forget, she was a guest at Bensonhurst."
"I know. But that was before she went to the country to have her child. She came back to London afterward—she was at Anne's birthday party. I only have instant coffee. Is that okay?" Jill set a kettle to boil and went to the refrigerator for milk. As she opened the door, she was faced with the very expensive bottle of champagne that Alex had brought her last night. She had opened it after he had left, unable to resist. It was a 1986 Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. He had spent well over a hundred dollars on the single bottle, maybe as much as two. Of course, he was loaded. The gesture was probably
meaningless; she doubted he had thought twice about spending so much money.
"That's fine. I was so excited when you faxed me that letter, Jill."
Jill sat down with her at the kitchen table, which was covered with a heavy linen tablecloth. The daisies left by Allen Barrows remained in the center of the table in the blue and white vase. "Are there records at Uxbridge Hall that I could look at? Wouldn't it be safe to assume that Kate stayed at Bensonhurst again when she returned to London after having her child?"
"I am intimate with those records, dear. Kate was not a guest after her first stay in 1906." Lucinda's gaze was direct. "If there was even a hint of gossip about the child, she would not have been welcome in society, Jill."
Jill absorbed that and said, "Hal would have put those letters somewhere very safe. The next time I am in New York, I will search the apartment there again. But I've really thought about it. I think they must be at the Sheldon house in Kensington Palace Gardens—because that is where they belong."
"At least we now know that the letters really exist." Lucinda's eyes sparkled.
"Alex is picking me up tonight. He's going to help me search for them at the house." Jill got up to remove the whistling kettle from the stove. Alex had not been keen on the idea. He thought it would be a wild goose chase. However, he'd explained to her that all of Hal's bank accounts had been returned to the estate. Hal did not have a safe-deposit box on record with any of the institutions where he normally banked.
Lucinda turned so she could watch her. "He seems like a very nice man. He is certainly being very helpful."
"I don't know what to make of Alex Preston." Jill hesitated. "Lucinda, do you think he might have deleted those files?"
Lucinda's eyes were wide. "Why would he ever do such a thing?"
Jill set two mugs down on the table along with a pitcher of
milk and a sugar bowl. "The more I think about it, the more doubtful I am. Kate was a guest of Anne's and she got pregnant. You just said yourself that if anyone suspected, she would have been turned into am outcast—a social pariah. Correct me if I'm wrong. A young, unwed mother in those days would have been more than a huge scandal—it would have been an unacceptable tragedy."
"Yes, it would have been a tragedy. Kate was ruined from the moment she became pregnant. I feel so sorry for her—I had no idea until I read that letter."
"Well, that is a skeleton in the Collinsworth closet, is it not? And Alex's last name might be Preston, but he is a Sheldon through and through."
Lucinda was silent. "I hope you're wrong, Jill. I really do. Besides, here in Britain every old family has more than skeletons in closets, there are ghosts lurking everywhere— and we are all used to the sordid side of our history. In fact, we are titillated by it. I can't think of why Alex would delete old letters of historic value to the family."
"Maybe you just hit the nail on the head. Alex is also an American. Maybe he is misguidedly trying to protect the only family he has."
"Oh, dear," Lucinda said.
"I hope I'm wrong, too,"
Jill finally said. "There's one other possibility."
"There is?"
"Yes." Jill met Lucinda's gaze. "Maybe Thomas deleted them. I'll lay odds he wouldn't want any skeletons to surface in his closet."
Jill stood by her front window, gazing outside, watching several pedestrians on the sidewalk just beyond her iron gate and the single car passing in the street. Alex had promised to pick her up at seven-thirty, claiming he could not leave the office any earlier. He was late. It was a quarter to eight and it was already growing dark out.
She heard a noise behind her and espied one of the cats sitting halfway up the stairs, staring at her out of vivid blue eyes. "Hello, sweetie. Are you Lady Eleanor or Sir John?"
The Third Heiress J 77
The Siamese continued to stare unblinkingly. Then it began deHcately licking its paw. He—or she—made Ezekial seem like a mutt. Even in the act of bathing itself, the cat appeared a snooty aristocrat.
Jill walked towards the cat, hand extended, about to pet it. It leaped up and fled up the stairs. She stared after it. "Oh, well."
Then she heard the sound of a powerful engine outside. Jill walked back to the window and parted the curtains. Her eyes widened as she watched Alex step out of a very racy, very sleek, silver sports car. He was wearing a single-breasted charcoal gray suit and a very flashy pink-and-blue tie. He saw her and smiled.
Jill flushed, stepping away from the window, dropping the curtains. She wished he hadn't caught her peeking out of the window like an excited teenager waiting for her first date. She hoped he did not get the wrong idea.
She turned and slipped on her black leather jacket, picking up her tote. She was wearing a white T-shirt and a long, straight black jersey skirt. She opened the door before he could knock, abruptly coming face-to-face with him.
"Sorry I'm late. A minor problem at the office." He smiled at her.
Jill smiled back, but briefly. "That's okay. Thanks for picking me up and chauffeuring me over to the Sheldons' in the first place." She closed the door and made sure it was locked.
'That's a helluva lock. I could pick that with my eyes closed," Alex said.
"Is that a skill of yours?"
"When I was a boy growing up, I was a bit rough around the edges."
Jill stared at his face. "What does that mean?"
"I was a street kid, sort of delinquent. I picked a few locks in my time." He grinned.
"You stole from people?"
"Just the occasional six-pack."
She knew he was not referring to soda. "How old were you?"
"Eight, nine, ten. My mother worked long hours. I was your typical wild kid." Alex touched her elbow as they walked down the stone path to his car.
Jill glanced sideways at him. He could be working in some factory now, drinking beer after work while shooting pool and living in a tenement, but instead, he was a power broker in a thousand-dollar suit, driving a car that probably cost well over six figures, part of a family of aristocrats who lived in a tum-of-the-century mansion. "It's amazing," Jill murmured, "the way a life can be altered." And before the words were out of her mouth, she thought about Hal.
"Yeah. It is. If my mom hadn't died, I might not be here." He opened the door for her. "I might be ripping off a lot more than six-packs."
Jill took a long hard look at him. He was smiling. She was trying to imagine him as a street punk into petty theft. It didn't work. "More likely you'd be one of those super cons, ripping off a few million here and there from the kinds of people you work with now."
He laughed. The sound was warm. "I take that as a compliment," he said.
She slid into the car and he closed her door. She eyed the car's white leather interior as he jumped in beside her, turning on the ignition. A CD player came on, the music classical.
He turned the volume down. "Brahms relaxes me."
"Some car," Jill returned.
"I'm not very self-indulgent, but I decided I deserved this a few years ago," he said.
Jill decided not to take issue with that comment. Before leaving New York she'd stopped in a Toumeau store and learned that the watch he wore, even though it was just stainless steel, cost fourteen thousand dollars. "What kind of car is this?"
"A Lamborghini."
"Boys and their toys," Jill couldn't help herself.
He grinned. "Yep. Life sure is fun."
Jill had to smile.
"Hold on," he said, shifting into gear.
Jill's heart stopped and she gripped the seat belt, buck-
ling it in haste. But his comment had been in jest. He winked at her.
Quickly she turned her face away. Jill stared out of her window, aware of him in the seat beside her, an image of his strong hands on the leather-bound steering wheel imprinted on her mind. He handled the sleek monster beneath them as easily as she handled her ballet slippers. He was an interesting man. Was he charming her? And why had he agreed to help her search his aunt and uncle's house? Could she trust him?
"How was your day? All settled in?" They were on a congested two-lane street. A passing sign told Jill it was Cromwell Road.
"I spent a part of the day unpacking, did some shopping, and tried to befriend two wary if not hostile Siamese cats."
He laughed. "Got your work cut out for you, don't you?"
Jill relaxed slightly. "I think they're getting used to me." She hesitated. "How many deals did you close today?" She couldn't help being curious.
He glanced at her and their gazes locked for an instant. "One. One very important deal. Something I've been working on for about eight months." He smiled. "I got a personal piece of the action. I could keep the right woman in Tait-tinger champagne for the next dozen years."
Jill looked away. What did that mean?
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Jill lied.
"I think you're uptight."
She froze. Then she faced him. "Why would I be uptight?"
"For some reason, I make you nervous." He didn't smile. His eyes were on the road. His profile was one of those Pierce Brosnan types—classic and very appealing. But unlike Pierce Brosnan, who played at being a hero, he was, maybe, the real thing. Jill realized she admired him for lifting himself out of the muck by his bootstraps, even if he'd had some help from the Sheldons.
"You don't make me nervous." She was lying through her teeth. He did make her nervous, because she wasn't ready to find anyone attractive, it was too soon.
Jill Stared grimly out of her window. It was going to be a long time before she slept with anyone, but suddenly she could see herself in some dark faceless stranger's arms, and it would be so comforting. She could lose herself, lose reality, feel cherished and loved—even if it was an illusion that the next morning would chase away.
Her thoughts were dangerous. She shoved them aside.
"I called on Janet Witcombe today," she said.
He did not take his eyes off of the road. "What happened?"
"She was out of it. She mistook me for one of her ten granddaughters. We had a great conversation, none of which made any sense to me, about this granddaughter's husband and kids. She gave Carol a lot of advice." Jill sighed.
"Is she always like that?" Alex asked.
"Her nurse said she has some amazingly lucid days, where she even knows the day, month, and year. I was told I can drop by anytime during visiting hours. I gave the nurse my number and asked her if she'd call me the next time Janet has a good day."
"What do you expect to find?"
"I want to know what Anne told her."
Alex glanced at her. "I hope she remembers when she's lucid," was all he said.
"So do I."
A few moments later Alex drove into the driveway in front of the Sheldons'. Jill looked toward the imposing pale stone residence and she shivered. "God. It's so big. It could take a month to cover every inch of that place."
"We have to be smart," Alex said, jumping out and coming around to her side of the car. "We have to think
like Hal."
Jill was already out of the car. "Do you think anyone's home?" She prayed everyone was out.
"I doubt it," Alex said as they strode up the front steps. He turned the key in the lock and let her into the spacious foyer. "Normally William and Margaret dine out or have guests to supper. Since Hal's death, they retire to their rooms."
The guilt lifted its insidious little head again. "What about Thomas?"
"I don't know." He glanced at her.
She flushed. "I wouldn't think that he'd be home at this hour." It was half a question, half a statement.
"That would be rare. Should we start in Hal's room?"
Jill agreed and they went upstairs. In Hal's old bedroom, Alex flicked on the light. Jill glanced around. Everything seemed to have been just as she had last seen it.
"Let's start," Alex said, walking over to the bed. She watched him get down on his knees, lift the bedskirts, and peer underneath.
Jill smiled. She must have made a sound because he lifted his head abruptly, banging it against the bottom railing of the bed. "Ow," he said, backing out and rising. "What is so funny?"
"You don't seem like the type to be searching under beds for century-old letters," Jill said. It was true.
"What a man will do," he said with humor.
Jill's smile vanished. She was beginning to think that he was interested in her. There had been too many offhand passes. This was not good. "What do you expect to find under the bed? Other than dust and mothballs?"
He ignored her question. "Look, Jill. I know this is a rough time for you, but a little humor can only help."
"Okay. You're right. I'll try to lighten up."
"Good girl. And I thought he might have put the letters in a box or bag and shoved them under the bed." He sat down on the bed and began going through the desk that was beside it. '^^ Her gaze strayed across the mattress and she froze. The photograph of Anne and Kate was not on the nightstand.
"What is it?" Alex asked as she rushed to the night table.
Jill opened the drawer. "I can't believe it." She faced Alex. "That wonderful photograph is gone."