The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  "I doubt it's gone," Alex said, coming over and staring into the empty drawer. "Probably someone in the family just tucked it away. Eventually all of Hal's possessions will be put away."

  Jill was disturbed. "No. It's gone. Someone took it."

  He studied her. "I'll ask Lauren and Thomas about it," he finally said.

  "Why would someone hide that photograph?" she asked.

  J82 BRENDA JOYCE

  "Your imagination is running wild." He was patient. "No one hid it."

  Jill turned away, filled with skepticism. She began taking the books down from the bookshelves, one by one, trying now to ignore the photos of Hal as a boy and adolescent. It was impossible to ignore the photo of him and Marisa on the ski slopes. She paused, reached for it. As Jill stared at it, she felt the weight of sadness gathering in her heart. How had she been so mistaken?

  She never heard Alex come up behind her. "Don't torture yourself. That was taken ten years ago."

  "I'm not. It's over. Bingo. Like that." She'd snapped her fingers and turned abruptly, coming up against the solid wall of his chest. Jill backed up a step.

  He just stared at her, his eyes searching.

  Jill felt uncomfortable. "Find anything?" She tried to change the topic.

  He gave her a wry look. "Is this a race against time?" he asked, going back to the desk.

  Jill realized that her heart was pounding in relief. "No, of course not."

  Suddenly he faced her again. "Jill. There's something I want to say."

  Instantly Jill became uneasy. "Let's find the letters."

  "Because I like you," Alex added.

  Jill met his gaze, jerked away.

  "Hal wasn't strong," Alex said, his eyes dark. "I hate-speaking ill of the dead, and God knows, we were friends, and when we were young, we were partners in crime, and he had a good heart. But. And it's a big But. He was confused, immature, and prone to escapism."

  Jill stared at him. Her throat was dry. But she already knew exactly what he was telling her. She just didn't want it spelled out for her. Not this way. Not by him. "Are you always so smart?"

  "I'm not trying to be smarter than anyone. But you only knew him for eight months. I knew him for almost thirty-three years. There are no guarantees in life, Jill. None. And

  no one has a crystal ball. The future almost never unfolds, the way you expect it to. They say it's a journey, and in my book, it's one helluva trip."

  "As if I don't know that now," Jill said. Her smile failed. "I'm okay. I am. Really." And if she wasn't, she would be, soon. It was a promise she made to herself.

  He studied her. Finally he smiled, when she knew her own face was set in stone. "You're a tough kid. Let's find those letters and see if we can't find you a family."

  Jill stared at his back as he turned away. His choice of words made her feel like choking up. Was he even aware of what he'd just said?

  Jill returned to the task of removing the books from the bookshelf, but blindly, focused more now on the man across the room than on the titles in front of her, unable to stop recalling his words . . . prone to escapism ... no crystal balls . . . unable to stop recalling him.

  They worked silently for the next hour, going over every inch of Hal's room. She was careful to stay at the opposite end of the bedroom as they searched through Hal's things. Jill started to wish that she hadn't asked him to help her. He was making her task more difficult, not easier. Somehow he had become a distraction.

  Jill finished with the books and she began going through the cabinets beneath the bookcase. She glanced across the room. Alex was up to his elbows in Hal's clothes in his closet. But he turned his head and caught her looking at him. Neither one smiled.

  Jill turned away. She felt shakier than she had earlier. Shakier—and shaken.

  She sat down on the floor, running her hand over the wood inside the cabinet, making sure it was empty. What if she let him make a good pass at her? What if she let him be that faceless stranger?

  Jill wanted to hate her thoughts, be appalled with herself. But it would feel so good to be held in a pair of strong arms, just for a single night. Jill smiled bitterly to herself. Who was she fooling? She'd never had a one-night stand in her life. In

  fact, Hal had only been the second man she'd ever been with. Her first boyfriend had been a dancer, and they'd been together for almost four years when they were just kids.

  She was more than discouraged. "Alex." Jill stood as he turned, their gazes colliding. "Maybe we should call it a night."

  His gaze slipped over her features, one by one. "Fine. How about a nightcap? You look like you could use one."

  Jill set her jaw, hard. "I don't think so." And she was proud of herself for being rational. She promised herself that she was not going to do anything rash. Not tonight, or tomorrow, or any other time.

  "What is going on in here?" A woman gasped.

  Jill jerked, turning, at the sound of an English-accented voice that she did not recognize. Hal's rnother, Margaret Sheldon, the countess of CoUinsworth, stood on the threshold clad in a red cashmere robe, her eyes wide. Jill's heart lurched with horrendous force. The evening had just, unbelievably, taken a turn for the very worst.

  Ten

  J

  ILL REMAINED MOTIONLESS.

  Alex walked over to his aunt. "Aunt Margaret, we didn't mean to startle you."

  Margaret was obviously dressed for bed. She glanced from Alex to Jill. "I do not understand." She managed a smile. "Forgive me. I'm being terribly rude. You're Jillian Gallagher?"

  Jill came forward, feeling horribly awkward, quite certain that she was the last person Margaret wished to see. "Yes. We didn't mean to intrude. Lady Sheldon. I am so sorry if we have upset you."

  "Actually, you should address my aunt as Lady Collinsworth," Alex said softly. "Sheldon is the family name, but the title to the estate is Collinsworth."

  Jill nodded, aware of her flush deepening.

  "You are not intruding ... I am just surprised ... I heard noises coming from his room," Margaret trailed off, unable to continue. She glanced around Hal's room as if she expected him to appear from a comer at any moment.

  Jill wanted to be anywhere but there, with Hal's mother, in Hal's bedroom. She folded her arms protectively around her body. "We were hoping to find some very important letters," Jill explained lamely. "Hal put them somewhere before he died for safekeeping. I am so sorry." She wanted to explain far more than about the letters. She wanted to explain

  that she had been in love with Hal and that she had not meant to kill him. She wanted to beg this woman for forgiveness.

  "Letters?" Margaret was distressed. She was pale, her blue eyes moistening. She turned to her nephew. "I would appreciate an explanation another time, Alex. I am really quite tired."

  "Yes, ma'am," he SEiid. He was deferential.

  "I don't think you and Miss Gallagher should be riffling through Hal's belongings anyway, when he is not here himself to..." She stopped, tears slipping down her cheeks. "When he is not here," she whispered lamely.

  Jill wanted to go to the other woman and console her. She did not move. Moisture was gathering in her own eyes.

  Alex moved. He put his arm around Margaret. "Let me help you to your room. I'll explain everything tomorrow. Where is Uncle William?" His tone was gentle.

  "In the library. Trying to read," she returned, not protesting as Alex guided her to the door.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder at Jill. "I'll meet you downstairs." Clearly their evening search was, for the moment, over.

  "I'll clean up first," Jill said, still feeling terrible for having intruded upon Margaret in her grief. "Again, I apologize. Lady Collinsworth."

  Margaret actually turned and nodded at Jill, attempting a smile that was fragile and wan. They left. Jill quickly began putting Hal's things away, a huge lump in her chest. She had to find the letters, but one thing was clear. She should stay as far away from this house—and Hal's family—as was possible. Per
haps Alex was an exception. But considering her sudden awareness of him, perhaps he was not.

  A few minutes later she hurried downstairs. All she could think of now was getting a taxi—if taxis were available in this neighborhood or by phone—and going back to her cozy flat She would make herself a stiff drink and curl up with the cats. She would try to forget about the entire evening.

  She faltered in the foyer. Thomas was in the living room, making himself a drink. His back was to her.

  It was the coup de grace. There was no one she hoped to

  see less. Her first thought was to sneak out of the house before he saw her. But he must have sensed her presence, because he turned. His amber eyes widened when he saw her.

  Jill wet her lips, intending to say hello very politely. But she could not seem to get the single word out.

  He came forward, a scotch in hand, while Jill remained frozen by the stairs. He had obviously come straight from the office or a restaurant, because he was in a dark suit and tie. His shirt was pink. Not very many men could wear a pink button-down and appear thoroughly masculine. Thomas could. "Hello, Jill."

  She swallowed, more than nervous. She had not seen him since he'd found her in Hal's apartment in New York. She wasn't sure what to expect in way of a greeting from him. "Hello, Thomas." She fumbled for polite chitchat. "How are you?"

  His smile was brief, cursory. "Fine." He stared, dark brows furrowed ever so slightly. "What are you doing here?"

  Jill wasn't certain that it was an accusation. Her mind raced, searching for a plausible explanation. She hadn't told him about the letters, but Alex knew—and she had let the cat out of the bag with Margaret, as well. The odds were high that he would soon learn the truth about the reason for her visit. "AJex brought me here. We were looking for letters which Kate wrote to your grandmother, Anne, before she disappeared."

  A long moment ensued. "I see." He smiled faintly. Jill thought he looked worn, tired. "You are still chasing ghosts."

  "Yes." Jill wasn't defensive.

  "Come in." He gestured at the room. "Care for a drink while you're waiting?"

  Jill was surprised, and she hesitated. He wasn't particularly warm, but he was not being hostile, either, and he had no reason to offer her a drink. "Maybe I'll just wait for Alex in the foyer," she began.

  "I don't bite," he said abruptly. And he smiled slightly at her again.

  Their gazes locked. "All right," Jill capitulated. The urge to imbibe—to escape, forget, relax—won.

  He waved her into the salon. "What do you fancy? Scotch? Gin? Vodka?"

  Jill came forward, less uneasy now. "A glass of wine?"

  "Red or white?"

  "Whatever you have," she replied.

  "I have both."

  "White."

  He went to the door of an armoire and opened it, revealing a built-in refrigerator. He extracted a bottle of white wine and uncorked it, pouring her a glass. It was Pouilly-Fusse, and when Jill sipped it, it was icy cold and delicious.

  "I was surprised to find you here," Thomas finally said.

  "About as surprised as I was to see you," Jill returned.

  "This is my home."

  "But you look likelhe type to be at some fancy supper club with a model or two."

  He laughed. "I've done that. So where is my brilliant cousin?"

  "He took your mother to her rooms." Jill heard her own tone change, becoming cautious.

  "Why?"

  Jill avoided his eyes. "We were looking for the letters in Hal's bedroom. Your mother happened in upon us."

  Thomas's expression changed. Quickly Jill said, "I apologized. I'm really sorry. The last thing I want to do is cause more distress to your family."

  "Mother is not well," Thomas said flatly. He did not look at Jill. His grip on his glass was white-knuckled. "Just the other day she complained of heart palpitations again. She's on medication, and tomorrow she's scheduled for extensive tests."

  "I didn't know." Jill was frozen. What if something happened to Hal's mother? First Hal, then Margaret? It would be Jill's fault.

  "I'm attempting to send her off to a spa. Your spas are better than ours. Maybe the Golden Door," he said.

  "That's a great idea," Jill said, guilt-ridden and in complete agreement with him. Where was Alex? She wanted to go, to hell with the drink.

  He stared at her. His eyes were hard to read. "I am very protective of this family. It's my duty."

  Jill sipped her wine again, looking away. She did not know what to say. "Duty is a very noble sentiment. We don't think much about duty back home."

  "I'm Father's heir," he said simply, as if that explained everything. After a pause, he added, wryly, "As an American you probably think me old-fashioned. But the Collinsworth title goes back hundreds of years—five hindred and seventy-two years, to be exact. My father is the tenth earl, you see." He smiled, but it was faint. "We are old-fashioned. I believe in old-fashioned values—duty, honor, loyalty. It's my duty to make sure that this family endures through the cenmries." He shrugged slightly. "Some here in Britain call us aristocrats antiquated, or worse."

  Jill tossed down some wine. He was protective of his family, and that was admirable. But why the speech about values? Was there an innuendo in his words? Was he warning her that he still blamed her for Hal's death—for all that she had done to disrupt the family whose standard he held? Jill couldn't decide. But he looked depressed, she realized, and she felt even more sympathetic than she had earlier. More sympathetic, and more out of place than ever.

  It wasn't just that he was rich, blue-blooded, elegant, powerful. His mindset was dynastic. The Sheldons were a dynasty. Did Alex feel the way that Thomas did?

  "I really have to go," she said, setting her empty wineglass down, disturbed for reasons she could not fathom. "Can I call a taxi?"

  "Have I made you uneasy?" His gaze locked with hers.

  Jill started, wondering if there was a small challenge there. "Actually, you have. I admire your sentiments. But they are foreign to me." She hesitated. "You have a very big burden on your shoulders," she added quietly.

  He regarded her unwaveringly. "It's not a burden. It's who and what I am."

  She stared at him. It was like looking into Hal's eyes, but he wasn't in the least bit like Hal. "You can't be Superman. Only Superman would think lightly of such a task."

  Thomas gave her a self-deprecating shrug.

  Jill was uncomfortable. She glanced toward the doorway, and cringed inwardly at the sight of Lauren entering the foyer. This was not her lucky day.

  ■ If Lauren was surprised to see her, she gave no sign. She smiled and shook Jill's hand. "Alex mentioned you were back in town. Are you settled?"

  "Almost, thank you," Jill said. She couldn't help noticing that even in a pair of jeans, Lauren looked wealthy and elegant. On the other hand, she looked much worse for wear than Thomas. There were huge circles under her eyes, and Jill could see that she'd lost a good ten pounds since they'd last seen one another.

  "Where are you staying?" Lauren asked, as if they were friends.

  Jill replied and they chatted for a moment about the Kensington neighborhood and Jill's good fortune in finding such a charming flat on such short notice.

  Suddenly Thomas sighed. "I've become maudlin. I take it you did not find what you were looking for?" he asked Jill.

  Jill started, recalling the letters. Well, their existence was no secret now. "No, we didn't." She offered no more. She didn't really want to discuss the letters with him.

  "Have you met Lucinda Becke at Uxbridge Hall?" he asked. "She might be helpful. You should talk to her. She's the museum director. You know, I used to reside at the Hall when I was married, mostly on weekends and holidays. Sometimes I think Lucinda loves my family—and the Hall— more than I do."

  Jill smiled with him. "I have met her, actually. When Lauren and I went over to Uxbridge together."

  He nodded. "I'm sure she might help you if you really want to find those lette
rs."

  "What letters are you talking about?" Lauren asked, glancing from her brother to Jill.

  Thomas answered. "Jill is still interested in that woman, Kate Gallagher. Apparently Kate wfote our grandmother some letters."

  Lauren looked at Jill. "Why?"

  Jill hesitated. She had been put on the spot. Thomas was looking at her, too. But not with intensity or interest. Still, Jill had the distinct feeling that the question was one they both wanted answered.

  She felt her cheeks heating. Her heart racing, she said, "I think Kate might be an ancestor of mine."

  Thomas sipped his scotch. "Actually, I seem to recall you saying that the last time you were here, now that I think about it. It is a long shot, Jill."

  "I know." Jill smiled at him, then glanced at the doorway. Where the hell was Alex?

  "More wine?" Lauren asked.

  Jill shook her head. "No, thank you. As soon as Alex comes down, he's going to drive me home."

  Lauren started. "You came here with Alex?" She seemed very surprised.

  "Yes. What a car," Jill enthused, hoping to change the subject from Kate Gallagher.

  "He has a beautiful car," Lauren agreed. "I tried to talk him out of buying it, he might as well plaster the amount of his bank accounts right on his forehead, but he would not listen to a word I said. Of course, every eligible woman in the city is after him anyway, but now, so is every ineligible one—the moment they see him in that car."

  Jill could not mistake Lauren's meaning. "I am not after Alex Preston," she said flatly. "A month ago, I was nearly engaged to your brother."

  Lauren did not reply.

  Jill tried to tamp down her anger—and her impatience. She was getting ready to walk home, for godsakes. But Thomas patted her arm.

  "My little sister is also very protective of this family." He looked at Lauren. "One day Alex will bring someone home, and I don't think any of us will have a vote, knowing Alex as I do."

  "I don't expect a vote," Lauren said coolly. "But I've been with him too many times to count where women assume I'm