The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Lauren led Marisa to a pair of thronelike chairs on either side of a marble-topped table and she sat down in one of them. Jill watched the two women, wanting to run away now but unable to move.

  Marisa looked up. "He was coming home," she cried in anguish to Jill. "He told me so. He wouldn't lie to me—we had no secrets—he even told me about you. He was my best friend in the world! How will I survive without him?!"

  It did hurt. Not a lot. Just a little. Like the second day of a martini hangover, dully, listlessly. And Jill thought that if anyone knew the truth about what was in Hal's heart, it was the other woman, not Jill herself. •

  "How could God do this?" Marisa suddenly cried. "Hal wasn't perfect, but who is? But he was so kind! I think of so many people who don't give a damn about the poor or the ill, and they are alive! Hal cared." Marisa looked at Jill through glistening eyes. "Do you know that he never once walked pa.st a beggar without handing him a few pounds?"

  Jill knew. "Marisa."

  She looked up, her nose red, her skin blotchy, her features and figure perfect.

  "He was having doubts about us," Jill said with dread. "He was homesick. He told me so."

  Marisa's eyes brightened.

  It was the best that Jill could do.

  "Thank you," Marisa said. Then she wept again.

  Jill nodded grimly at Lauren and headed for the door. To her dismay, Lauren fell- into step beside her. "Is Alex here?" she asked. "Did he bring you over again?"

  "No." Jill paused. "Your father asked me to come."

  "What matter could the two of you possibly share an interest in?" Lauren returned, obviously confused.

  Jill said, "You'll have to ask him." She glanced at Marisa, who was trying to compose herself. "Tell her I'm sorry," she said.

  And she walked out, leaving Lauren standing there.

  Jill hurried down the drive and through the open iron gates. Once on the shady, tree-lined street, she halted, to catch her breath and compose herself. Her temples throbbed. She was beginning to understand Marisa and Hal as a couple.

  And as she stood there, almost wishing that she had never encountered Marisa, her words echoed in her mind. We hud no secrets.

  Jill stared blindly across the street at a huge stone mansion and behind that, Kensington Gardens. Had Hal told Marisa everything]

  Had he told her about Kate?

  Using her hip, Jill pushed open her front door. In her hands were two shopping bags, one containing groceries, the other a brand new Sony answering machine that she'd felt she'd had to buy after her earlier conversation with KC. She smiled at Lady Eleanor, who sat up expectantly on the sofa in the parlor, regarding her unwaveringly. Another silvery brown blur disappeared into the kitchen, and presumably through the doggie door and into the gardens outside.

  "Hi ya. Lady E." Jill smiled at the Siamese and carried her bags into the kitchen. As she hooked up the answering machine—reading the directions in order to do so—her mind kept skipping back to the depressing morning she'd had. After she recorded a greeting, she dialed Lucinda Becke, plopping down in one of the kitchen chairs while popping open a can of Coke.

  "How are you faring, Jill?" the director of Uxbridge Hall asked.

  "I feel like I'm at a dead end," Jill said. She told Lucinda how William had forbade her access to his house. "It was my best bet for finding the letters."

  "I tend to agree," Lucinda commiserated. "But surely you won't give up now?"

  Alex's image flashed through her mind, dismaying her. "No. I may never find those letters. Either Alex or Thomas deleted them, and I'll bet whoever did, he's got a copy himself. I'm going to Yorkshire, Lucinda. And York. My grandfather was bom somewhere around there, and in any case, Kate stayed near Robin Hood Bay when she was pregnant. Which is, amazingly, just a few miles from Stainesmore. Another coincidence? How could it be one! I'm going there. I'm going to call up all of the hospitals and find out which one goes back to 1908. Maybe that's where Kate was hospitalized to give birth to her child. Maybe I can locate Peter's birth certificate while I'm at it. I'm going to find some trace of her, I swear, and I'm going to find some trace of Peter, too."

  "I wish I could come with you," Lucinda said. "Perhaps you'll even find the manor where she stayed when she was enceinte. This is so exciting, Jill."

  "It is exciting," Jill agreed. "And because Kate is connected to the Sheldon family through Anne, I'm going to poke around their estate, as well. God, if only I had carte blanche to search all the Collinsworth properties." Jill wondered how she could get inside Stainesmore. She'd have to come up with an awfully good story.

  "I have an inkling Lord Collinsworth might not want you there, my dear. It is a private home, unlike Uxbridge Hall."

  "I know," Jill said. "And that's why I'm not going to ask him for permission. I'm just going to show up." She hesitated. "Lucinda, there's something I haven't told you. In fact, I told only one person." She was half regretting telling Alex about Hal's dying words now.

  "What could that be?"

  Jill hesitated. "Hal mentioned Kate's name as he died. I did not mistake it. He said 'Kate' very clearly. After finding

  the photograph, I can only assume he was trying to tell me something about Kate Gallagher."

  Lucinda was absolutely silent.

  "Lucinda?"

  "You gave me chills just now, Jill. I'm uncertain of what to think. You do know he spent a lot of time in Yorkshire. He was always motoring up there for days at a time."

  "I thought it was strictly a summer place."

  "No. That's not the impression I received. Harold took weekends there even in the winter. I remember quite clearly."

  Jill absorbed that, wondering if Hal had gone alone or if he'd taken Marisa. She shoved that speculation aside, already knowing the answer. Suddenly she felt positive that the sooner she went to Yorkshire, the sooner she would have the answers she was looking for. "Lucinda, will you take care of the.cats while I'm gone? I'll only be a few days."

  "Of course, dear," Lucinda said.

  After Jill hung up, she brooded. Even if she couldn't trust Alex yet, even if he was KC's King of Swords, he was clever and resourceful, and she almost felt like calling him and asking his advice. She wondered what he would do next if he were in her position.

  "That damn King is probably Thomas," Jill muttered, eyeing the phone. She wasn't sure if she was trying to convince herself of that or if she really believed it. Besides, KC could be wrong. She was a dramatist with a capital D. Maybe she had misread her beloved cards.

  But KC had upset her. Every time she thought about this man whom she should not trust, she got a sick feeling in her stomach, a feeling of unease, of dreadful expectation.

  She decided to forget KC's warning for now, to put it in the back of her mind. The feeling of dread probably had more to do with how hard she kept telling herself to avoid Alex, even in her thoughts—which was just a super-indicator of the fact that her hormones were still acting up and that she feared she would cave in to her need to be held and touched sooner rather than later.

  She couldn't help remembering what it had been like to

  make love with Hal. It had been heaven. Of course, she had been head over heels in love with him. She wasn't in love with Alex. Not even remotely so. He was great-looking and super-smart, a total turn-on. Jill had the feeling he would be great in bed.

  "Don't go there," she ordered herself firmly.

  The phone rang, jerking her from her thoughts. It was Alex. Jill gripped the receiver, almost in disbelief.

  "Hey, kiddo," he said. "How are the cats?"

  "How are the cats?" she echoed. Maybe they shared telepathy. This was amazing.

  "Lady Eleanor and Sir John."

  She bit back a smile. "Lady E.'s warming up so fast she's melting. Sir John's hiding in the gardens."

  She imagined him smiling on the other end of the phone. He said, "I'm sorry about last night. I came on like a Mack truck. That wasn't my intention. What can I do to make
it up to you?"

  Jill blinked. She became aware of her heart thundering. It was a moment before she spoke. "That was to the point."

  "Life is goddamned short, Jill. I think we've both learned that recently."

  Jill sobered. "Yeah." She hesitated. "You weren't really a Mack truck. More like a Humvee."

  He laughed. "Thanks."

  "I think you're a mind reader," she said, grinning.

  He laughed again. "Not at all. Because I don't know what's on your mind now, other than your ancestor."

  Jill froze. And breathed, "Is that who you're thinking about? Is Kate the reason you called?"

  "I wanted to apologize, but I've been thinking about her. Something isn't right, something that I haven't figured out yet, but I have a strong feeling you are connected to her, too."

  Jill felt a thrill rush over her.

  "Jill?"

  She was smiUng at the phone. "It feels good to have someone else who is a lot more objective than myself think what I'm thinking."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  She hesitated again. To tell Alex her plans, or not? If she told him, she would be trusting him yet again. Jill closed her eyes. Thomas was obviously the villain here. Thomas was the one she could not trust.

  She inhaled. "Your uncle called me over to the house this morning," she said quickly. Briefly she told him what had happened.

  "Ouch," he said. "It's my fault. We were two bulls in the damned china shop. Look, I've thought about it. We may never find those letters. There are other ways to proceed."

  He had said, "we." Jill gripped the phone, aware of how clammy her hands were. He sounded sincere. If he was lying, if he had deleted those files, he was a sociopath. Jill didn't think he was lying. He did not seem like a sociopath. He was upright, sincere. He seemed like a man with integrity. She was going to have to make a decision, and quickly, on whether to trust him or not.

  Alex broke into her thoughts. "I could drive you up to Yorkshire. We know the area where Kate stayed when she was pregnant. How many suitable manors would be in close proximity to it? And locals have long memories. Every village has its ghosts and folklore. God only knows what we'll unearth."

  Jill heard herself say, hoarsely, "I'm ahead of you. I've already asked Lucinda to take care of the cats."

  "Great minds," he murmured, and there was something so rich and deep in his voice that Jill stopped breathing, the bed issue completely absorbing her thoughts.

  Then he said, "When do you want to leave? How about Thursday at noon? It's a good six hours from here to York. Another four to Stainesmore. The only catch is that we have to head back late Sunday or at the crack of dawn on Monday."

  She felt overwhelmed. "You don't have to do this. I can rent a car—"

  "Another dead Yank? Forget it. I'll drive you. And that way we can stay at the estate with no problem—I'll call the housekeeper and let her know we're coming."

  Jill wet her lips. "Thank you, Alex," she said.

  "No problem. In fact, it's a pleasure." He paused. "Jill. A word of advice."

  "What's that?"

  "Don't mention to anyone else where we're going—or why."

  Jill was speechless.

  "See you Thursday at noon," he said.

  After he had hung up, Jill stared at the phone in her hand. Why had he stressed the need for secrecy?

  Why did he think there was something they should hide?

  And Jill wondered if he knew something that she did not.

  Twelve

  J

  ILL SPENT MOST OF THE NEXT TWO DAYS AT UXBRIDGE HaLL.

  Lucinda had consented to allow her free run of most of the Georgian mansion—including the attics and the archives. The Sheldons' private rooms were excluded. Jill didn't expect to find the letters there, not unless they were in the family's wing, but she was hoping to find something, anything, connected to Kate and Anne.

  She started with the attics. It was the most logical place to begin, after all, that is where everybody stored their junk from the past. To her dismay, the attic was spotless. It had been cleaned out a long time ago. There were no trunks lying around, locked or otherwise, no boxes, no bundled-up papers, nothing but dusty floors and a few mouse droppings.

  Anne's bedroom also contained no clues about the past. Every drawer had been emptied out long ago. Jill had been hoping to find letters, notes, mementos, or even a diary. She was very disappointed.

  The rest of the public rooms were the same. Every drawer and closet was startlingly and purposefully empty.

  The archives, located in the basement, were not at all what Jill had expected. She had hoped for an extensive treasure chest of documents, but she was able to read through the material in an entire afternoon. Much of it pertained to the comings and goings, births, marriages, and deaths, of previous generations of Sheldons, which Jill skipped over.

  The most interesting discovery was that Edward Sheldon,

  the ninth viscount, William's father, had a penchant for sending instructions to his staff and family. There were notes to the foreman of his iron mine ordering new lights to be placed in all shafts. There were notes to the head gardener at Stainesmore. The roses were not thriving, something must be done, the viscount recommended bringing in a horticulturist. There were notes to his valet, his housekeeper, his butler, and there were notes to his sons, Harold and William, and a daughter, Sarah.

  Jill hadn't realized that Edward and Anne had had another son, much less a daughter. But in 1932, Edward wrote a brief and terse note to Sarah, informing her of her engagement, and ordering her back to London in order to prepare for the wedding. He included a list of instructions—who she must call on, where she must go, what she must do and have done by the wedding.

  On October 15, 1930, Edward wrote William, one of several letters sent to him over a five-year period while he was a boy at Eton.

  I understand that there are times when duty must break down, when respect fails, when boys behave as mere boys. However, that is no excuse for your behavior. I have agreed with Mr. Dalton that a suspension is in order. Prepare yourself to depart for London in one week's time.

  I am sure, William, that, by the time you return to Eton, you will have reflected upon your priorities, and drawn the proper conclusions.

  Your father, Collinsworth

  Jill blinked at the cold letter. All of his letters to William were the same—they all embodied cool reprimands. William, Jill realized, had been a little mischief-maker while a child.

  There were a number of letters to Harold, during his years at both Eton and Cambridge, a series of constant reminders on how to behave and what to do when. An instant later she

  found herself reading a letter dated 1941. Apparently Harold had been an RAF pilot.

  I am proud of you for doing your duty, for your loyalty to country and countrymen. And I know you will behave with courage and honor in the field and in the skies. Your mother and I send our blessings . ..

  Jill wondered when Harold had died.

  There were also brief notes sent to Anne. They were all impersonal directives. Edward requested her to oversee the new masonry at Stainesmore, the planting of new gardens in town, the arrival of a Thoroughbred stud, the dismissal of his kennel master. He asked her to meet with his banker, in lieu of himself, as he could not return to town, to discuss "the railroad matter." In fact, there were several dozen such missives, but the earliest was dated 1916. Jill could only assume that he and Anne had been married for some six or seven years by then.

  The letters confounded her. There was nothing personal in any of them. Perhaps the most personal one had been that written to Harold during World War Two. But even that had a terribly cold and austere quality to it. Jill wondered if Edward had really been as cold, distant, and autocratic as he seemed.

  On Thursday she was ready to be picked up by Alex, well before noon. She had made no progress in her search for the truth about Kate Gallagher, although she had learned some interesting thi
ngs about the Sheldon family. Harold had died in the war, leaving William the heir to the title. Sarah, according to Lucinda, had passed away in 1985. She'd had two daughters, one of whom lived in London, both married with children.

  Jill heard the roar of the Lamborghini's powerful engine just as her telephone rang. She already had her small duffel bag in hand and she decided to ignore the phone, eagerly peering out of the window. The silver monster had halted at the curb. Jill wanted to get going and she opened the front door, clad in faded Levi's, a ribbed black tank top, and her

  black leather jacket. Alex was striding up the walk in tan trousers and a yellow polo shirt. Clearly he had worn a sports jacket to the office that morning. He smiled at her, appearing in quite the good mood.

  As Jill was about to close the door she heard, "Miss Gallagher, this is Beth Haroway from the Felding Park Nursing Home. I was hoping to catch you because—"

  Jill dropped her bags and flew to the telephone, picking it up. "Beth! It's me, Jill," she cried breathlessly.

  "I thought you'd like to know that Janet Witcombe is having an extremely good day, Jill. She seems entirely lucid," the young nurse said. "If I were you, I would motor out and speak with her immediately."

  Jill gripped the phone, then became aware of Alex reaching for her bags in the doorway. "We'll be right there," she said. "Thank you." She hung up and hurried to Alex, who was regarding her with a lazy expression. "We have one stop to make on the way to York. Janet Witcombe is having a very good day, Alex. I have to talk to her while she is fully focused."

  He was smiling; his eyes widened slightly, meeting hers. "This should be interesting." He picked up her bags and they left the house, Jill locking the door behind them. When they were settled in the silvery gray car, its engine purring, Alex said, "Try not to get your hopes up, Jill. Thirty years is a helluva long time to recall a conversation."

  "I know. But Tve been stuck in a rut ever since we last spoke. I've come up with nothing new. I need a lead. Alex."