by Brenda Joyce
"We have met, my lady," Kate curtsied. "Please forgive me my insolence but I must see your son."
The countess stared. Her head was held at what Kate thought to be an impossibly high angle. Finally she nodded at the footman. "Send for his lordship. But do give us five minutes, Fordham," she called after him as he went upstairs. "Come with me." It was a command.
Kate obeyed, following her down the corridor and into a room where a grand piano sat in the center, next to that a harpsichord, with chairs arranged in a semicircle around the instruments. The rest of the room was comfortably furnished
with seating areas and card tables..The countess moved to one arrangement, a gold velvet sofa and two brocade chairs, and gestured for Kate to sit down in a chair.
Kate did not want to sit. But she did. She steeled herself for a lecture on her manners, at best. For she could only assume that if Collinsworth knew about her and Edward, then his wife did, as well.
"You have tremendous courage, coming here, as you have." The countess stared down at her.
Kate wet her lips. "I did not feel that I had a choice."
"Everyone has choices. Miss Gallagher," the countess said, sitting down on the sofa and gracefully arranging her bronze skirts. A huge emerald ring sparkled on her right hand, a matching necklace glinted on her chest. "And you have chosen to pursue my son."
Kate did not know how to respond. "Actually, my lady, and I mean no disrespect, but he pursued me, it was not the other way around."
"I understand that you have a nice fortune." Her eyes were piercing.
"I do. A very substantial one," Kate said.
The countess nodded. "I do believe my husband made some inquiries—hiring runners and the sort. That is to your benefit, you know."
Kate blinked. She was expecting an assault, but the last decliiration was not an attack. "I do not seek Edward's fortune, obviously."
"I have no wish to address the issue of what you seek. I only wish to advise you that my husband will never allow the match, he has other plans for our son, and it would be best for both you and Edward to realize that and part now, before it becomes increasingly awkward to do so."
It was on the tip of Kate's tongue to tell her that it was already awkward—not just because they loved one another, but because of the child. Kate did not think that the countess knew about Peter. "I am aware of what you and the earl wish," Kate finally said.
The countess's regard was unwavering. She was an intimidating woman—Kate did not like their being adver-
saries. Finally she stood. "I only wish for Edward to take his rightful place in society—and be happy." Her smile was faint, her gaze remained piercing. "That is every mother's wish, is it not?"
Kate slowly got to her feet. "Yes." Her heart drummed. "Yes, it is." Was there a double entendre in her words? Did the countess know about little Peter after all?
"Please do not make this far more difficult than it need be," the countess said simply. "For everyone's sake."
The door opened. Kate whirled. Edward stood there, eyes wide and disbelieving, upon them both. And then his gaze held hers.
"Edward," Kate whispered, her heart twisting impossibly with the extent of her love. She knew that there was an explanation for this terrible misunderstanding. There had to be. He could not have betrayed her by becoming engaged to Anne behind her back.
His gaze went to his mother. "Madame! What is going on here, may I ask?"
The countess was not perturbed. She approached her son. "You have a caller. Please do not forget that our guests arrive tonight at seven." She kissed his cheek and left them alone, closing the door quietly behind them.
Kate stared at Edward, feeling every ounce of the huge, crushing weight of fear. She could not speak.
As he came swiftly to her, concern covered his features, entered his eyes. "Kate? What is it? What is wrong? Oh, God! Has something happened to Peter?" He gripped her shoulders in his. ^
She wet her lips. It was hard to clear her throat so she might speak. "He is fine. Our son is fine." As she looked up at him, her vision blurred.
"Thank God." Suddenly he stared. "How could you come here? Like this? And what did my mother say to you?"
"She wants me to give you up," Kate whispered. "How convenient that would be."
Edward groaned. "I did not know she knew. She has never indicated that she did. I do not want to trouble her with our dilemma."
"I have just seen Anne.'*
He froze.
"Your fiancee!" She did not mean to be scathing, but the words formed themselves. "You do recall her, do you not?"
His eyes darkened. "She is hardly my fiancee!"
Kate stared, suspended between hope and futility. There was no mistaking that Edward was angry. "She said the two of you are to wed," she began slowly. "She said you are engaged, Edward." '
"Kate! And you believed her?" He gripped both of her hands urgently. "I am not marrying her." Suddenly he took her in his arms. "It is you I love—you I intend to marry. I offered you marriage two months ago—or have you forgotten? My offer stands." His gaze locked with hers. It was hard, brilliant, intense.
He did not intend to marry Anne. Kate's knees buckled in relief. "And I cannot marry you if you shall lose everything," Kate whispered, clinging to his hands. "Anne thinks the two of you are going to wed, Edward. Are you engaged?"
His face tightened impossibly. His temples visibly throbbed. "I am well aware that Bensonhurst and Collinsworth have agreed on the union—^but I have not. Dear God! I cannot tolerate the thought of marrying anyone but you—and especially not your best friend." He pulled away from her to pace with angry strides before confronting her again. "We are not engaged. Although I suppose my father and her family consider the union to be all but a fait accompli."
"Oh, God," she cried, trembling. "I could reconcile myself to being your mistress, Edward, I could, and to your having a wife, another life, for that is how shamelessly I love you, but not with Anne. Never with Anne. I confess, I was so afraid."
He came to her and embraced her, hard. "Do not worry about us, dear. Let me worry, let me plan. You are a mother now—you have our son to concern yourself with." He kissed her cheek tenderly.
Kate gazed up at him searchingly, and what she saw in his
eyes made hep love him even more. "I am so worried about Anne. She is in love with you, Edward—of course, how can I blame her? I think I must tell Anne the truth. Before she sets her hopes even higher than they are—before she comes to love you as I do. I do not want her heart broken, Edward."
"No. You may do no such thing," Edward said harshly. "I forbid you, Kate, to speak of us to her. Do you hear me?"
He had never used such a tone with her before. Kate was stunned. Finally she said, "Yes. I hear you, Edward. You were very loud, and very clear."
"I apologize for my tone. But this is already so very complicated." Worry creased his brow. "It is not easy, doing battle almost daily with Collinsworth. But"—and his smile was-grim—"he cannot force me to the altar."
"Oh, but he can force you to the altar. Haven't you realized that?" Kate looked up at him.
He became motionless. "No. He cannot. He will not. I prefer to lose everything—so if Collinsworth thinks to blackmail me again, he shall not succeed. I will walk away—mark my words, Kate—for good."
"Look at what I have done," Kate cried. "Father blackmailing son. Threats and anger and even hatred between the two of you ... I can see it in your eyes! You hate him!" She was more than aghast. How had their love come to this?
He held her hard. "I would not change anything, because I have you."
Kate was not reassured. The immensity of their dilemma now struck her with brutal force. And suddenly she felt as if she were seeing the world for the very first time as it actually was—a place filled with cunning and manipulations, with fraud and deception, where the iron fist ruled over goodness and love, and she was more than afraid. Since she was a small child, she had believed in
goodness and happy endings. She had believed in true love. Now, suddenly, shockingly, she was faced with the very real possibility that tragedy, not triumph, that power, not love, would decide their future, their lives.
Kate was terrified.
Jill slammed the shift into neutral, steering wildly to the right of the two stopped cars. Tires screeched and her front fender grazed the red wagon's rear bumper, the contact causing the Toyota to jump and sparks to fly. As the Toyota sped past the two standing cars, across the oncoming lane on a diagonal, Jill glimpsed the white, shocked reflection of one driver's face in her mirror.
Ahead of her, traffic was cruising in two directions through the intersection at a steady pace. There was no oncoming traffic because of the red light. Jill continued to frantically pump the brake but nothing happened—the Toyota was cruising now under its own momentum and a glance at her digital speedometer told her that the car had hardly slowed. Her hands were wet on the steering wheel. Jill inhaled. A blue sedan was entering the intersection from her right; Jill turned her wheel hard to the right to avoid hitting him head-on.
The Toyota whipped around in a three-hundred-sixty-degree arc. Lucinda screamed again.
Everything became a blur—the blue sedan, trees and road railings, the traffic lights, as the Toyota spun around dizzily. A telephone pole loomed ahead. Dark, almost black wood, closer and closer still. And Jill thought. Oh, no, God, not again.
The left front fender of the Toyota hit the pole and the car ricocheted into the metal railing on the other side of the road.
Jill's head was whipped back by the impact as her air bag inflated instantaneously. And suddenly everything was still.
Jill stared through her windshield, which was intact, at the dented gray metal railing, beyond which was a grassy knoll, a brick wall, and behind that, a pleasant little wood-shingled house. Her heart began to beat. She gulped in air. The Toyota had been badly crushed in the front end, having crashed directly into the railing. The front fender had collapsed into a wide V. The hood had popped open. Jill continued to grip the wheel, so hard that her hands and fingers, which were dripping wet with sweat, began to cramp. Jill began to shake.
It remained hard to breathe. She could not seem to get enough air.
All she could think was, It had happened again,
Hal's bloody image, as he told her he loved her, as he called her "Kate," as he died in her arms, assailed her.
Sirens sounded.
Jerking her out of the past. "Lucinda," Jill whispered. If anything happened to her, Jill would never forgive herself. "Lucinda!"
"Jill," the other woman said, one breathless word. Her skin had become grayish green, but her eyes met Jill's, her glasses having disappeared.
The sirens sounded louder.
"Are you all right?" Jill cried. She did not seem to be hurt, other than one bruise beneath her eye.
Lucinda did not answer. Jill watched her coloring turn even more of a ghastly green as her head lolled back and she became unconscious.
Terrified, Jill struggled with her seat belt and the air bag and staggered out of the car. From the comer of her eye she glimpsed two policemen alighting from their car just behind her, their lights flashing. "Officers!" she shouted, waving frantically. "There's an older woman in the front seat and she just passed out!"
Jill stood still, watching and stricken, as one of the officers picked up his radio and as the other one ran around to Lucinda's side of the car. The day, which was bright, dimmed and blurred. As if in a fog, or as if she were watching a television show with terrible reception, Jill watched the officer bending toward Lucinda, who remained inside the vehicle. Reality became distorted. Jill felt as if she were an observer, yet far away from the events actually taking place. Her knees slowly buckled and she sank into a heap on the ground.
Their brakes had failed. They had almost been killed.
Someone had almost killed them.
An ambulance sounded, its siren growing louder as it approached.
"Miss?"
Jill could not look up, hardly hearing the officer behind her. She hugged her shaking legs to her breasts. She no longer believed in coincidence.
Lady E. was dead. Her flat had been ransacked. And now this.
Someone was responsible for her failed brakes. And whoever that someone was, he—or she—did not care if Jill died.
Or maybe he did care. Maybe he wanted her dead.
"Miss? Are you hurt?"
Jill finally looked up as the officer came to stand in front her. She continued to shake. The ambulance had slammed to a halt beside the police car. Jill watched numbly as paramedics leaped from the vehicle, rushing toward the wrecked Toyota, a stretcher in tow.
I'm going to be sick, she thought, suddenly seeing the paramedics racing toward her and Hal, not Lucinda trapped in the Toyota.
She struggled with herself and found the presence of mind to speak to the officer. "Is she all right?"
"I don't know. They're taking her out of the car now."
Jill got to her feet, no easy task, gripping the officer's arm without thinking about it, as Lucinda was laid on a stretcher, her neck in a brace. "Oh, God." The paramedics carried Lucinda on the stretcher toward the ambulance. Jill ran to them, stumbling. "How is she?"
"Nothing seems to be broken. Blood pressure's low, pulse is steady. Looks like she fainted; she's coming to."
Jill muffled her cry with her own hand, watching as Lucinda's eyes fluttered while she was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. "The neck brace?" she whispered.
"A precaution."
Jill covered her face with her hands and wept.
"Miss." It was the officer. "We're going to have to take you into Emergency, too."
Jill nodded, still covering her face with her hands. Lucinda was all right. Thank God.
And suddenly a blinding anger overwhelmed her.
Whoever had done this had to be stopped.
And she would not be stopped.
She realized she was staring at the officer, and her expression must have shown her rage, because he seemed taken aback.
Jill inhaled. She must not say anything that might have ramifications in front of the policeman. "The brakes didn't work."
The second officer stepped forward. "I know," he said grimly. "I took a look while the medics were removing your friend. The line was cut. You've been leaking fluid, miss."
Jill stared. As she had thought, this was deliberate. But who?
And suddenly she recalled Alex and Lucinda standing on the street in front of Lucinda's house yesterday afternoon. Alex, who had spent all of last night with her.
Alex, who could have crept out of her bed at any time while she was asleep.
Jill awoke to the sounds of a gull cawing. Soft, mist-laced sunlight was creeping into the large yellow and white bedroom where she had slept. As she blinked and found herself gazing at the four posters of her bed, the flocked walls and finally the gray morning sky outside, she stiffened. She had arrived late last night at Stainesmore in a state of fear and exhaustion, having taken a train from London and a taxi from York. After the accident, there had not been any way she could have driven up to the north. Making the police report had taken two full hours, and from there she had gone direcdy to the Paddington train station—ignoring Lucinda's vociferous protests. Lucinda had been fine, other than some bruises, and had been released from the hospital shortly after arriving there. Jill had refused to wait to depart London for even another day. She had been more than determined to get to the north—she had been afraid to stay in town.
Last night, at half past eleven when her taxi had dropped her at the house, the housekeeper had greeted her warmly, as if she were an old family friend or an expected guest, and Jill had been shown to her room immediately.
Jill lay still for another moment. Sleep had been blissful; a
blessing. She had been so tired she had not dreamed, not about Kate and not about the fact that someone might want her dead
.
Thinking about Alex hurt. It hurt so much.
God. She had slept with him.
Jill flung her hand over her eyes. She could think so much more clearly now, with the accident almost twenty-four hours behind her. Ah, but it was not an accident—it had been sabotage.
Lucinda had told Alex their plans, as it had turned out. Lucinda refused to even entertain the possibility that Alex might be behind the failed brakes or Lady E.'s death. Jill was grim. She supposed that Alex could have gone directly to Thomas with the information. Thomas might have been the one to cut her brake lines. Jill hoped so—but she did not think so.
Jill sat up. She had left a window open and the morning air was chilly. Goose bumps were raised on her arms. Feeling terribly grim, she got up and slammed the window closed.
How could this be happening?
First Hal, now Alex. She had loved Hal. At the time, he had seemed so perfect. Now she knew better. Now she didn't even understand why they had been together. He had deceived her, repeatedly, and she had only been a stand-in for his odd obsession with Kate.
Jill stared out at the mist-covered moors. Someone had tried to kill her and the odds favored Alex.
Jill washed and dressed quickly in jeans and boots. As she left her room, she could not help but glance at the closed door across from hers. Only a few days ago, Alex had stayed in that room. It felt like an eternity had passed since then. Worse, she almost expected the door to open and him to stroll out, smiling ever so slightly at her. Furious at herself, she shoved the image aside.
Trying not to glance repeatedly over her shoulder, but making sure no servant was about, she grabbed a cup of coffee from the buffet in the dining room and moved swiftly through the house and into the small smdy where she and Alex had previously gone over the estate ledgers.
Jill set her mug down on the worn desk, returned to the door, glanced into the hallway, and saw no one. She closed it, debated locking it, and decided against it. She turned on one small lamp, parted the curtains very slightly, and found herself staring at the cliffs and a short, distant stretch of the beach and the sea. Someone was walking on the beach, a small distant stick figure, and gulls wheeled overhead. Jill turned away from the stark yet breathtaking view, pulling the draperies closed. Her heart drumming, a dozen excuses forming on the tip of her tongue should someone intrude upon her, she went over to the shelves and took down the unwieldy ledger for the years of Kate's short life. She began reading each page, entry by entry. Every few minutes she would stop and cock her head, straining to hear if someone was approaching.