The Third heiress

by Brenda Joyce

  Jill could not relax. The task was endless, but her pulse kept up a swift, arrhythmic beat. She was hardly interested in the rents collected, salaries paid, taxes owed. But then she paused. Every single expense paid out was recorded. She was staring at kitchen records—the costs of groceries were itemized right down to four pounds of butter. What if there was an expense referring to Kate's stay in the Yorke Infants ' Hospital?

  Briefly exhilarated, Jill combed through the month of May. An hour later Jill was prepared to give up. There was no expenditure listed for mid-May of 1908 assigned to the hospital. She was glum. Perhaps this was a wild-goose chase after all.

  Then Jill realized that she was staring at a page listing the monthly salary of employees for the month of December. Jill started to close the ledger, thinking to poke around Coke's Way, when the name Barclay leaped off of the page at her. She froze.

  And bent closer over the volume, wide-eyed. She was looking at a list of Christmas bonuses—and one Jonathan Barclay had received ten pounds. Barclay, who had signed the receipt for Kate's stay in the hospital, had been an employee of the family's.

  Trembling with excitement, Jill realized that next to every

  employee was written a job description—housemaid, butler, etc. But his position in the household was not listed. Jill thought it odd.

  But her pulse continued to pound with excitement. Barclay did exist—and there was no mistaking his connection to the family now!

  Jill went back a year, scanning lines, looking for his name. It did not appear.

  Then she returned to May of 1908. She found the entry she was looking for. A purchase had been made for Lord Braxton in the middle of the month for the amount of seven pounds five shillings—but unlike other purchases in the ledger, this one was not itemized. Did it matter? Kate had just given birth to Peter—and here was proof that Edward had been here, at Stainesmore, only miles away from the hospital.

  She was getting closer and closer to the truth. And there was no doubt about it. The truth was in Yorkshire. She flipped backward. Her eyes widened when she found an entry for April 22. "Lord Braxton arrived at six p.m. with Mr. Barclay for a stay of indeterminate length."

  "Oh, my God," Jill said, her pulse going wild. And she smiled. Here was the evidence she was looking for. Perhaps Barclay had been his butler or his valet, or even just a secretary. She might never know. But what she did know was that he worked for Edward—he had received a holiday bonus— and that both he and Edward had been in the country when Kate had given birth—when Barclay had paid and signed for her hospital bill.

  Jill wished she had a copying machine. She hesitated, glancing around at the windows behind her—but the draperies remained closed. Jill could not help herself. She got up, went to them, parted them, and glanced outside. No one was peeking in and spying upon her. She tore the April twenty-second entry from the book, feeling horrible for doing so, and then she also took the entry that listed Barclay's bonus. She hurriedly folded both items, putting them in her jeans pocket, and closed the ledger, trembling slightly.

  As soon as possible, in town, she would make copies of

  I

  The Third Heiress 413

  everything and fax the pieces of the puzzle to Lucinda—with instructions that if anything happened to her, she should turn everything over to the press and the police.

  She left the study, closing the door firmly behind her and pausing to listen to the house. She heard no sound of footsteps. No one, apparently, was aware of where she had been in the past hour or so. Relieved, Jill hurried back into the central wing.

  Jill was poised to rush upstairs to her room. But the doors to the library were ajar. She faltered, her instincts going into overdrive. Apprehension seized her. But there was no reason for it. The house remained silent.

  The hairs prickled on Jill's nape.

  Her breath felt constricted in her chest.

  Suddenly Jill approached the library slowly. No. It could not be. She froze in midstride.

  And her gaze settled on a canary yellow cashmere sweater, lying on the arm of an upholstered chair.

  Then her gaze slammed on the small gray Libretto, on the side table beside the couch.

  Alex was here.

  Octobers, 1908

  "I am so glad you could come," Anne said with a smile. As it was unseasonably warm out, the two young women were strolling on the lawns surrounding the Fairchilds' house, where a birthday celebration for their youngest daughter was being held. Although it was late afternoon, the women were clad in their evening gowns, the gentlemen in their tails. At the moment, a game of croquet was in progress, both men and women playing. Other ladies and gentlemen clustered in groups, chatting and sipping champagne and tasting the hors d'oeuvres being passed about by white-coated waiters. Several children ran about, one chubby boy in particular chasing three little girls. In an hour or so the party would move inside, where an early supper would be served, followed by hours and hours of dancing.

  'Thank you for inviting me," Kate said quietly. She

  remained worried and depressed. Although she saw Edward every day, and he was as ardent and as tender as usual, she was aware of the gossip on the streets. For whenever she went out for a stroll or to do some shopping, she ran into ladies she knew. Everyone was talking about the impending engagement, and the fact that Edward's refusal to marry the perfect bride—as Anne was a premiere heiress—had to indicate that he was smitten with his latest mistress—whoever that might be.

  Kate had ceased to go out. It had become too hurtful. She found it impossible to sleep at night, and she had lost her hearty appetite. She was afraid of the worst happening—she did not know what to do.

  She had begun to hate the earl of CoUinsworth.

  "Kate! Why are you so glum? I have never seen you this way before. And every time I have sent you a note asking you to join me for a drive or tea, you have declined." Anne had halted and was staring at her. "Are you avoiding me? For that is almost what I must think."

  Kate forced a smile. "Dear, I would never avoid you." But she had been avoiding her. She had been avoiding her best friend more than anyone else.

  Kate was afraid she had glimpsed the handwriting on the wall. That she had glimpsed the future—Anne as Edward's wife. For who was she to think that the earl of CoUinsworth could be defied and denied? He was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England. Only a very foolish woman would think to go up against his very will and emerge triumphant.

  "Miss Gallagher! I had heard you were back, how good it is to see you again!" a very enthusiastic young male voice cried.

  Kate turned to see a dashing red-haired man bowing before her. "Lord Weston, how nice to see you, too." She managed to smile.

  He was beaming at her—then he saw Anne. He bowed to her as well, but returned his avid attention to Kate. "So how have you fared this past year?" he inquired eagerly.

  Kate was about to respond, instead, she noticed Anjje's

  almost smug condescension toward Weston. She started. It was not just her expression, but the very way she now carried herself—as if she felt herself to be far above anyone else. It was not the Anne she knew so well and loved so dearly.

  Weston turned to her. "You will dance with me tonight? You do know that when you returned to New York last year you broke my heart—severely."

  "I am sure that you exaggerate, sir." Kate smiled more genuinely this time.

  "I do not exaggerate. May I call on you sometime?" he asked with a grin.

  Kate froze. She realized Anne continued to watch her with a small, fixed, odd smile, but that was not the cause of her surprise. Edward stood on the other side of the crowd, staring at her, Kate.

  "I am afraid I have not been well of late," Kate said softly, her pulse quickening as it always did when he entered the same room as she. "But perhaps another time?"

  His face fell. "I shall not give up, you know," he declared. He bowed to them both and left.

  Kate did not
look after him. Her gaze found Edward again instantly, and this time their gazes locked.

  Very slightly, he smiled at her.

  Kate's heart leaped. There was something in his eyes, she knew, a message for her alone, even though she could not decipher it at this distance. She smiled back.

  And in that moment, her fears and worries vanished. She loved him so, and she could only think how lucky she was to, have found a love like theirs, no matter that she might remain forever a mere mistress.

  And then she became aware of Anne, standing at her side. As Edward turned away, she whirled to face her friend. Anne was staring after Edward out of wide, shocked eyes. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared into the crowd. It was only when he was no longer visible, having immersed himself among a group of gentlemen, that she turned and stared at Kate.

  Her wide-eyed expression was one of disbelief—and perhaps of bitter accusation as well.

  It was not pretty—and it made her eyes seem hard and cold, frighteningly so.

  And then the expression was gone, replaced by a smile and, "Oh, look. There is Lady Winfrey. We have yet to say hello. Come, Kate, let us chat with her for a moment—she is always so amusing."

  Kate's heart was pounding. Had she imagined what she thought she had just seen? Edward had forbidden her to tell Anne the truth. But Anne was about to guess—or was she? Kate wet her lips. A small voice inside of her warned her to hold her tongue. "Anne, wait."

  Anne halted, slowly turning. There was something strange and masklike about her face. She might have been a perfectly painted porcelain doll.

  Kate gripped her arm. "We must talk." She could no longer live with herself if she did not tell Anne the truth. She pulled her by the hand, making her way past the most crowded part of the lawn, until they stood beneath two shady elm trees, alone and .out of earshot.

  "What is this about?" Anne stepped back from her as Kate released her. Her tone was mild, unlike her stiff, set, pale face.

  Kate swallowed, breathless and afraid. "I do not know how to begin."

  Anne did not smile. Her gaze was unwavering. "You have something you wish to say to me. What could it possibly be?"

  "Edward is my lover. Edward is the father of my child."

  Anne stared. A silence ensued. To Kate, it was the most terrible silence she had ever endured. Then Anne smiled, a mere upward curving of her somewhat narrow mouth. "I do not believe you. You make fun."

  "I love him—I have loved him ever since I first met him, well over a year and a half ago," Kate said hoarsely. "He loves me. He loves our son. Oh, Anne! I never dreamed you might fall in love with him, too! I have been avoiding you— for I have been heartsick!"

  Anne continued to stare. But the waxlike smile was gone. A long moment passed. Her expression, although pinched, remained otherwise impossible to read. "No," she finally

  said. "No." She might have been refusing to purchase a bonnet—or refusing a dance.

  "Anne, you are my dearest friend. I would never wish this circumstance on anyone, especially not you. But we are already involved. We plan to wed. I am the mother of his child," Kate cried. "Surely you realize that you must seek another bridegroom!"

  "Stop!" Anne cried. Her eyes flashed. Her tone was high. "Stop now. Go no further. You have done enough."

  Kate gasped.

  "I think," Anne said, low and intense, her nostrils flaring, "that you do not wish me happiness."

  "No!"

  "I think you plot against me!"

  Kate was so shocked she could not respond.

  "It is agreed!" Anne cried, too loudly. "Contracts are being drawn. A date for the wedding shall soon be set. He is to be—he will be—my husband—and you cannot take this from me, Kate!" Her tone was shrill, warning.

  "Anne—I am the mother of his son!" Kate began desperately.

  But Anne, tears shimmering in her eyes, gave her a look charged with anger as she turned and rushed away.

  Kate collapsed against the tree.

  Twenty-Three

  H,

  .IS DOOR WAS AJAR. HE WAS NOT IN HIS ROOM, OF THAT JiLL

  was certain, but she had no idea where he was. The moment she had reahzed he was at the house, Jill had closeted herself in her room, trying to think, to be rational. Why had Alex f61-lowed her to Stainesmore? And he had followed her, of that there was no doubt. Was it because he had failed to hurt or even kill her when he had cut the brake lines to her rental car?

  Had he followed her to stop her from discovering the truth—and if so, how far would he go?

  Jill could not seem to think clearly. Even when she reminded herself of all the times Alex had been kind, and that anyone in the family could have killed Lady E. and sabotaged her brakes. It did not have to be Alex. Maybe he had come north to try to protect her from whoever was out there menacing her, stalking her.

  Jill continued to peer past her cracked door at his slightly open one, shaking like a leaf. She had to find out whose side Alex was really on. Just because he wanted her paid off and shut up did not mean he was a killer. She needed to thoroughly search his possessions. Maybe retrieve his voice mail. If she could, she would even try to break into his Libretto, to see if he had copied the missing letters. But the Libretto was downstairs in the library. In a way, Jill was relieved.

  Her pulse rioted; she was a jumble of nerves. Sneaking

  into his room to ransack it was hardly her style. She could imagine his reaction if she was caught.

  Jill took a gulp of air for courage and ran to his door. She pushed it slowly open. Her gaze swung around the room— taking in the made-up bed, the furniture, and, by God, the Libretto on the end table. She froze, staring at the small gray machine, unable to believe this stroke of luck—he had moved it from the library. She then noticed that the modem was hooked up to the jack on the wall, and a small black object lay on the floor by the end table where the mini-notebook sat.

  Jill slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. If the modem was hooked up and he had taken the notebook upstairs, it was to send or receive E-mail—privately. Her mind raced. This was her chance—maybe her only one. But she needed a password, damn it.

  Her pulse pounded so fiercely and disturbingly now that she could hardly breathe. Jill went to the Libretto, opened it, and powered on. As she waited for the tiny screen to light up, she knelt and inspected the small black object. It was a portable printer.

  Her heart raced. Jill looked around, found his briefcase, and sure enough, there was a cable in it. She returned to the Libretto, and as she did, she happened to glance out the window. She was just in time to see Alex step into the pool, clad in what appeared to be a Speedo bikini, and begin to swim hard toward the other side.

  Her heart careened. Hopefully he was taking a long swim. In any case, his doing a few laps was perfect for her— because now she could keep one eye on him.

  Jill sat down on an ottoman. The screen was cuing her for a password. Jill gritted her teeth and thought hard. People used familiar words, words that held a significant meaning to them. Alex was clever, his wit dry. Jill tried all of the names of his family, backward as well as forward. Suddenly Jill froze. She punched in her own name—and expected to see the screen blossoming with Windows 98.

  Nothing happened.

  Her heart sank. She had been so certain—now she was at a loss.

  Think! She gritted silently. Alex—the Collinsworth Group, Brooklyn, Princeton, cashmere, jeans, the Lamborghini ...

  Jill inhaled, and a second later was typing "Lamb."

  Windows 98 filled the screen.

  "Yes," she said savagely, glancing out of the window. He was cutting through the water with the sleek, precise strokes of a seasoned swimmer. Jill went to find. She typed in "Gallagher" and instructed the search to be in the C drive.

  Jill was paralyzed as the screen blossomed with characters. To her shock and dismay, a series of Gallagher documents were listed in a single folder. Jill recalled that he had downloaded a few article
s for her, naming them Anne's Wedding, but that was not what she was looking at now. The first four were each labeled "JGallagher.doc" with attached dates, and oh, God, the first date was April 13, 1999—the day after Hal's death.

  Obviously she was JGallagher.

  She inhaled, trembling. The last one was dated yesterday.

  There were also three "KGallagher.doc" documents.

  Jill began to shake. Her mind had become numb and almost blank. It refused to function. She could only think. No.

  This could not be happening.

  She was not going to discover what she had dreaded discovering all along.

  Kate's voice sounded, loud and clear, so much so that Jill shot to her feet, looking wildly around the room, expecting to see her. "A nightmare come true ..."

  But Kate was not present—Kate was dead. Betrayed. And tlien Jill's vision blurred. It was a catalyst. For another moment she could not move. She found herself wishing, with all of her being, that this was not happening—that she was not seeing what was on his damned computer screen in front of her very eyes, the absolute and conclusive proof of his treachery.

  He had kept files. He had files on her. He had files on Kate.

  It remained hard to breathe, to move, to think. She could

  not seem to think clearly—unfocused, scrambled images were competing in her mind—including Alex as he made love to her, including Alex as she had seen him in her kitchen the morning after they had spent the night together, telling her he had to go, he had a meeting, but asking her to see that doctor friend of his. Yeah. She was not the sicko. He was the sicko. Jill opened the first and oldest JGallagher document, her heart sinking, her hand shaking uncontrollably. It was a report.