The Third Heiress (3 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: The Third Heiress
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Jill did not blame her.
When Jill tucked the tissue back in her bag she looked up and found Lauren watching her, facing her directly for the first time.
Jill did not think. Impulsively she said, low, “I’m sorry.”
Lauren said, “We’re all sorry.”
Jill bit her lip. “It was an accident.”
Lauren continued to face her. Jill could not see her eyes through the opaque sunglasses she wore. “Why did you come?”
Jill was startled. “I had to bring him home. He spoke of you—all of you—so often.” She could not continue.
Lauren looked away. Another silence fell.
“I loved him, too,” Jill heard herself say.
Lauren turned to her. “He should be alive. A few days ago he was alive. I can’t believe he’s gone.” Her words were angry and had she pointed her finger at Jill, the blame she felt could not have been more obvious.
“Neither can I,” Jill whispered miserably. It was true. In the middle of the night she would wake up, expecting to find the solid warmth of Hal’s body beside her. The coldness of her bed was a shock—as was the sudden recollection of his death. There was nothing worse, Jill had realized, than the oblivion of sleep followed by the absolute cognition of consciousness. “If only,” Jill whispered, more to herself than to Lauren, “we hadn’t gone away that weekend.”
But they had. And she could not change the past few days, she could only have regrets. She would have regrets for the rest of her life—regrets and guilt.
Had he really been thinking of breaking up with her?
“Hal should have come home months ago,” Lauren said tersely, interrupting Jill’s thoughts. “He was scheduled to come home in February—for my birthday.”
“He liked New York,” Jill managed, avoiding her eyes.
Lauren removed her glasses, revealing red-rimmed eyes that were the exact same amber shade as Hal’s. “He was homesick. The last few times we spoke, he told me so.”
Jill was motionless. What else had he told his younger sister, whom he was so close to?
Jill thought she would die if Lauren knew about Hal’s sudden change of heart about their future.
Then, angrily, she reminded herself that it had not been a change of heart. Nothing had been set in stone. Everything would have worked out, sooner rather than later.
Lauren remained unmoving also. Finally she said, “He mentioned you.”
Jill jerked, eyes wide, staring now at Lauren as if she were a Martian. He had
mentioned
her? “What do you mean, he mentioned me?”
“Just that,” Lauren said, putting her glasses back on. She glanced out of her window as the silver-gray Rolls sped along. “He mentioned that he was dating you.”
Jill stared, stunned. They had not been dating. They had been discussing marriage—they had been on the verge of becoming engaged. She was speechless.
“How long were the two of you seeing one another?” Lauren asked bluntly.
Jill looked at her, the other woman becoming hazy and blurred. “Eight months. We met eight months ago.” She was gripping the sensuous leather seat with desperation.
“That isn’t a very long time,” Lauren said after a pause.
“It was long enough to fall head over heels in love and to be thinking about …” Jill stopped herself short.
Lauren removed her eyeglasses again. “To be thinking about what?” she demanded.
Jill wet her lips. She hesitated. Everything raced through her mind—his ambivalence, her guilt, a woman named Kate. “The future,” she whispered.
Lauren just stared—as if she had two heads. “He should have come home a long time ago,” Lauren said finally. “He did not belong in New York.”
Jill did not know how to respond. Hal had not told his sister about the extent of his relationship with her. Why? It hurt. God, it hurt, the way thinking about their last conversation hurt—the way he had hurt her by even having doubts about their future as man and wife. She lay back against the seat, severely exhausted. It hurt almost as much as his death hurt.
She needed to find a sanctuary and bury her head under a pillow and sleep. But then she would wake up and remember everything and it would be so awful …
The Rolls-Royce stopped.
Instantly Jill’s tension increased. The Sheldon family home was now the last place she wished to be, because if Lauren’s reception was any indication of the way Hal’s family would greet her, then she was not ready to meet them, not now, not ever.
They were on a busy, two-way street in the midst of London, Jill realized. The driver was waiting to make a right-hand turn across the lane of oncoming traffic. Tall iron gates were open, but the road they wished to turn onto was barred by a mechanical barricade and a uniformed security guard. Jill wet her lips. Past the barricade, she glimpsed a shady, tree-lined street of huge stone mansions.
The Rolls crossed the road, the barrier was lifted without their even slowing, the officer on duty inside of a small security booth waving them on. Jill craned her neck as the Rolls rolled up the asphalt street, viewing
palatial home after palatial home. A park seemed to be behind the homes on her right.
Jill wanted to ask where they were. She did not.
The Rolls turned into a circular driveway on one of the street’s largest mansions and halted in the graveled drive before the house. Jill thought she could feel her blood pressure rocketing.
“We’re here.” Lauren stepped out of the car without waiting for the chauffeur to assist her. Jill could not move as quickly. The gentleman opened the door for her and Jill stumbled out. It had started to drizzle.
Jill did not move. The fine mist settling on her hair and shoulders, she stared at the house where Hal had been raised as Lauren hurried up the wide and imposing front steps. Two sitting lions, carved in stone, guarded those front steps. For one moment, Jill was completely taken aback.
Hal had talked about his family’s London home with pride. Hal had mentioned, oh-so-casually, that the house, built around the turn of the century, had about twenty-five rooms and one of London’s most spectacular rose gardens. It was not the family’s original London home, which had been built in Georgian times and was part of the National Trust. Jill had vaguely gathered that Uxbridge Hall, which was somewhere just outside of central London, was open to the public, although the family kept private apartments there as well.
Jill stared up at the city dwelling. She had expected opulence, yet she was taken aback now that she was actually confronted with the reality and the extent of it. The house was built of a medium-hued sand-colored stone and was three stories high—but the first two floors clearly had double ceilings. Thick columns supported a temple pediment over the oversized front door, and the numerous arched windows also boasted smaller pediments and intricate stone engravings. There were iron balconies on the second floor and the high, sloping roofs sported a jumble of chimneys. The stonework itself was amazing. Painstaking detail had gone into every cornice and molding. The house was surrounded by manicured lawns and blooming rose gardens; a wrought-iron fence circled the perimeter of the entire property, undoubtedly to keep the public out.
“God,” Jill heard herself say. In spite of all the conversations she’d had with Hal, she could hardly believe that he had been raised in this house. And this was just their city home, not even their ancestral home, which Jill suspected was even larger and grander. She was suddenly aware of how small and shabby her own studio in the Village was. She suddenly wished she were not wearing her oldest, favorite, and most faded Levi’s.
If Lauren heard her, she gave no sign, for she was already pushing open the heavy front door.
“I shall bring your bags, madam,” the driver said behind her.
Jill hoped she smiled at him, thought she failed, and slowly followed in Lauren’s wake. She found herself in a large entry hall with high ceilings and polished beige and white marble floors. Works of art hung on the walls, and the bench, marble-topped table, and mirror were all exquisitely gilded. Jill was grim. She was acutely aware of not belonging there.
Jill glanced down at her worn Levi’s, and the black blazer she had put on in the air-conditioned car. The jacket was actually a man’s sports jacket, but she had loved it upon sight and had bought it in a thrift store for herself. She was wearing Cole-Haan loafers, but they were very old, as soft as butter, and severely scuffed. Of course, she could only wear soft, broken-in shoes when she was not dancing because of the pain and damage her profession caused her feet.
She hesitated, afraid now to follow Lauren, feeling horribly out of place, wishing she had worn a suit like Lauren’s. She didn’t even remember dressing for the trip abroad. She had not a clue about what was in her duffel bag. If she was lucky, KC, her best friend and neighbor, had helped her pack, but Jill didn’t remember even speaking to KC in the past few days. Suddenly she was worried about her cat, Ezekial. She would have to call KC immediately and make sure she was taking care of the tom.
Jill’s gaze settled on a painting that took up an entire wall. It had to be a masterpiece, and it was depicting some kind of mythological scene that she was not familiar with. She swallowed, telling herself to take deep, steady breaths. She would meet his family, be polite. Surely they would be civil in return—unlike Lauren. In a few moments she would be shown to her room. It could not be too soon.
If only she were staying in a hotel.
Her anxiety had gotten to the point where she was ready to make a mad dash back out the front door. Jill glanced over her shoulder. The front door was solidly closed.
Her panic began mounting slowly, steadily.
Jill told herself that everything would be all right. To keep breathing deeply.
Hal’s image, as he lay dying in her arms, his face starkly white, his mouth spouting blood, filled her mind.
Footsteps sounded. Jill tried to still her trembling hands and smile as Lauren reappeared. She had removed her jacket, revealing a beige silk
T-shirt that probably cost more than all of the clothing upon Jill’s body. “Come,” she said.
Jill followed, filled with trepidation. Lauren led her into a large living room, far more lavish than the foyer. But Jill hardly glimpsed the faded but stunning Oriental rugs and the antique furnishings or the Matisse hanging on one wall. Three men were standing in the center of the room, one elderly and white-haired, the two other men younger, in their thirties, one golden and tanned, the other dark-haired and olive-skinned. Each man was holding a drink.
Lauren stopped, as did Jill. The three men turned. As one, they all stared at Jill.
Three pairs of penetrating eyes. Three pairs of accusing gazes.
This was Hal’s family.
Jill knew she was facing William, Hal’s elderly father, and his older brother, Thomas, and his cousin, Alex. She did not know whom each of the younger men was, although she suspected Thomas was the blond. But at that moment, she could take it no more. For their stares did not relent. Their hostility was unmistakable. But then, she had been the one driving …
“Some time to think … I love you … Kate.”
Jill tried to clear her head. She could not. Lauren was saying something, but her tone was as cold, as unfriendly, as the regards leveled at her. Those accusing, cold, hostile stares … Jill watched the figures before her begin to waver and blur. Hal’s ghostly white face, the blood … She had been driving … The room had dimmed, and now it lightened, and then dimmed again. And then absolute darkness came.
It was a blessing.
S
he heard voices first. Voices she did not recognize, male voices speaking words she could not comprehend.
Jill drifted, oddly light-headed and at peace. And then, as she became more conscious, she realized she had fainted. With that realization came the piercing comprehension that something was terribly wrong. And then her peace was shattered. By the stabbing, gut-wrenching realization that she had fainted because Hal was dead.
“What was Hal thinking?” a deep, sandy voice said. It was patrician, British, and very angry.
Jill stiffened. She had been about to open her eyes, remembering where she was now, but she kept them screwed shut.
“Hal was doing what he had to do—following his own drummer—that was Hal.” Another voice, this one less hostile, but curt nonetheless. The speaker had an American accent. He must be the cousin, Alex.
“He should never have started up with her in the first place,” the first voice said with the same deep pitch of anger. “He was asking for trouble. Bloody, bloody hell.”
Jill didn’t understand. What were they talking about? Were they talking about her?
“And look at what has happened,” Lauren said, very clearly anguished. “Now he’s dead. Because of her!”
Jill was tense. They all blamed her for the accident. Her stomach roiled with sickening force.
“Enough of this arguing, all of you,” a third, older voice said. It was weary and it obviously belonged to William, Hal’s father. “We are in a difficult time and …” He stopped abruptly, his voice breaking, unable to continue.

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