The Third Heiress (19 page)

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Authors: Brenda Joyce

BOOK: The Third Heiress
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He was watching her. There was no mistake about it.
And the water was cold. As the surf rushed back to the sea, retreating swiftly, Kate smiled, kicking off her shoes. There was a relief in that, and not just because of the pebbles. She hugged herself, whirling in a timeless dance of joy. Maybe Brighton—and Great Britain—would not be so boring after all. She dared to glance toward the promenade again. The stranger hadn’t moved.
She played tag with the waves for some time, until she was out of breath, her cheeks flushed, perspiration gathering beneath her stays and between her breasts—conscious of him there, watching her. Her stockings were not just soaking wet but torn and shredded. The hem of her skirt was also sodden and covered with wet sand. The sun was finally beginning to lower itself—the afternoon had grown darker. Kate finally glanced toward her mother standing on the deck at the railing. Mary waved urgently at her. Kate knew what she wanted, but did not move. The
stranger was walking slowly away, down the promenade, about to cross King’s Road. Had he watched her this entire time? Kate smiled to herself.
She knew her mother was probably shouting at her, and with a sigh, she picked up her things and started slowly toward the promenade. The last group of ladies and gentlemen were just departing, but one young lady in a huge white hat and a pretty white lawn gown was falling behind her friends, clutching her parasol and glancing at Kate. The rest of the promenade, as well as the beach, was now deserted, although a few couples and some young boys lurked about the pier. It was later than Kate had thought.
They would be late for supper, undoubtedly, and everyone would whisper about their tardiness behind their backs. Kate sighed.
She made her way through the coarse sand to the walkway. The other young woman had paused, left behind now by her own party, and Kate saw that she was about her own age, which was sixteen. Her hair was dark, her eyes blue, her skin as fair as Kate’s. The girls’ gazes met.
Kate smiled.
The other girl said, cautiously, “Don’t you have a bathing costume?”
“Of course I do,” Kate replied with no hesitation and a friendly tone. “But why bother to put it on at this hour?”
“Your gown is probably ruined,” the other girl said.
Kate looked down at herself and smiled ruefully. “I never liked this dress anyway.”
The girl laughed. “You’re an American.”
“And you’re a Br—and you’re English,” Kate returned swiftly.
The dark-haired girl smiled. “That’s hardly unusual. We are in Brighton.” She spoke with that perfectly cultivated, upper-class British accent.
“I’m here with my mother. We’re on a vacation,” Kate explained.
The dark-haired girl hesitated and fell into step beside her. “How lovely. Have you been to Brighton before?”
“Never. Actually”—Kate smiled at her—“my mother wants me to find a husband and that’s the real reason we’re here.”
The girl seemed surprised, and it was a moment before she spoke. “Well … we all need to wed, sooner or later.”
“And why is that?” Kate laughed. “Because our parents tell us that we must?”
The girl stopped, staring at her as if she were a headless chicken. “Of course we must marry and have children.”
“That’s very antiquated thinking,” Kate said pointedly, without rancor. “You’re not one of those Br—Englishwomen with a title, are you? Then there is extreme pressure, is there not?”
“Actually, I am Lady Anne Bensonhurst, and I suppose there is some pressure.” Her tone was very cautious now.
“Well, I am Miss Kate Gallagher,” Kate said, extending her hand, fully aware that she did so in a bold and mannish way. “And you should read Miss Susan B. Anthony.”
Anne hesitated and took her hand. She smiled a little. “It is a pleasure,” she said. “Who is Miss Susan B. Anthony?”
“An extraordinary woman—a woman I hope to emulate in the course of my life.”
Anne Bensonhurst blinked at her.
Kate was a very impatient girl, but her patience seemed vast now, and she added, “She was a suffragette and an enlightened thinker, my dear. She believed women to be equal to men—in all ways.”
Anne’s eyes widened. They walked along for a moment, and Kate asked, “How long are you here in Brighton?” They were not very far from Mary, and soon this pleasant interlude would end. Kate dreaded the rest of the evening.
“Just a few more days. I have so much to do in town. I make my debut this season, you see.” Anne smiled, clearly happy with the prospect.
“How lovely,” Kate said, feeling sorry for her. She would be betrothed in no time at all, having no say in the matter, Kate felt certain.
Anne faltered.
“When I marry,” Kate said firmly, “it will be for true love, even if I have to wait ten years to do so.”
Anne shook her head. “You must be very brave,” she said. “Because no one marries for love, or at least hardly ever.”
Kate laughed. “I refuse to do as others do. Don’t you know that life is far too short to be fettered by stupid, useless convention? Do you have a motorcar?”
Anne blinked. “No. But my neighbor does. I don’t really know him, though. I mean, I know of him—he is the Collinsworth heir and he has let the cottage next to ours. His roadster is beautiful, actually.”
“You should ask him to take you for a drive. Better still, ask him to teach you to drive.” Kate grinned, imagining the ruckus that would cause in this very proper Englishwoman’s family.
Anne’s mouth dropped. “I could never ask a gentleman—much less a premier catch—to drive me … Do you know how to drive?”
“I do,” Kate said, and it was a proud boast. “My father taught me when I was fourteen. I’m a very good driver, and my only complaint is my mother refuses to let me drive—she says it is not fitting for women, much less one my age, and she will not budge. Soon, though, I intend to buy my own automobile. I will probably buy a Packard.”
Anne was silent and wide-eyed. They had almost reached the deck. “I have never even heard of a woman driving a roadster, Miss Gallagher.”
“Call me Kate. I don’t mind.”
Both girls paused a few steps away from Mary. “Is that your chaperone?”
Kate sighed. “That,” she said flatly, “most certainly is. Actually,” she amended, “that’s my mother. I think she is about to have a fit.”
“Well, you have sand all over your face and in your hair.” Anne did smile. Then her smile faded. A woman was hurrying toward them. “That is my older sister, Lady Feldston. I do believe she has just realized that she has lost me.”
Kate laughed. “I’m sure you could find your way back to your cottage with little trouble.”
Anne pinkened. “Of course. Kate, would you and your mother care to join us tonight for supper? It will be quite a crowd. I believe we’re having twenty for dinner. It would be so lovely.”
Kate did not have to think about it. “I would love to come,” she said. “For I have dreaded supper at the hotel—you would not believe how rude the other guests are.”
“Rude?” Anne appeared distraught. “Why, whatever happened?”
“Ever since we arrived, they have been calling me a title-hunter behind my back—but quite loudly, I must say—I could hardly help hearing.”
Anne was shocked. “That is horrid! Simply horrid—and not to be tolerated, I assure you.”
Kate looked at her. “But the problem is, it is true. My mother is determined that I wed a title.”
Anne was so taken aback that she could not speak. After a long pause, she said, low, “My dearest Kate. You must never admit such a thing again. You must be discreet.”
Kate laughed at her. “You sound like my mother, Anne. I will see you at supper tonight.”
After Anne had left, Kate joined her mother and told her about their supper invitation. Mary’s eyes were wide with excitement. “Kate! The Bensonhursts are quite an old, established family! If they should befriend us, why, you shall have your debut after all!”
Kate looked at her mother, feeling sorry for her, caught up as she was with her limited views. She patted her hand. “Why don’t we dwell upon the prospect, not of my season, but of a very pleasant evening?”
But Mary was murmuring, “I wonder if she has a brother or a cousin—an eligible one, that is.”
Kate ignored her—a habit she had fallen increasingly into. She decided Brighton would not be so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe, she had found a new friend to while away the summer with.
Then she recalled the handsome stranger. Kate shivered. She could not get him out of her mind. In fact, she had the oddest feeling—the deepest, most certain expectation—yet it was mingled with a fearful excitement, too. Kate hardly knew what to make of her strange emotions. She had never felt this way before.
But she did know one thing. She knew she would see him again—and she sensed it would be soon.
J
ill stepped out of the taxicab and stood staring at Lexham Villas, where Allen Henry Barrows lived. The entire block was a series of attached Victorian row houses, all of them white stucco, with wrought-iron fences curtaining off the separate properties from the street. The Barrows residence, Number 12 Lexham Villas, was on the corner. A small stone path lined with purple pansies led to the front of the whitewashed house. Two tiny patches of green lawn were in front of the house as were two old, shady trees. It was positively charming.
“Can I give you a hand with your bags, madam?” the driver asked, having hefted Jill’s three bags from the trunk.
Jill started. “Oh, thank you.” she said, at once delighted and breathless. This was so very British, she thought, and instead of following her cabdriver to her front door, which was painted a slate blue, she walked around the north side of the house.
To her increasing delight, she found a blooming garden there, filled with tulips and daffodils, azaleas and hydrangea, that all of the villas shared. There was even an old, whitewashed swing out back. Pink and white petunias filled the flower boxes on the windowsills on the back of Barrows’s home.
Jill hurried back around to the front of the house, paid the cabbie, tipping him American style and receiving a huge thank you from him in return. She stepped inside.
The entry was dark, and directly in front of her a narrow staircase with
a shiny wooden banister led upstairs. She glanced around. The walls were covered in textured, cream-colored wallpaper. The wooden floors were old and scarred from years of use but were both waxed and polished. She could see directly into the parlor from where she stood. Several faded throw rugs were scattered about, and a brick fireplace was facing her. The sofa was thick, oversized, and plush, as were both armchairs. The coffee table was clearly an antique, as was the mirror hanging on one wall. She smiled to herself.
The house belonged to another time, another place, and although Jill herself was thoroughly modern, she loved it. It was warm and cozy and so very personal. She ran into the parlor. The fireplace was real—she would make a fire tonight. She went to the windows, which were covered in heavy white muslin draperies, and pushed them aside. The sky outside was clearing. The sun was trying to shine. She then opened every window, letting in what seemed to her to be impossibly fresh, clean, very sweet air. She could smell the flowers blooming in the garden, as well as the recent rain. The grass was wet.
And a bird was singing in a tree just outside of the window. Jill craned her head to try to locate the vocal culprit, and espied a red robin. As if sensing it had an audience, it sang more loudly. Jill smiled again.
Her heart felt lighter than it had since Hal’s death. It had taken Jill four weeks to arrange the sublet and back out of her life in New York. In those four weeks, Jill had gone to the public library several times, looking for information about her own grandfather or Kate. She hadn’t turned up anything except an obituary about a rubber tycoon, Peter Gallagher, who had died in 1905, leaving behind a wife, Mary, and a daughter, Katherine Adeline. Jill wondered if he had been Kate’s father. She had no clue. But their home had been a very fashionable address for the time—Number 12 Washington Square.
She had also wondered about the coincidence of the names—the tycoon Peter Gallagher, who died in 1905, and her own grandfather, born in 1908.
Now Jill walked into a small kitchen that was very old-fashioned, with striped wallpaper and ancient, fat appliances, also noticing a vase filled with daisies on the kitchen table. Jill saw a note beside it.
“Welcome, Miss Gallagher, and do enjoy your stay in my home.” Instructions on feeding the two cats, Lady Eleanor and Sir John, followed. It was signed, “Best Wishes, Allen Henry Barrows.” Jill smiled and put down the note.
She heard footsteps in the parlor, assumed it was Lucinda, her neighbor,
whom she had faxed with her itinerary, and she went rushing into the other room. She skidded to a halt at the sight of Alex Preston standing there in a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit.
He smiled somewhat sheepishly at her. “You left the door wide open. There’s no doorbell. Just a knocker. You didn’t hear it.”
Jill found herself folding her arms protectively across her chest. Their gazes held, her pulse thundered. “How did you know I was here?” Her heart continued to thud. He had more than surprised her—she was stunned both by his appearance at her flat and his timing. She hadn’t called him to let him know that she was returning to London. In fact, they hadn’t spoken since he had called her from the airport to tell her the files had been lost.
She couldn’t get over what had happened. She had called Computer City. Power surges were rare.
On the other hand, she had been told that what Alex had said had happened was possible.
“Lucinda told me,” he was saying, his smile fading—as if he sensed that his presence wasn’t really welcome.
Jill stared. He was like an unwelcome apparition—except that he suddenly seemed drop-dead good-looking in his oh-so-elegant custom suit. She fought that unwelcome thought. She wanted to blame it on the new prescription she was taking. Her doctor had called her and when he had found out that she had thrown out the Xanax, he’d asked her to take half the dose, and she had been giving it a shot. In the past few weeks, she had started to feel like a human being again. Hal had lied to her, Hal had loved Marisa, but she’d been beaten up before and she could—and would—get through this. “I didn’t know you knew Lucinda,” she said slowly. Why was he there?
Why did she feel so completely off-balance?
“She gave me a tour of Uxbridge Hall a few weeks ago,” he replied. His smile returned, but he appeared a bit embarrassed. Jill was trying to register the fact that he had been to Uxbridge, when she realized that he was holding a gift-wrapped bottle under one arm. It was obviously wine and just as obviously, it was for her.
He saw where her gaze had settled and he held out the bottle. “Champagne. A little housewarming gift. Hope you don’t mind.”
She took it. “Thank you.” She did not understand why he had come, or why he had brought the gift. She set the bottle down on the coffee table without opening it. Was this a peace offering? But hadn’t they already made peace? Was this a pass?
Jill inhaled, her back to Alex. This was not a pass. That had been an insane thought. Alex was not just Hal’s cousin, but he was a powerful, wealthy man. Men like Alex could have their share of gorgeous, twenty-year-old, would-be models, especially if they were good-looking as well as loaded. Jill knew it for a fact. She saw fat old power brokers in New York with their young, flawless girlfriends all the time. It was called life and it was spelled in capital letters.
She straightened and faced him. “I didn’t know you were a history buff, too.”
“I’m not. Not really.”
“I don’t get it,” Jill said. “Why did you go to Uxbridge Hall?”
He came closer, his eyes intent on her face. “Maybe Kate has gotten her hooks into me, too.”
Jill held his gaze, unable to look away.
“You still want to find her, don’t you?” he said.
She hesitated. “Yes, I do.” More than ever, she thought silently.
“Are you still angry with me because of those lost letters?”
Jill inhaled, taken aback and suddenly wary. “I’m not angry.”
“I heard it in your voice that morning. And even now, I can see doubt—about me—in your green eyes.”
Why was he pressing her? Jill’s caution increased. “I don’t know why you’re here. It’s not like we’re friends, and Hal’s death is between us.” And, “My eyes are hazel, not green.”
He stared. And said, “Today they look very green. It must be the light—or that shirt you’re wearing.”
She was wearing a tightly fitted button-down shirt that paid homage to the seventies. It was a collage of arresting colors—different shades of blue and green. Her pants were tight, flared, and black.
He continued, “I like the fact that you speak your mind, Jill. But I thought, maybe, we were friends.”
She flushed and turned away from him. “Maybe life is too short to play games.” He hadn’t really answered her.
“It sure as hell is,” Alex said, jamming his hands in his pockets. “I came here to welcome you back to town, being as you know no one, really, and if you want, I came to help you find Kate.”
Jill nodded, remaining wary. She had promised herself, after all, that she would rely on no one now but herself. Yet there was a voice inside of her that was nagging at her, tugging at her, saying, Why not? Why not be friends? Hal’s death remained between them, true, but what if he was a really decent guy? She could certainly use help in navigating her way
around London. He was smart and resourceful. And he appeared to be decent—if anything, he looked smart, honest, well-to-do. What if she tested him out a bit?
The notion was unnerving. It made her shaky, it made her sweat.
“You’re staring at me again. Have I grown two heads?” he said.
She had been so immersed in her speculation that she jumped. “I wish I could figure you out.”
He did smile. “There’s not much to figure out. I’m a hardworking Brooklyn boy—transplanted to London. Period.”
Jill did smile and shake her head. “Right.” They both knew he was selling himself way short.
“You look like you’re feeling better,” he said abruptly.
“I am.” Jill pushed her bangs off of her forehead. “I’m still taking some medication, but it’s a low dose.” She looked him in the eye. “Hal messed up. He messed me up. But I can live with it. I try not to think about it too much.”
His gaze held hers. There was warmth and understanding and even compassion in it. “You’re a strong woman. I think we have a bit in common, you and I.”
Jill felt herself actually flush at the compliment he had given her; then she thought about what he had said. He was right in one way. They’d both come from poor backgrounds, and they’d both lost their parents as children. But that was where all similarity ended. “You’re loaded and successful and you live and associate with blue bloods. I’m flat broke, I can only wear beaten-up shoes because of my profession, and I shop at thrift shops.”
He smiled. Widely.
“All right,” Jill said, allowing herself another small smile. “We have something in common.” Then she sobered. They had Hal in common, too.
“Don’t go there,” he said softly, picking up on her thoughts.
Now she recalled just how perceptive he was. “Are you telepathic?”
“Not at all. I’m just good at reading people. It comes with the territory.”
Jill nodded, reminding herself to go slowly if she was going to allow him to enter even the periphery of her life, even as a mere friend and acquaintance. And that, of course, was all it would be. Assuming that he was making a discreet pass at her, which surely he was not.
“How are your aunt and uncle?” she asked, wanting to know. Guilt raised its ugly little head.
He sobered. “Okay. Considering. Margaret’s on medication for her
heart. I’m worried about her, actually.” His concern was reflected in his blue eyes. “William’s doing as well as can be expected, I guess. He’s tired all the time and complaining of it, but he’s thrown himself into a few of the company’s outstanding projects to keep his mind occupied.”
Jill felt for them both. “And Thomas and Lauren?”
“Thomas is working like a dog. I’ve never seen him so gung-ho. Lauren’s still grieving openly.” His regard was piercing.
“And you?” The words popped out before Jill could rethink them.
He stared before answering. “I wish Hal had been more honest with you and Marisa. I also wish he’d had the chance to live out his life.”
Jill tucked her hands into the very small pockets of her very tight pants. Did that mean that he still blamed her for Hal’s death on some subconscious level? How could he not? The ugly guilt refused to go away. It left a bitter taste in her mouth. “I guess we all wish he were still here,” she finally said.
His gaze was searching.
“I would have figured it out sooner or later,” Jill said grimly. “I was naive. But I’m not stupid.”
“The one thing you’re not,” he agreed. “I have something to give you.”
Jill hadn’t noticed his soft black attaché case sitting on the floor beside her bags, and now he produced a manila envelope that he handed to her. “Open it.”
Jill obeyed, curious. Her eyes widened when she was faced with a bold headline from the London
Times
, dated January 21, 1909. “American Heiress Missing,” she read. The lead-in stated, “No Clues as to Whereabouts of Gallagher Heiress.” It was a copy of the old newspaper article.
Jill began to tremble, seized with excitement. She quickly glanced at the next sheet—it was another copy of an article, this one from the London
Tribune
. “Oh, God,” she whispered, reading aloud, “Foul Play Ruled Out in Disappearance of Gallagher Heiress.” The third article was from the New York
World,
and dated September 28, 1909. It said, “Disappearance of Kate Gallagher Remains an Unsolved Mystery.”

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