The Third Heiress by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page A

room.
    She inhaled, fighting to regain her equilibrium.
    For facing her was a bookcase, and in it was an entire shelf of framed photographs.
    The walls were also covered in photographs.
    Jill began to shake. She would recognize Hal’s work anywhere. She slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her, turning on the lights.
    His work surrounded her, everywhere. Jill wished she had another drink.
    Again, tears somehow slipped down her cheeks.
    “Oh, Hal,” she whispered. Her words sounded bereft to her own ears.
    The royal blue draperies were partially drawn and the room was cast in dancing shadows caused by the street and house lights outside. Jill’s heart was hammering wildly now as she walked over to the bookcase. She smiled, more tears coming to her eyes. Hal had mentioned to her that he had been insane as a youth, shooting everything in sight. She saw photographs of wildlife—clearly he had been on safari—of flowers, trees, landscapes, Stonehenge. And then there were photographs of his family.
    Blinking to clear her eyes, Jill picked up a framed photograph of Thomas, taken perhaps ten years ago. Even then he’d had the striking looks of a model or an actor. Jill stared. Not because he had gotten betterlooking with age, but because the shot was clearly a candid one, and Hal had caught Thomas leaning over an infant, with the most beautiful expression of love on his face. The child, Jill assumed, was his own.
    Jill put it back. Then she froze.
    On another shelf there were several photographs of Hal as a teenager and as a young man. They were not self-portraits, because Jill could recognize Hal’s work. Someone else had taken them.
    She started to cry, but soundlessly, the tears streaming endlessly down her cheeks.
    She touched the frames. He was playing soccer in one shot, riding with the hounds in another—looking so damn blue-blooded doing so—and holding up a diploma in the last. She smiled through her tears.
    She paused. There was a fourth photograph of him on a ski slope, and he was with a young woman. A terrible pang pierced through her as she studied the photo. The woman was not Lauren, she was red-haired and stunning. Of course, this photo had to be several years old and her first reaction, which was jealousy, was absurd. Staring closely at it, Jill decided that Hal looked very thin, even in his ski clothes. Had he been ill at the time this photograph was taken?
    She put the frame back and glanced over at the few books filling the rest of the bookcase. Then she wandered to the bed, which was a massive four-poster in an extremely dark wood. She ran her head over the plaid quilt. He probably hadn’t slept there in years.
    She sat down on the bed, glancing at the photographs taped to the walls. Most were black-and-white. Many were portraits of people she did not know, many were of his family. Jill stared at one portrait, a head shot of a beautiful and regal older woman who had to be his mother, the countess, whom she had not yet met. The resemblance was unmistakable.
    Jill did not move, filled up with him, and for one moment, she almost felt him beside her, but then the moment was gone. She lay down, more tired now than at any previous point in the past few days. Hal’s bed was more than comfortable—it was comforting. She could almost smell his cologne, but that was only in her mind.
    She turned her head and her gaze slammed into another photograph—but this one was very old and in an antique silver frame on his nightstand. Jill sat up.
    Jill pulled the framed picture from the bedside table where it stood. She stared, surprised, eyes wide.
    It was an old black-and-white photograph of two young women in period dress. To Jill’s untrained eye, it appeared to be turn-of-the-century; their gowns were white and long, the skirts slim, and both women wore boaters on their heads. The two women were standing close to one another in front of a wrought-iron fence. They stared at the camera, unsmiling.
    Had