Heiress

by Susan May Warren

  “This is my daughter, Lillian Joy Hoyt.”

  Lillian turned at her name, gave a curtsey that could have knocked Esme over with a breath. So her daughter had managed to retain some of her instruction.

  “Your father is ready to see you,” Pierce said and stood aside.

  She didn’t know why she expected him unchanged, tall and strong, with those eyes that could bring someone to their knees, confess their sins. He’d had dark, barely salted hair when she’d left, and the last thing she remembered was his strong hand on her arm right before she’d escaped his office.

  Now, those hands curled into themselves on his lap, his shoulders bowed as he slouched in a wheelchair on the hearth before the fire. He wore a blanket over his knees, and a strap around his chest kept him from pitching completely forward. He stared into the fire, unseeing.

  August Price had shriveled into a broken, elderly man.

  She glanced at Pierce, who gave her a tight, slim smile. She reached out and took Lilly’s hand and entered the room.

  “Father, it’s Esme.” No reaction as she slipped close to him, the ache inside almost devouring her. Why hadn’t she returned sooner? Letting go of Lilly’s hand, she crouched before the wheelchair. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home sooner, Father. But I’m here now. And I’ve brought you a granddaughter.” She glanced up at Lilly, who stared down at the old man with a sort of undisguised tragedy in her expression. Esme wanted to admonish her to wipe it away, but she considered that she too, wore such a look.

  Why had she let her pride steal her inheritance, a grandfather for her child?

  She tried to remove the heartache from her voice. “I married a wonderfully kind man. You may have heard of him—Daughtry Hoyt. He attended a few social events with you years ago. He owned a copper mine in Montana and he loved me very much. He died trying to help some of his miners caught in a cave-in.” Those words seemed closer, suddenly, the grief, for a moment, fresh in her throat.

  “You would have liked him. He was very proud of me.” She swallowed, ran her gloved hand under her eye. “He gave me a daughter before he died—Lillian Joy. She’s thirteen-years- old, and just like you. Stubborn and smart and beautiful.” She eyed Lilly, who bit her bottom lip and turned away.

  “I own the mine now, but I also own a number of newspapers. We have a daily and two weeklies.” She put her hand on his on his lap, found it small and frail. “I’m a publisher, just like you.”

  Did his eyes flick over at her? She wanted to believe it, wanted to know that too, he’d squeezed her hand. Perhaps he did. Yes, his hand twitched, and there—again, a squeeze.

  Esme touched it to her forehead, kissed the back of it.

  “Oh, Father, I’m sorry it took me so long—”

  “Esme?”

  She turned. Her mother stood in the doorway, her hand pressed to her mouth. “I can’t believe it. You came home!” She seemed to collect herself then, or wanted to, but gave up and crossed the room, her face betraying her. “Esme.”

  Phoebe, in a skirt and high-necked shirtwaist and leg o’mutton sleeves, had lost weight also, her bones delicate beneath Esme’s embrace. She smelled of powder and all the indulgences Esme had left behind. “I never thought I’d see you again.” She blinked fast, swallowed. Forced a smile. “And this lovely lady is—”

  “Your granddaughter, Lilly Hoyt.”

  “Lilly,” Phoebe said, holding out her hand. Lilly took it, the perfect debutante, and bowed her head.

  “Such wonderful manners. I can see you are your mother’s daughter.”

  Oh, sure she was.

  Phoebe glanced at her husband, sitting in the chair. His blanket had become dislodged, falling off his knee. She fixed it then turned her back on him, looping her arm around Esme. “You look so fetching, daughter. You’ve come back to stay, I hope?”

  Esme watched as Lilly roamed the room, stopping to take in an oil of Esme, painted, obviously from her debut photograph. It hung above her father’s desk. She’d never seen it before, and tried not to compare herself to the flawless perfection of a lady groomed for presentation into society.

  “I don’t know. Lilly needs…” A father. A firm hand. Culture. “Schooling.”

  Lilly glanced at her and scowled. Ah, there was the daughter Esme knew.

  “Why didn’t you cable me when Father had his stroke? Why did you wait until now to ask me to come home?”

  Phoebe frowned at her. “I didn’t cable you, Esme. I…should have, I know. But I—I had my reasons.”

  “She was probably afraid of me. Probably afraid that I would hurt you again,” said a voice behind them.

  Phoebe stiffened.

  Esme stilled, her breath caught in her chest, her pulse swishing in her ears. She turned.

  No.

  He was an older, more confident version of himself: dark hair too long for his attire, a gray striped waistcoat, tie, a wool suit with matching trousers. A gold pocket watch hung from his belt loop to his vest pocket. All the same, she recognized the flicker of emotion, a longing she had never quite forgotten. Nor had she forgotten his brown eyes that now peered right through her, snatched out her heart, and left her bereft.

  “Oliver.”

  Chapter 18

  Oliver.

  She stared at him, everything that had happened so long ago suddenly fresh and brutal. “I thought you were dead. You died in the fire. I—I don’t understand.” She glanced at her mother, who turned immediately away.

  No wonder Phoebe didn’t want to cable her, to ask her to come home. Oliver’s words suddenly burrowed deep. “She knew you were still alive.”

  Oliver stepped into the room, glanced at Phoebe, at her father. “I wasn’t even around for the fire. I was on the police beat. I came back early in the morning, and Colleen told me that you were there, and that she’d told you she thought I had died. I searched everywhere for you and finally came here. Your mother met me at the door… .”

  Phoebe pursed her lips into a tight bud of annoyance.

  “She told me that you had married Foster Worth. By the time I discovered it was a lie, you were long gone.”

  Esme rounded on her mother. “You lied to him? But you sent me away to marry him. You knew I loved him, and you lied to him.”

  Phoebe’s mouth tightened at the edges. “I never really intended for you to marry him, Esme. I thought your infatuation would run its course, that someday you’d return, realize your folly, and marry a more suitable match.”

  “And in the meantime, Jinx married my fiancé.”

  Phoebe’s gaze hardened. “Someone needed to, and she was in love with him. I had hoped she would have a better chance at love than you and Foster.” She turned away then, staring out the window.

  “The paper today said that Jinx murdered him.”

  “Jinx did no such thing,” Phoebe said quietly. “Not that the paper gives her any grace.”

  “It’s news, Mrs. Price.”

  “It’s my daughter, Mr. Stewart.”

  A muscle pulled in Oliver’s jaw.

  Esme frowned at him. “What’s going on here? Why… Oliver did you take my sister’s picture, did you put it in the paper?”

  He walked over to her father, knelt before him, adjusted the blanket, fallen again. “How are you doing today, Mr. Price?”

  “So, what—are you my father’s valet too?”

  He stood. “I work for your father, yes.”

  She stared at him, a roar consuming her, not even sure where to start. Perhaps with— “If mother didn’t cable me, then who did? I got a cable from the New York Chronicle. I thought it came from my father, but apparently he’s no longer in charge. So, who would cable me from the Chronicle?”

  “The publisher?”

  “He wasn’t in when I went to the paper. I can only hope he’s not running the Price legacy into the ground.”

  “I can assure you that he’s not.” He picked up a poker, turned, and readjusted the logs in the fire. Sparks spit into the f
lue.

  “How do you know? Maybe he asked me to come back because the paper is in trouble. Maybe he needs a Price at the helm.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She frowned at him. “Excuse me?” She turned to Lilly. “Let’s—”

  “I’m the publisher, Esme.”

  He said it so quietly, in a voice she’d used too many times, during mine labor negotiations, to diffuse anger.

  Now, it left her nonplussed. “What?”

  “I’m the publisher, and the current managing editor of the Chronicle.”

  She shook her head. “No—no. You were—”

  “A stringer. A beat photographer. I know. But after you left, I hit the road too. Moved to Chicago and got a job as a stringer. Eventually, I worked my way back to New York, and applied for a job at the Chronicle. I’m not sure why, but your father took an interest in me. He put me on the city desk as a writer then made me an editor. I moved up from there. I’ve been running the paper for two years.”

  Two years. “You’re running the paper?”

  He nodded. “And I cabled you when your sister was arrested. I thought…well, it was time for you to come home.” For the first time, something like hurt pressed into his gaze. He looked away. “I thought your family might need you.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You knew where I was, all this time, and you never…you never came after me?”

  “You didn’t come home, Esme. And then, of course, you got married.” His eyes flickered to Lilly, who glared at him.

  “How did you know that?”

  “There was an announcement of your husband’s death in the New York World.”

  “Pulitzer picked up the accident?”

  “Hoyt sat on the stock exchange for a couple years. The paper listed your name as his surviving kin.” He said it without rancor, except for his eyes.

  “I didn’t know you were alive!”

  Lilly had moved over next to her, now stared at her mother. Esme schooled her voice. “You could have written to me. Could have come out to see me.”

  His mouth set in a dark line. Unless—unless he hadn’t really loved her. Hadn’t really meant his words, Come back to me, I’ll be waiting right here for you.

  “Well, I’m home now, and I’m taking over my father’s office,” she said, using her Montana voice.

  He set the poker back in the mount. “I don’t think so. I knew the emotional strain on your father during Jinx’s trial would be tremendous, and I thought you might want to be with him. But the Chronicle doesn’t need your help.”

  She didn’t recognize this man, the one who now picked out his pocket watch, read the time, returned it.

  “Doesn’t need my help? I am a Price. I am my father’s heiress. I will take over the newspaper, and you have no say in it.”

  “Your father gave me power of attorney should he ever fall ill. I have every say in it.” He moved toward the door. “And, I have to get back to work. I have a trial to cover.”

  Twenty years in the West had scrubbed all the decorum from Esme. She moved into his way, ignored his startled expression. “My sister’s trial?”

  “If it comes to that.” He looked at Phoebe. “I just returned from court. She is supposed to appear in the Court of Special Session tomorrow morning, to see if they have enough evidence to hold her for the crime of murder.”

  He looked back at Esme, nothing of a smile on his face. Oh, she hated how, even now, she could find him so devastatingly handsome. And how, after twenty years, he could still make her heart leave her chest. He smelled good—a sort of mint upon his skin, and had freshly shaven. What had happened to the zealous photographer who had once kissed her under the lamplights in Central Park?

  She managed to tamp down the emotion in her voice. “Jinx didn’t do it. I know I haven’t seen her for twenty years, but my sister could never murder someone, especially her husband.”

  “You don’t know Foster Worth.”

  “But I do know my sister.”

  “The same one who stole your fiancé?”

  I didn’t love him. The words nearly leaked out. I loved you.

  But maybe he hadn’t loved her, not really. And certainly, from the way he looked at her now, a chill in his expression, he no longer dreamed of her return to his arms.

  She backed away from him, glanced again at her father, still staring into the crackling fire. “I’m going to prove she didn’t do it, Oliver, and when I do, the Chronicle is going to run a front-page article proclaiming her innocence. And then we’ll see who becomes publisher of the New York Chronicle.”

  His smile vanished. “Welcome home, Esme Hoyt.”

  “Price,” she snapped. “The name is Esme Price Hoyt.”

  * * * * *

  How much had Jack heard? Foster’s accusation that Jack wasn’t his son? Had he seen Foster threaten her?

  Jinx sat in her cell, reeling back her conversation with Bennett.

  But, Jinx, I love you. I’ve never stopped hoping that you might come to me, that you might someday love me.

  She pressed her hands into her eyes, not caring how wretched she might look. I loved you too, Bennett. And Jack had been that reminder of the one brief moment when she’d felt loved back.

  She’d been such a dupe to think that the glittering parties, the social power, her inheritance might be enough to balm the wounds Bennett’s leaving inflicted.

  I’ve never stopped loving you, and because of that I’m going to fix this, Jinx. I’m going to fix this, and save our—my son—and then you’re going to be free.

  Probably he would dig into the Worth family fortune, make a contribution to the judge’s larder.

  But what if it didn’t work? Worse, what if they still blamed Jack?

  Please. She closed her eyes, not sure where to start, hearing what sounded more like a wail. Please, God, save us.

  But why should the Almighty listen to her—she’d managed to tangle her life into a web of lies and betrayals. No, she was on her own.

  She lay on the bunk, finally giving into exhaustion, not caring what climbed into her hair. She allowed herself a few spoonfuls of the chicken soup at lunchtime, and as the sun fell, her cell darkening with the shadows, she counted her breaths, the bricks in the walls, listened to the memory of Jack’s laughter, Rosie’s singing.

  Feet upon the concrete. They stopped at her cell. “Visitor for you.”

  Jinx sat up, didn’t bother to smooth her skirt, fix her hair. She shuffled down the hallway, back to the interrogation room.

  A woman stood, her back to her, staring out onto Centre Street. Dressed in a belted suit coat, a skirt that hung just above her ankles, a smart, wide-brimmed hat, she held her dark gloves in her hand.

  Jinx folded her hands over her chest and tried not to flinch when the bolt slid shut behind her. “Who are you?”

  She turned, and words sloughed out of Jinx. She pressed her hand to her mouth, the other around her waist.

  “Hey, Jinx.”

  She was so beautiful, even more than when she’d left; tall and graceful, her blond hair secured low on her neck, a gentleness about her smile Jinx had never seen before. “Esme.”

  They stared at each other a long, pulsed moment. Then Esme came and put her arms around her, pulled her close. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Jinx wrapped her arms around her and sobbed.

  Esme held her and said nothing.

  Jinx knew that she had become loud, a soggy mess, a social misfit as she clung to her sister. But something about Esme’s appearance, the smell of her, clean and fashionable, healthy and whole… “I missed you. I really missed you.”

  She hadn’t realized how much until that moment. “I’m so sorry for what I did, for stealing Foster from you.”

  She felt Esme’s hand on her hair. “I think you’ve suffered much more than I have.”

  Jinx drew away from her, but there was nothing of malice in Esme’s expression. “He was an awful man.” She looked away, her eye
s soggy, and accepted her sister’s handkerchief when she offered it. “I hated him. And frankly, yes, I wanted him dead.” She wiped her face, turned back to her sister. “But I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  Her words unknotted something in Jinx’s chest, and for the first time in five days, she could breathe. Full and clean and— “You believe me?”

  “Of course I do.” Esme took her hand. “I’m your sister, right?”

  Jinx could only nod.

  “So, let’s figure out who did.”

  Jinx nodded again.

  “Which means you’ll have to tell me what happened, Jinx.”

  Jinx drew in a breath, nodded.

  “With words.”

  Jinx allowed a smile to press through her tears. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  Esme pulled out a chair, dropped a notebook on the rough-hewn table. “How about with a list of people who might want to hurt Foster?”

  “Name anyone in New York City. He’s a shrewd businessman, he has had affairs with the wives of politicians and judges, not to mention his harem of floozies down on Broadway.”

  Esme stared at her, probably shocked by the lack of venom in her voice. “He cheated on you?”

  “Nearly from the day we married. I think he was angry that—that I wasn’t you.”

  Esme blinked at that, drew in a breath. “I’m sorry either of us had to marry him.”

  “Did you ever get married?”

  “Yes. I have a daughter.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He died before she was born.”

  Jinx stared out the window, barred though it was, onto Centre Street, the street cars, the late afternoon foot traffic, a newsie on the corner, hawking his rag. “Oliver Stewart is publisher of the Chronicle.”

  “I know.”

  “Mother told me he was dead. He moved away, to Oklahoma or some place. He showed back up about ten years ago, started working for Father.”

  “He wants to control the paper.”

  Jinx smiled. “But you’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

  A muscle pulled in Esme’s jaw. She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me about these affairs—did Foster ever have a jealous husband come after him?”