Secrets

Secrets Page 29

by Brenda Joyce

  Sla­de and Char­les mo­ved briskly thro­ugh the Co­urt.They we­re re­cog­ni­zed in­s­tantly and both men nod­ded back at tho­se they pas­sed. Richly de­sig­ned Ori­en­tal car­pets we­re soft un­der­fo­ot, whi­le the many pot­ted plants, all over­si­zed palms, war­med up the very lar­ge,mar­b­le-flo­ored at­ri­um. Cho­osing a se­ating area in a cor­ner well re­mo­ved from the pi­anist, the two men ma­de them­sel­ves com­for­tab­le, or­de­ring bo­ur­bons on ice.

  "Who is she?" Char­les as­ked.

  "Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton." Sla­de stres­sed her fa­mo­us mid­dle na­me. Had he sa­id Roc­ke­fel­ler or As­tor, he wo­uld not ha­ve sur­p­ri­sed Char­les mo­re.

  "In­de­ed! Sla­de, I am di­sap­po­in­ted you we­re ke­eping yo­ur mar­ri­age a sec­ret from me."

  "Xan­d­ria tell you?"

  "The in­s­tant she left yo­ur of­fi­ce."

  He sig­hed. "Char­les, it wasn't exactly a sec­ret. And it wasn't a re­al mar­ri­age, not the way you're thin­king. If it had be­en, I wo­uldn't ha­ve left her at Mi­ra­mar."

  "I was fin­ding it hard to be­li­eve that you wo­uld le­ave yo­ur bri­de the­re."

  Sla­de le­aned for­ward as the whi­te-jac­ke­ted Neg­ro wa­iter bro­ught the­ir drinks. "I mar­ri­ed her for her mo­ney, Char­les, not­hing mo­re."

  Char­les was un­per­tur­bed. "Re­al­ly? I find that so­mew­hat out of cha­rac­ter. You don't gi­ve a damn abo­ut mo­ney."

  Sla­de ex­p­la­ined Mi­ra­mar's fi­nan­ci­al si­tu­ati­on. He then pro­ce­eded to ex­p­la­in that Re­gi­na had had am­ne­sia and ever­yo­ne had as­su­med she was Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, James's fi­an­c­йe, him­self in­c­lu­ded, and that he was to marry Eli­za­beth for her for­tu­ne. "It was to be a mar­ri­age of con­ve­ni­en­ce only, be­ca­use of James. I was gi­ving her a ho­me and, in her vul­ne­rab­le con­di­ti­on, pro­tec­ti­on; she was gi­ving Mi­ra­mar the cash we so des­pe­ra­tely ne­ed."

  "That's qu­ite a ta­le." Char­les gra­ce­ful­ly set his glass down. "Why didn't you co­me to me for help? I ha­ve many con­nec­ti­ons with many banks."

  "Char­les, if you co­uld ha­ve hel­ped, I wo­uld ha­ve. Don't for­get, I ha­ve con­nec­ti­ons too, wor­king for you the way I do. We can't han­d­le anot­her lo­an. I con­si­de­red ta­king you on as a par­t­ner, but Rick wo­uld not he­ar of it. And even if we bro­ught in a stran­ger, the kind of in­ves­t­ment he'd ha­ve to ma­ke wo­uld gi­ve him a con­t­rol­ling in­te­rest in Mi­ra­mar-and that's out of the qu­es­ti­on."

  "What abo­ut a per­so­nal lo­an?" Char­les as­ked. "Just bet­we­en us. I wo­uld ta­ke yo­ur IOU. Sla­de, don't you know that?"

  Sla­de was un­com­for­tab­le. "The tho­ught had cros­sed my mind. But I don't think I co­uld bring myself to ask."

  "I know you can't," Char­les sa­id. "You've al­ways gi­ven, but you ne­ver ta­ke. You've ne­ver as­ked me for an­y­t­hing, not in the ten ye­ars we've be­en fri­ends. That's why I'm tel­ling you that I wo­uld gi­ve you a lo­an, and you don't even ha­ve to ask."

  Sla­de lo­oked at him, trying not to re­ve­al how mo­ved he was. De­ep in­si­de him­self, he knew he had be­en af­ra­id to ask, af­ra­id of be­ing re­fu­sed-af­ra­id of not be­ing im­por­tant eno­ugh to Char­les to be worthy of such aid. "Char­les, we're tal­king abo­ut an in­c­re­dib­le sum of mo­ney," he sa­id un­s­te­adily. "We ne­ed to ma­ke up two ye­ars of pay­ments, and we ne­ed an in­f­lux of ca­pi­tal to turn the ran­c­ho in­to an ag­ri­cul­tu­ral ope­ra­ti­on, and we ne­ed eno­ugh ca­pi­tal to work for the next fi­ve ye­ars. At le­ast."

  "That is a lar­ge amo­unt," Char­les ag­re­ed. "I wo­uld lend it to you if you want me to."

  Sla­de swal­lo­wed. "Thank you." He sig­hed. At le­ast he­re was a way out of a cru­ci­al di­lem­ma. Char­les had co­me thro­ugh for him. He sho­uld ha­ve had mo­re con­fi­den­ce in the­ir fri­en­d­s­hip, he sho­uld ha­ve known. "But it will be a last re­sort. Rick wo­uld obj­ect; in fact, he'd throw a fit. And it wo­uld be a long ti­me be­fo­re I co­uld pay you back. Right now, I ha­ve so­me ti­me. The bank will not mo­ve so so­on af­ter my mar­rying a Bragg. I'm go­ing to use it for what it's worth."

  "Bragg is a po­wer­ful na­me," Char­les ag­re­ed. "I ima­gi­ne she has the kind of in­he­ri­tan­ce you ne­ed."

  Sla­de lo­oked at his un­to­uc­hed glass of bo­ur­bon. An­ger blo­oded him. "I might ha­ve had he­si­ta­ti­ons abo­ut ta­king her mo­ney on­ce, but not an­y­mo­re. She li­ed. I will ne­ver for­gi­ve her, ne­ver for­get. Ne­ver will I trust her. She lo­oks li­ke an an­ge1 but she is the far­t­hest thing from it." What did she lie abo­ut?" “She re­co­ve­red her me­mory be­fo­re the wed­ding." His vo­ice was stran­g­led. "I tho­ught she was James's fi­an­c­йe, but she knew she wasn't-and she didn't tell me."

  Char­les was still, then he le­aned for­ward and grip­ped Sla­de's arm. "Let it out, son."

  Sla­de sho­ok his he­ad wor­d­les­sly. An­ger ren­de­red him in­ca­pab­le of spe­ech.

  "Do you lo­ve her?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad in de­ni­al. He did not, not an­y­mo­re, and he wo­uld ne­ver ad­mit to an­yo­ne that he had be­en fo­olish eno­ugh-and ir­re­ve­rent eno­ugh-to fall in lo­ve with her when he had tho­ught her to be Eli­za­beth. He fo­und his vo­ice with an ef­fort. "But I went thro­ugh hell, Char­les, thin­king she was James's wo­man. Hell."

  "So the­re is so­met­hing the­re."

  "Not lo­ve," Sla­de sa­id harshly.

  "I do­ubt you wo­uld be so up­set if you didn't ca­re for her."

  "I ha­ve fe­elings for her, all right. The kind that be­long in the bed­ro­om."

  Char­les win­ced. "Are you trying to shock me? It won' work. I know you bet­ter than an­yo­ne."

  "Sorry. I'm torn up. She wants a di­vor­ce. She de­man­ded a di­vor­ce. We ha­te each ot­her, but I don't par­ti­cu­lar fe­el li­ke gi­ving her one." He didn't add that it didn’t ha­ve very much to do with her mo­ney, eit­her.

  Char­les pat­ted his arm. "Why not let na­tu­re ta­ke its co­ur­se? Af­ter all, she mar­ri­ed you kno­wing who she was, and that cer­ta­inly tells me so­met­hing even if it do­esn't spe­ak to you. And you cer­ta­inly co­uld not ha­ve pic­ked a bet­ter cho­ice for a bri­de. Xan­d­ria told me she's not just lo­vely, but very gen­te­el. Xan­d­ria has go­od in­s­tincts, as we both know, and she thinks Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton is per­fect for you. I think a wi­fe is so­met­hing that has be­en long over­due, Sla­de. A wi­fe and a fa­mily."

  Sla­de was in­c­re­du­lo­us. "Dam­mit, Char­les, she's not a gen­t­le­wo­man. Xan­d­ria's wrong. Didn't you he­ar what I sa­id? She's not a lady, she's a li­ar."

  Char­les smi­led gently. "Son, if I we­re you, I wo­uld ask myself why she mar­ri­ed you. Bet­ter yet, I'd ask her."

  Chapter 20

  Char­les was right. Sla­de had be­en as­king him­self why, his ear­li­er at­tempts at ex­p­la­ining her be­ha­vi­or qu­ickly be­co­ming in­suf­fi­ci­ent, and now he was go­ing to ask her di­rectly.

  De­ter­mi­ned, he rang the bell at the D'Archands' im­p­res­si­ve ho­me. It was la­te, past the sup­per ho­ur, but this co­uld not wa­it. He co­uld not wa­it. The do­or was ope­ned by a ser­vant, one rig­h­t­ful­ly sus­pi­ci­o­us of him, for no one cal­led at this ho­ur unin­vi­ted. Sla­de an­no­un­ced him­self. "And ple­ase in­form Mrs. De­lan­za that her hus­band is he­re."

  The but­ler's eyes flic­ke­red with sur­p­ri­se. "The­re is no one in re­si­den­ce by that na­me, sir."

  Sla­de felt his tem­per ig­ni­te. She wasn't even using his na­me. He sho­uld ha­ve gu­es­sed. Ob­vi­o­usly her in­ten­ti­on was to ga­in this di­vor­ce sec­retly, so no one wo­uld even know she had ever be­en mar­ri­ed to him. Not
wa­iting for an in­vi­ta­ti­on which wo­uld not be for­t­h­co­ming, he stro­de past the but­ler and in­to the fo­yer. "Then tell Miss Shel­ton that her hus­band is he­re."

  The but­ler was ta­ken aback.

  Be­fo­re he co­uld res­pond, ho­we­ver, Brett D'Archand strol­led in­to the fo­yer. Sla­de knew the man. He was a smart bu­si­nes­sman, yet an ho­nest one. He was highly res­pec­ted by ever­yo­ne who knew him, Sla­de in­c­lu­ded. And ge­ne­ral­ly, he was ami­ab­le eno­ugh. But not to­night. Sla­de bra­ced him­self for an un­p­le­asant en­co­un­ter.

  "Lo­oking for so­me­one?" D'Archand as­ked wryly.

  "I'm he­re to see my wi­fe."

  "Had you sig­ned the pa­pers to­day, you wo­uld not ha­ve to be he­re at all."

  "But I didn't sign, now did I?"

  D'Archand went to the po­int. "Why not?"

  "I don't owe you an ex­p­la­na­ti­on. Whe­re is she?"

  "Let me con­fess so­met­hing to you, De­lan­za. I am at a loss. It se­ems to me that you co­uld be a very we­alth man if you we­re not wor­king for Char­les, if you we­re wor­king for yo­ur­self. Yet that has ap­pa­rently ne­ver in­te­res­ted you. But now you ha­ve mar­ri­ed my ni­ece for her in­he­ri­tan­ce. You ne­ver struck me as a for­tu­ne hun­ter. Why?"

  "As I sa­id, I'm not go­ing to ex­p­la­in myself to you ha­ve every right not just to spe­ak with Re­gi­na, but to re­mo­ve her from the­se pre­mi­ses. I sug­gest you get her down he­re im­me­di­ately, be­fo­re I de­ci­de to exer­ci­se all of my rights."

  "You thre­aten me in my own ho­me?" Brett was in­c­re­du­lo­us-and fu­ri­o­us.

  "Only be­ca­use you gi­ve me no cho­ice."

  "Get out. Be­fo­re I throw you out."

  "I see I ha­ve no cho­ice-un­for­tu­na­tely." Sla­de to­ok a step for­ward. He wo­uld se­arch the en­ti­re ho­use if he had to, but he wo­uld spe­ak with her this night.

  Brett mo­ved to in­ter­cept him.

  "Stop it!" Re­gi­na cri­ed, po­ised on the sta­irs.

  Both men fro­ze.

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed, swiftly des­cen­ding. "Brett, it's all right. If Sla­de wis­hes to spe­ak with me, I will see him." Her ga­ze loc­ked with Sla­de's. She was pa­le. "We ne­ver fi­nis­hed our con­ver­sa­ti­on from ear­li­er to­day."

  Brett re­le­ased Sla­de's arm. "You are not re­mo­ving her from my ho­me," he war­ned.

  "That isn't-and wasn't-my in­ten­ti­on," Sla­de re­tor­ted. But his re­gard was on Re­gi­na.

  Brett re­la­xed slightly, lo­oking from one to the ot­her. "Fi­ne," he sa­id shortly. "Then I'll le­ave the two of you." But ne­it­her Re­gi­na nor Sla­de was lis­te­ning to him. He sus­pec­ted that they had not even he­ard him, and frow­ning, he tur­ned and wal­ked away.

  Re­gi­na wet her lips.

  Grimly, Sla­de sta­red at her.

  "Why don't we sit in the­re?" She ges­tu­red at the open do­ors of a small, cozy sa­lon just off the fo­yer.

  Sla­de nod­ded, fol­lo­wing her in. It was very hard to be­li­eve that this wo­man was not as she ap­pe­ared. It was al­most im­pos­sib­le to be­li­eve that she was not a pro­per lady-the very ide­al of wo­man­ho­od. It was not just her be­a­uty, or her ele­gant and mo­dest at­ti­re. It was ever­y­t­hing. Her di­rect ga­ze, her de­mu­re airs, her gen­t­le man­ners, her po­ise and gra­ce, her fe­mi­ni­nity. Sla­de al­most won­de­red if he had dre­amed up her bet­ra­yal.

  But of co­ur­se, he had not.

  And the­re was still the qu­es­ti­on he had co­me to ask.

  He tur­ned and swiftly clo­sed the sa­lon do­ors.

  "What are you do­ing?" Re­gi­na cri­ed ner­vo­usly.

  He fa­ced her, his ex­p­res­si­on in­ten­se. "I want to talk to you in pri­va­te."

  As pa­le as be­fo­re, she nod­ded, trem­b­ling. She sat on the ice-blue so­fa, clas­ping her hands in her lap, her kne­es pres­sed to­get­her. Sla­de re­ali­zed she was mo­re than ner­vo­us, she was wary, and per­haps af­ra­id of him. She was so dis­t­ra­ught that she had not even of­fe­red him a se­at or ref­res­h­ments. Not that the lap­se mat­te­red. He reg­ret­ted thro­wing over his desk in his of­fi­ce as he had, kno­wing she had he­ard the no­ise and had un­do­ub­tedly gu­es­sed what he had do­ne. He was an­g­ry-but he did not li­ke her be­ing af­ra­id of him.

  "Why did you lie to me?"

  She gas­ped at the di­rect qu­es­ti­on.

  "Re­gi­na-" He gri­ma­ced. "I still ha­ve tro­ub­le cal­ling you by yo­ur na­me. Why?"

  She sho­ok her he­ad.

  Her knuc­k­les, he saw, we­re whi­te. He ap­pro­ac­hed and sat be­si­de her. She shrank away from him. Her eyes we­re wi­de, lu­mi­no­us. "Tell me," he de­man­ded. "You must."

  She lo­we­red her ga­ze. "You res­cu­ed me, re­mem­ber? I was g-gra­te­ful."

  "So you li­ed to me in gra­ti­tu­de."

  She pur­sed her mo­uth and sho­ok her he­ad aga­in. "When I had am­ne­sia, I grew fond of you. Or I th-tho­ught so."

  He was still. Ex­cept for his he­art, which was pum­ping in mighty and pa­in­ful bursts. "But it was an il­lu­si­on."

  She swal­lo­wed.

  "Was it an il­lu­si­on?"

  "Y-yes. N-no. I me­an, yes!"

  "Ma­ke up yo­ur mind."

  "All right, blast you!" she cri­ed, gre­atly agi­ta­ted. "It was a bit of ever­y­t­hing! Do­es that s-sa­tisfy you?"

  "You we­re gra­te­ful. You we­re fond of me." The­re was no pa­in now. His words we­re a whis­per.

  Te­ars glis­te­ned. "I was gra­te­ful! I was fond of you!" ] "And af­ter you re­mem­be­red that you we­re not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir?"

  "What do­es it mat­ter?"

  "You we­re still fond of me."

  She sto­od and tur­ned away, pa­cing. She had no in­ten­ti­on of an­s­we­ring him.

  "Ad­mit it," Sla­de de­man­ded. She had be­en fond of him. In full pos­ses­si­on of her me­mory, she had still be­en fond of him-fond eno­ugh to marry him. Be­fo­re, when over­w­hel­med with an­ger, he wo­uld ha­ve fo­und any ex­p­la­na­ti­on ir­re­le­vant. No mo­re. He was over­w­hel­med.

  "No! It was a mis­ta­ke," she cri­ed, fa­cing him.

  He al­so sto­od, sta­ring at her, in tur­mo­il. "In ot­her words," he sa­id un­s­te­adily, "you knew who you we­re, and still you wan­ted to be my wi­fe."

  Her sho­ul­ders sho­ok. "It was only gra­ti­tu­de. And for a whi­le, af­fec­ti­on. Gra­ti­tu­de is not lo­ve. Af­fec­ti­on is not lo­ve."

  "No," he sa­id, "gra­ti­tu­de is not lo­ve." He ref­ra­ined from ad­ding that af­fec­ti­on was not far from the mark.

  She tur­ned away aga­in, fig­h­ting te­ars. "What do­es it mat­ter an­y­way? I do not wish to dis­cuss my naп­vetй. I wish only to dis­cuss our di­vor­ce."

  The song in his he­art was in­s­tantly si­len­ced. She might ha­ve mar­ri­ed him eagerly, but she did not want to be his wi­fe now. She had co­me to her sen­ses. "And I don't want to dis­cuss di­vor­ce. Why didn't you just tell me the truth? We had al­re­ady ag­re­ed to marry."

  "I ex­pec­ted ever­yo­ne to bring forth the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir on­ce I ma­de myself known. Af­ter all, Rick wan­ted the al­li­an­ce with her, not with me."

  Sla­de snor­ted. "Rick co­uldn't ha­ve be­en fo­oled, Re­gi­na. I'm cer­ta­in he knew you we­re a Bragg he­iress and has be­en co­un­ting yo­ur mo­ney for we­eks."

  She stif­fe­ned. "I ha­ve be­en won­de­ring abo­ut' that myself. It's hor­rib­le. But he must ha­ve known, Vic­to­ria un­do­ub­tedly told him."

  "Vic­to­ria?"

  "She knew. I'm not su­re how. So­me­one went thro­ugh my things and fo­und my loc­ket with my mot­her's- Jane Shel­ton's-pic­tu­re in it, and my
ini­ti­als upon it. I am su­re it was her. The loc­ket was sto­len the night you an­no­un­ced our en­ga­ge­ment and she stor­med away be­fo­re sup­per. In any ca­se, it co­uld not ha­ve be­en too hard fin­ding out the truth. Just the day af­ter you bro­ught me to Mi­ra­mar, my un­c­le was in Tem­p­le­ton se­ar­c­hing for me and pos­ting a re­ward. Dis­co­very was ine­vi­tab­le."

  Sla­de was cer­ta­in now that Rick had known, for if Vic­to­ria hadn't told him he co­uld ha­ve gat­he­red a few clu­es him­self. "Damn him," he grit­ted. "Damn him." His fat­her had al­so be­en res­pon­sib­le for the hell he had go­ne thro­ugh in thin­king he was mar­rying Eli­za­beth.

  '’I do not want to be anot­her is­sue bet­we­en you and yo­ur fat­her," Re­gi­na sa­id firmly, sur­p­ri­sing him.

  "You still ca­re." The words we­re out be­fo­re he co­uld stop them.

  “No. No, you are wrong, very wrong." Her fu­ri­o­us ga­ze chec­ked Sla­de's cas­ca­de of emo­ti­on, brin­ging do­ubt. I only ca­re abo­ut d-di­vor­cing y-you." Then why are you crying?"

  "I am-am n-not crying."

  He co­uld dis­pu­te her. Her eyes we­re te­aring. He reg­ret­ted le­aving her now with every ac­hing bre­ath he drew. Hur­ting her had ne­ver be­en his in­ten­ti­on. "Wo­uld it help if I re­pe­ated to you how sorry I am for hur­ting you?"

  Ve­he­mently she sho­ok her he­ad no. Te­ars stre­aked her ra­di­ant skin. She se­emed even mo­re fu­ri­o­us at his words.

  He he­si­ta­ted. "If I'd known, I wo­uldn't ha­ve left you."

  She la­ug­hed hyste­ri­cal­ly. "Words are free. Ac­ti­ons are costly. Yo­ur ac­ti­ons spe­ak lo­uder, and cost mo­re, than any words co­uld. All of yo­ur ac­ti­ons."

  He did not com­p­re­hend her me­aning en­ti­rely; in­de­ed, he was af­ra­id to. What was cle­ar was that she now des­pi­sed him eno­ugh to ada­mantly se­ek a di­vor­ce, and that she was jud­ging him and fin­ding him lac­king on all co­unts. It hurt. It se­emed he co­uld not be im­mu­ne to her con­dem­na­ti­on, al­t­ho­ugh he'd had so many ye­ars of prac­ti­ce at the hands of ot­hers he sho­uld be an ex­pert at it.

 

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