Before she could stop her, Portia snatched the papers and began sifting through them. She gasped, paling, and abruptly sat down. “He sold Suncrest Park.”
“What?” Rosalind gently pried the papers out of her sister’s hands.
Sure enough, it was the deed of sale for Suncrest Park, their old ancestral house. It’d been in the family for centuries.
Rosalind had never been fond of visiting the enormous, crumbling estate—she was a city girl at heart—but Portia … She looked at her sister, feeling her heart break at the stricken look in her eyes.
“I don’t understand.” Portia held on to her pearl necklace. “Why would he sell it? It was part of the family legacy. I wanted to live there. He knew that.”
“He probably needed the money.”
Portia looked up. “I loved Suncrest Park.”
“I’m so sorry, Portia.”
Her sister shook her head. Standing up woodenly, she walked out of the closet.
Rosalind started to go after her, but then she glanced down at the book in her hands. It’d fallen open to the last entry. It wasn’t a diary—it was a calendar of sorts, and on the day he’d died the scribbled in entry said: Holiday, France, with TW.
“Bastard,” she muttered, wondering how many entries like that she’d find.
Some of the entries she couldn’t understand. Some of them were mundane, like his weekly appointment to get his hair trimmed.
Then a week before his death, she saw Barrows entered, followed by papers to TW the next day.
TW had to be Tabitha Welles, his mistress. Her mother had said that the week before his death he’d redone his will. Was she drawing conclusions thinking that he’d taken a copy to his mistress?
She pulled out her phone and called Beatrice. As soon as her sister picked up the phone, she said, “I think we have a problem.”
“Wait a minute,” Bea said. There was rustling in the background. A muffled conversation and a few seconds later, her sister returned to the phone. “Do you know what time it is here, Rosalind?”
“No, actually. But if it’s that late, then you can’t possibly be busy.” The telling silence made her gasp. “Beatrice Summerhill, do you have a man in your hotel room?”
“I refuse to acknowledge anything but the late hour, or early hour, depending on how you look at it. Is Mother all right?”
“I haven’t seen much of Mum. She’s been gone a lot.”
“Where is she going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re supposed to keep an eye on her, Rosalind.”
She shrugged helplessly. “What am I supposed to do? Follow her?”
“If need be.”
“She’s our mother, not a jewel thief. I’m not going to spy on her.”
“Have you talked to her at all?”
“A little, but she’s being remarkably elusive, and I’ve been busy doing your dirty work”—she knew better than to mention playing with Nick—”which is why I called.”
“Have you found it?”
“No, and I’m afraid it might not be here.” She gave her sister a quick rundown, ending with, “I think you need to come home.”
“I think you’re right.” There was a masculine rumble in the background. “Rosalind, I need to go.”
“Lucky girl.”
“You have no idea.” She sighed. “Keep everything in line. I’ll be on the first flight back.”
Good. She hung up, worrying her lip, hoping her father wasn’t as much a jerk as she suspected he was, knowing he likely was.
Two nights later, Rosalind sat in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand when Beatrice breezed in followed by Viola. “I picked her up on the way, but I thought I’d wait to explain it to her until we got here so Portia could hear, too.”
Rosalind winced as she poured an additional two glasses of wine. “Portia’s been avoiding me. I’m not sure she’ll be willing to listen.”
“Listen to what?” came a soft response from the doorway.
She glanced up warily. Portia hovered in the doorway. Her eyes and nose were red, a stark contrast against the paleness of her face. But her mouth was set in a resolute line.
“Wine?” Rosalind offered tentatively, as a truce.
“Yes, please.” She sat on a stool at the counter. “Listen to what? And shouldn’t Imogen and Titania be here?”
“Imogen is still on set and couldn’t leave, though she said they were wrapping it up soon. God knows where Titania is.” Bea turned to Viola. “Have you heard from her?”
Vi sipped her wine as she pulled up another seat. “I haven’t, not since before Father died. Do you think she knows?”