Free The Rich Shall Inherit by Elizabeth Adler Page B

she drove away from the Mallory House. The shades were drawn and the glittering windowpanes reflected only a blankness. There were no dogs lying lazily on the porch, no cats playing by the kitchen door, no mares with their foals grazing in the paddock as there were at her own home. And there was no baby lying in her bassinet taking the afternoon sun.
    Whenever she visited Margaret, the drawing room would be neat and shiny, the heavy gold brocade curtains hanging half closed in pristine folds. There were never any books or journals scattered about and no children’s toys littered the beautiful Turkish rug. The plump, overstuffed sofas bore no imprint where someone might recently have sat, and there was not even the sound of a buzzing fly.
    It looked empty, Rosalia thought with a shudder, like a house no one had lived in for years. She flicked her little silver-handled whip, urging the horse into a trot, eager to leave it, and Margaret, behind.
    Heaven knew, she’d tried her best to penetrate the defensive shell that Margaret had drawn around her, but she firmly refused to acknowledge the fact that Jeb had left her. He hadn’t been home since Poppy was born six months ago, and yet she still talked about him as though he might return home tomorrow or next week, playing out the charade that everything was quite normal. “Jeb just felt the need to travel for a while,” she’d said, fending off Rosalia’s well-meaning queries as to his whereabouts. “He’s always been a traveling sort of man.” And she had pouredtea from the heavy silver pot into fragile china cups as calmly as if she believed her own words.
    Nik had told her this morning that Jeb’s house on Russian Hill in San Francisco was still shuttered and that only the caretaker remained in residence in the basement. He’d also said that the lawyers had received a telegraph from Monte Carlo in France, commanding them to deposit a further substantial sum into Mrs. Mallory’s household account. So at least Jeb was not neglecting his
financial
responsibilities.
    Today Rosalia had deliberately asked Margaret if she’d had any news of Jeb, wondering if she would mention the money.
    “Why, yes, of course. I almost forgot. I had such a nice letter from him, quite a long letter—from Monte Carlo in France. It sounds most exciting there.” Margaret’s voice had risen to a nervous pitch and she was so obviously lying that Rosalia had felt sorry for her. “Jeb is such a good letter writer, he has quite a way with words, you know. I almost felt I was there with him.”
    “He’ll have seen no more of the sights than you or I,” she’d retorted vehemently. “Gambling! That’s what Jeb will be doing in Monte Carlo!”
    Margaret’s chin had tilted proudly. “Maybe,” she had said softly, “but he still takes good care of me.”
    Rosalia’s big brown eyes had filled with compassion. Margaret looked so tired and worn. Her rich red hair had lost its luster and her skin was translucently pale. She looked like a woman who didn’t sleep nights, a woman who tossed and turned, tortured by her memories. And yet there was a look of shrewd patience in her eyes that somehow gave Rosalia the impression that she might also be a woman waiting for vengeance.
    If it wasn’t for the child, she knew she couldn’t have forced herself to keep up her weekly visits. Margaret never seemed pleased to see her and it would have been so much easier just to let it slide, but as Jeb’s friend and partner, Nik felt responsible for her and the child. And even though Margaret might be repressing her hate for the father, there was no mistaking she loved her daughter.
    Rosalia thought that although Poppy couldn’t strictly be called a beauty like her daughter, Angel, she had her own pixieish charm. She had a shock of red hair and her father’s eyes, bright blue and alert and with a charming upward tilt at the corners. Still, it was one thing for Margaret to pretend that nothing was wrong