Free The Third Heiress by Brenda Joyce

by Hal’s death, and it would never be the same again—if that wasn’t upheaval, what was? KC was wrong. The Tower referred to the present, not the future.
    KC spoke again. “Trust me, Jillian, and trust the stars, they’re your allies.”
    “I don’t think so,” Jill said.
    “There is a reason for everything,” KC said, but gently.
    “No. No, there isn’t.”
    “Let me draw one card. To clarify things.” KC sounded insistent.
    “What’s the point?” Jill asked, but she heard her shuffling. There was no point, because her situation was clear. Hal was dead. She was alone. And she had killed him through her neglectful driving, by God.
    But then she thought about his dying words, and she thought about Kate Gallagher. And she heard the sound of the shuffling cards stop. Silence was on the other end of the line.
    “What is it?” Jill whispered.
    “There is a woman. It could be you, but I don’t think so, because it is the Empress. She is very powerful, surrounded by wealth, and she is very creative, perhaps in the arts.”
    “I’m in the arts.”
    “She might be pregnant,” KC said slowly.
    Jill stared at the phone.
    “She is usually pregnant. Jill, you’re not pregnant, are you?”
    “No,” Jill said on a deeply drawn breath. She’d had enough of fatalism for one night, and as she clenched the phone, sweating now, she thought it would be unbearable if she were pregnant. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be home in two days. Thanks for everything.”
    “Jill! Be careful. And I’ll see you when you get home.”
    Jill couldn’t speak. She hung up quickly. Hal was dead. She could not possibly be pregnant.
    Jill tried to recall when her last period was, but her memory was failing her now. God damn the Tower, she thought bleakly. And damn the Empress, too!
    And she wasn’t pregnant. She couldn’t be. It would be the cruelest possible twist of fate. She had thought that life could not get worse, but if she was carrying Hal’s baby, it most certainly would.
    Jill cradled her head on her arms, staring up at the ceiling. She was buzzed from the scotch and exhausted and so terribly scared and finally, thankfully, numb. And as exhaustion finally got the best of her, as she suddenly, finally fell asleep, her last thought was to wonder if there was any connection at all between her and Hal and a woman named Kate.
    And she dreamed about a damp, dark, crumbling tower from which there was no escape.
    J ill entered the Anglican church where the funeral service was being held, trailing after the Sheldons, her shoes echoing on the centuries-old gray stone floors. Like most if not all of the churches in England, this one belonged in another place in time—it was probably five or six hundred years old. The walls were rough stone, the windows archaic stained glass, the pews scarred and well worn. Most of those pews were already filled with the family’s friends and associates.
    Jill felt claustrophobic.
    She continued down the aisle, behind Lauren, who held a handkerchief to her face. She was crying, but silently. Her husband, a tall, thin man with beautiful dark shoulder-length hair, had his arm around her. They had met briefly at the house. Jill had gathered that he was an artist and that their marriage was fraught with tension.
    Thomas walked in front of them, his arm around his mother, Margaret,
whom Jill had not yet been introduced to. The few glimpses she’d had of Hal’s mother outside of the church had shown her that Margaret, who was at least ten years younger than her husband, was sedated and severely stricken. She had not seemed to be aware of Jill’s presence, which was probably for the best.
    Jill tried not to look at Thomas’s broad shoulders. It was not an easy task, because he was directly ahead of her. The nod he had given her earlier that morning had been very curt. His feelings toward her had not changed since last night.
    Jill stared past him. Alex and William were walking side by side in the very