Say You Will (2 page)

But she forgot about that when her mother’s gaze locked on her.

Fran gave her a little push, setting Jacqueline in motion toward her.

Rosalind’s breath caught in her chest, the way it used to when she was a little girl, waiting for her mum to notice her—to give her approval.

As her mother approached, her expression was implacable. Rosalind braced herself for disappointment, knowing the Countess of Amberlin wasn’t demonstrative, in public or private.

“Rosalind.” Her mother paused uncertainly, but then took both her hands in hers, studying her as though she wanted to peel away all the years. Then she kissed both her cheeks before clasping her tightly in a hug.

Rosalind blinked, her emotions threatening to leak, and hugged her mother back.

Jacqueline was the one to step back first. She tucked a strand of Rosalind’s hair behind her ear and simply said, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Suddenly she was, too.

“Ros,” Viola said, taking her hands and holding her at arm’s length. “You look great. I love the scarf.”

“You look great, too,” she lied, noticing the shadows beneath her sister’s eyes. Because of their father’s death? It seemed unlikely. Of all of them, Viola had been the only one who’d never seemed to give a damn about what he’d thought.

Portia, on the other hand, had trailed after their father like a puppy, and his death showed in her red-rimmed eyes. Her expression as severe as the high-necked black dress she wore, she stepped forward and gave Rosalind a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “You look American.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Rosalind said lightly. She and Portia were closest in age—a little over a year apart—but they’d never gotten along well. Apparently that hadn’t changed.

“Portia, will you and Viola check on the tea?” their mother asked as the guests began filtering into the room. Jacqueline waited until they were gone before she turned to her and Bea. “I need to talk to you two. Alone.”

She glanced at her oldest sister, who, ever cool, said, “Of course.”

“In the orangery.”

They watched her walk out. “Do you know what this is about?” Rosalind asked as they followed.

“No idea.” Bea frowned. “But she wants to chat with us now, when she has guests? That’s not like her.”

It certainly wouldn’t have been like her ten years ago. People changed though.

Jacqueline Summerhill, Countess of Amberlin—change? She heard Bijou’s voice in the back of her head saying, “Yeah, right.”

Chapter Two

“Close the door, Beatrice,” their mother ordered. “I don’t want anyone happening upon us.”

Rosalind exchanged another look with her sister before sitting down.

Jacqueline paced in front of the unlit fireplace, fidgeting with her wedding rings. Then she faced them and said, “Your father’s will is missing.”

Bea waved her hand dismissively. “The will is a formality that makes the transfer of assets easier and faster, but in this case, as his spouse, you’d inherit everything anyway. You don’t need to worry. I’ll handle everything until the estate is in your name.”

“So competent, Beatrice,” their mother murmured, her gaze soft. But then she shook her head. “I’m afraid he may have left everything to Tabitha Welles.”

“What?” Bea sat up, alert.

Jacqueline began to pace again, twisting her rings. “They were together for a long time, and—”

“You knew?” Rosalind asked, incredulous.

Her mother shot her an irritated look. “Of course, I knew. The wife always does.”

She glanced at her sister, who shook her head inconspicuously. Bea faced their mother. “You know how father revered the Summerhill heritage. It seems unlikely that he’d leave everything to an outsider.”

“You know how he felt about the American.”

Everyone knew how Reginald Summerhill felt about their distant cousin in New York. As the next male heir, he inherited the title, though the estate stayed within the immediate family.

Unless her father gave it to his mistress.

“In any case,” their mother continued, “Barrows, Reginald’s solicitor, claims he changed the will before the accident. Only Barrows can’t find the original; he said Reginald brought a copy to keep at home.”

“And we need to find it before someone else does,” Bea said. “Have you looked in his safe?”

“Of course. It’s not there.” Jacqueline faced Rosalind. “You need to stay to help.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Bea shook her head again. She pressed her lips together, firmly.

“We’ll take care of it,” her sister assured their mother. “Why don’t you go see to your guests now? Rosalind and I will figure this out.”

“I knew I could count on you two.” The corners of her mouth curved into a sad smile. On her way out, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “We haven’t had money in a long time, thanks to Reginald’s poor decisions, but if I have control over everything else, the last laugh is mine, and that’s something, isn’t it?”

Biting her lip, Rosalind watched her mother stride out, her dignity rigid in the line of her back. If her father weren’t already dead, she’d kill him again.

But one thing was certain. “I’m not sure I’d be any help, Bea. Can’t you—”

“I’m going to Japan on business tomorrow.” Her sister frowned. “I can’t reschedule, and I’m not certain how quickly I can return. We need to find the will before someone else does, Ros. You understand that, don’t you? Without a will, the estate will be intestate and go to Mother.”

“I got that, but isn’t it better lost?”

“Yes, which is why you’ll find it and destroy it so there’s no possibility of it surfacing, in case he did leave everything to his mistress.”

“Not that that’s illegal or anything, right?”

“You haven’t committed a crime until you’re caught.”

She stared at her oldest sister with a combination of awe and horror. “You’re frightening.”

“I’m thorough.”

“Viola and Portia are here. Can’t they search for it?”

“Portia?” Bea laughed. “Portia thought Father walked on water. If she found the will, she’d probably make sure his wishes were carried out. Portia takes the family crest more seriously than anyone.”

That was true. Rosalind turned and looked at the moulding above the library door. It was etched above every doorway in the house along with the family motto.
Honour and Family.

She’d always thought it was a farce, but never more so than now. Resentment left a bitter taste in her mouth, made stronger by the anger she felt toward Reginald Summerhill. He was always so disapproving of her and her sisters, but look at what he did.

Now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. She shook her head. “Then what about Viola?”

Bea frowned. “Something’s amiss with Vi. I’m hesitant to burden her with this yet, not when she seems so brittle.”

Rosalind remembered the tight look around Vi’s eyes and couldn’t disagree. She rubbed her neck, feeling the responsibility like a noose. “I don’t know.”

“Ros, what do you think will happen to Mother without money from the sale of the estate’s assets?” Before she could answer, Bea continued. “One of us will have to take her in. It’s not going to Viola, Portia, or Titania. None of them could support her. So it’ll be up to me, you, and Imogen. How do you feel about a part-time roommate?”

“Mother?” She tried to picture her mother living in her San Francisco loft and winced. “That’s not going to work.”

“Exactly.”

She sighed. “How long do you think this is going to take?”

“I’ll be gone for a week, maybe a touch longer. I’ll take over once I get back.”

“I have a life and business in San Francisco, Bea.”

“I know, but the sooner we have the will, the sooner we can make sure Mother’s future is secure. And it’d be nice for Mother to have you here, Rosalind.” Her sister looked at her. “You were closest to her.”

Only because they shared a love for clothing. Their mother wasn’t a warm individual—she didn’t think anyone could claim to be close to her.

“Finding the will shouldn’t be difficult. If it’s not in his safe, it has to be in his study. It’s where he spent most of his time. Let me know what you decide,” Bea said as she left the room, but her tone suggested there was only one answer she’d accept.

Rosalind turned and glanced up at the moulding above the door.

Honour and Family.

Reginald Summerhill had forsaken both. Rosalind wasn’t sure she could follow in his footsteps.

Chapter Three

The memorial service was torture—until the ballroom door creaked open, and an angel walked into the room.

An angel at Reginald Summerhill’s memorial? Nicholas Long would never have expected it—not unless she was dispatched from Hell.

Nick looked over his shoulder, intrigued by the newcomer. She was late and dressed in a colorful hodgepodge that was more Camden than Mayfair. Her hair was in a messy topknot and she looked faded around the edges, as though she needed a bed straight off.

He was more than willing to offer his to her.

He mentally chastised himself. Bloody hell—he was at a memorial, sitting next to his stepsister Summer. He shouldn’t be thinking of shagging anyone.

Summer angled her head toward his and whispered, “That’s Rosalind Summerhill.”

Fabulous—not only was he ogling a woman at a memorial, but he was ogling Summer’s mourning half-sister. “She’s late,” he replied lamely.

“She lives in California. Beatrice, Viola, Portia, Imogen, and Titania all live here, though Imogen obviously travels all the time.”

He glanced at the angel. “Why is she the only one who was named properly?”

“They all have Shakespearean names.”

He didn’t have to look at Summer to know she was resentful about being the odd man out. All her life she’d wanted to be a Summerhill sister. She knew it was impossible, given she was a bastard born to Reginald Summerhill’s mistress, but that’d never stopped her from wishing.

“You’re fortunate,” he murmured to her. “With your luck, you’d have been named Puck.”

She elbowed him, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips—the first one since they received news that their mother had died days ago.

The irony that he was a Formula One racer and yet it’d been his mother who’d died in a car crash didn’t escape him.

Tabitha Welles hadn’t been his biological mother—his birth mother had run away weeks after he’d been born—but Tabitha had been one in every other way from the moment his father had introduced the two of them. Nick had fallen in love with the beautiful, kind woman the same way she’d fallen in love with him. When his father’s family had denied taking him in after his father’s untimely death, Tabitha had joyfully kept him, saying he was already hers. She’d been a lovely woman, despite her regretful taste in men.

Like the prick, Reginald Summerhill.

He heard Tabitha tell him to mind his manners, that the dead deserved respect.

The thing was, Nick had hated the man. Reginald Summerhill, Earl of Amberlin, had been a royal ass in life. The man had doled out his affection like crumbs to a pauper.

Tabitha never tolerated any unkind thoughts about the man who kept her his dirty secret for almost thirty years. Her Reggie had been a saint in her mind, even though he’d only come around when it’d suited him.

Summer felt the same way about the man. Though how his sister could feel such a connection to a man who wouldn’t claim her as his daughter baffled Nick.

He looked at Rosalind Summerhill. How did she feel about her father?

If anything, she looked angry.

Now that he knew she was one of the Summerhill sisters, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t guessed it. She had the noble cheekbones and blond hair that even Summer had inherited.

Nick needed to stop staring at the woman. The stepson of her father’s mistress was the last person she’d want sniffing at her heels. So he focused on the drone of the speaker, one of Summerhill’s pompous cronies.

Nick came by his dislike of elitist men naturally. His own father had been rich—a businessman. He’d died of a heart attack at the young age of thirty-three, when Nick had been three-years old. Because he’d been a bastard, his father’s family wanted nothing to do with him. Tabitha had happily taken him in and adopted him as her own.

He didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell him why he’d chosen an unconventional career path, though as a Formula One driver he was more a businessman than one would expect. Not that he was going to continue racing. He’d already been rethinking his life, but his mother’s death punctuated his doubts regarding his chosen career.

He was the same age as his father when he’d died, and that made him contemplate his mortality. What did he have to show for his life but a big bank account and an empty house? Nothing that mattered.

It also made sense why Tabitha had taken up with Reginald Summerhill. He’d offered her security, of a sort. What didn’t make sense was how his mother had stayed with the man, even though he was never going to leave his wife.

What especially didn’t make sense was the way his sister worshipped a father who hardly paid attention to her.

Next to him, Summer sniffled.

The protective urge he always felt around her surged in him. He took her hand and squeezed it. It had to be hard for her. He’d only lost his mother; Summer had lost both her parents. This was Reginald Summerhill’s memorial, but in essence it was also one for Tabitha Welles.

There was a murmur of commotion across the room, and it seemed to come from his angel Rosalind. She was engaged in a whispered conversation with one of her older sisters—he wasn’t sure which one. They didn’t speak out loud in any way, but they were obviously agitated by whatever they were discussing. So agitated that their mother turned from the front row and gave them an arch look.

Summer stiffened next to him, watching them as well.

He squeezed her hand again, willing the eulogy to end.

The moment the service ended, Nick stood. Thank goodness. He stretched his legs. “Shall we?”

“I want to attend the reception.”

“Is that wise?”

She set her jaw, and he knew she wasn’t budging. “It’s the way it’s going to be,” she said.