Secrets Of The Outback

“And it was a wonderful performance,” he informed her, releasing her hand. “She took to you immediately. It must give you hope.”

Jewel turned her head to gaze out the window. Outside in the small Italianate courtyard, a fountain was playing peacefully. No peace inside. “You’ve allowed yourself to see some kind of conspiracy where there is none. My appearance and the fact that I met Lady Copeland are nothing more than coincidences.”

Little brackets appeared at the sides of his mouth. At another time she would have found them sexy. Not now. “I don’t think you’re going to get many people to accept that,” he said. “Feature by feature, the similarity is extraordinary. Skinner had to be blind not to notice it right from the start.”

“Why should he?” Jewel met his eyes. “He wasn’t expecting any such thing. Lady Copeland must be well into her seventies. I know she still looks wonderful, but one would have to know us both very well for the resemblance to register.”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice dry. “Hasn’t it ever worried you that you resembled no one in your family?”

Jewel attempted to speak; for a moment she couldn’t. Why should she tell him her most private confusions? “I could be the very image of my father, for all you know,” she said angrily although she still had enough control to keep her voice down. “And this has something to do with my father, doesn’t it?”

“It has everything to do with your father,” he answered, grim-faced.

“And who is my father?” She was beginning to feel dizzy. “Come on, say it. There has to be some justification for this torture.”

“I can’t believe you don’t know. You’re a very clever woman. Fact-finding is part of your daily life. You’ve seen many photographs of Lady Copeland—who hasn’t? She’s always inhabited the world of glamour and power. Not only that, she’s always been a beauty with a needle-sharp brain.”

“No ornament like her granddaughter?” Jewel was stung into asking. Everyone knew that Amelia Copeland, the heiress, had claimed immunity from daily toil.

“I’m sure you made it your business to check out Amelia, as well.” His eyes were black as jet.

“Are you sure she is Lady Copeland’s granddaughter?” Jewel asked facetiously, raising her brows. “She doesn’t resemble her in the least. Not in coloring or bone structure. Perhaps I’m the real granddaughter and your girlfriend’s an impostor?” It was a deliberate thrust, and he didn’t like it.

“Even if you were Lady Copeland’s granddaughter, Eugenie, it wouldn’t get you far.”

“Really? I thought it would transport me overnight to the family home,” she retorted.

“Perhaps that’s what I mean,” he said. “The Copeland household is a dysfunctional one, to say the least.”

“Perhaps you yourself create some of that tension,” she accused him, herself on the attack.

“The fact that Travis Copeland and I are often at loggerheads has nothing to do with you. As you seem destined to find out. It’s no secret. For almost fifty years, Lady Copeland has carried with her a photograph of her little daughter. Her name was Angela. Her golden child.”

Jewel stared down at her hand. It trembled. “I had no idea Lady Copeland had a daughter.”

His eyes contested that. “I’m amazed. A fact you missed? It’s a matter of public record. The little girl died of bacterial meningitis when she was six.”

“How sad!” Even her voice trembled slightly.

“Indeed it was. Although Lady Copeland has led a very full and active life, I suspect she’s been weeping inside ever since. Angela was, from all accounts, a lovely little girl. A Botticelli angel. Sparkling with life. She looked pretty much the way you would have as a child.”

Jewel fought hard to master her emotions. “My God!” she breathed. “You’re very cruel.”

He gripped the arm of the chair, his knuckles showing white. “And you’re very—” He broke off immediately at Archie’s approach with their drinks.

“Could I get you anything else?” Archie put down the drinks on the club coasters, then glanced from one to the other, obviously picking up on their tension.

“No, no, thank you.” With a flick of his wrist Keefe Connellan produced a wallet, selecting a note that more than covered the price of the martinis. “Thanks, Archie.”

“A pleasure, Mr. Connellan. Good evening, Ms. Bishop.” Archie accepted the money and all but skipped off.

“I don’t want this drink,” Jewel said, feeling as nerve-ridden as if there were ghosts at the table.

“Just sip it,” he replied. “I’d like to continue this…unique conversation.”

“Why? I’m beginning to wonder if you’re slightly unhinged,” she suggested shortly.

The comment caused him to smile. “I don’t think so. Whoever you are, Eugenie Bishop, you’re not presenting your case—if you have one—in the right way.”

“I have no case,” she said angrily. “It’s all in your mind. In any event, I’m flying home this weekend. I’ll speak to my mother then.”

“So she can come up with an explanation? Or perhaps tell you what you should do next?”

She returned his stare coolly. “My mother isn’t a well woman.”

“I’m sorry. What’s wrong with her?”

Her blue eyes flashed. “She suffers from chronic depression. She’s done so for many years.”

“But surely she can be treated?” he asked, unexpectedly showing concern.

“There doesn’t seem to be anything the doctors can do—and they’ve tried.”

“Who’s looking after her?”

She stiffened, although this time his tone was anything but confrontational. “I wanted her to come and live with me. But she dislikes change. She lives with my aunt Judith, her sister, in the family home.”

“So there are only the three of you? No one else?”

“Unless you’ve come up with someone,” she said with more than a touch of bitterness. “My father’s death brought about great changes in our lives. My mother has been in deep mourning all these years.”

“I’m sorry. That’s tragic.” He drank a little of his martini, set it down. “It must have affected your whole world.”

“Of course.” Jewel didn’t touch her drink.

“So you sought to correct the past?”

Jewel suddenly reached flash point. She rose from her seat like the jet from the sparkling fountain. “My father was killed. It was a tragedy. Forgive me if I can’t speak about it.”

She left him sitting at the table, indifferent to the fascinated eyes that watched her progress across the room and into the lobby.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS A LONG TRIP HOME. Two hours in the plane, another hour before she reached Hungerford by minibus, then the town taxi out to the house. The heat did not help her mood. She had almost forgotten how hot it was North of Capricorn, how humid. The driver left her at the gate. She picked up her overnight bag and began the trek through the garden, and its extraordinary lush beauty began the ritual soothing.