The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

Free looked up. “Proceeds?” she said quietly. “What proceeds would she be talking about?”


“The proceeds of Miss Barton’s estate,” the solicitor said. “Those would be the royalties on twenty-five volumes published to date, not counting the four that are in the process of publication.”

Frederica blinked. “Twenty-five volumes?” she repeated.

Oliver felt a sudden, staggering pain. He knew which authoress had penned twenty-five volumes, one after the other, in quick succession. It had been only twenty-three last January, but… His sister walked over to his aunt’s trunk, flipped open the lid. She reached inside.

There were sheaves of paper written all over in his aunt’s crabbed writing. She picked up one and set it on the table.

Oliver knew—he absolutely knew—what he would see on the pages.

“Mrs. Larriger and the Welsh Brigade,” Free read. She took out another sheaf. “Mrs. Larriger and the French Comtesse. Mrs. Larriger Goes to Ireland.” Her voice caught. “Who is Mrs. Larriger?”

But Oliver knew. If his sister sifted through the papers long enough, Mrs. Larriger would find her way to China, to India, across all the seas of the world. He remembered mocking these books with Jane, laughing that the author had clearly gone no farther than Portsmouth.

He’d been wrong. The author had not even come that far. She had lived the majority of her life in scarcely more than a hundred square feet. And she’d had so much adventure hidden in her that it had poured out of her once she’d let it loose. It was almost impossible to take in the enormity of Aunt Freddy’s secret. Mrs. Larriger had roamed the world—smoking peace pipes with Indians, befriending a flock of penguins, getting captured by whalers and winning her way free.

While Freddy sat in a small room watching the door, hoping that tomorrow she would be able to leave.

Maybe she had.

It was a short list.

Jane had brought up an entire sheaf of paper—beautiful, creamy paper—and had made sure that her inkwell was full.

She’d intended to fill pages with her plans. In the end, though, the list she had managed to come up with was tiny.

What I will do next, she had labeled it.

One thing wasn’t on the list: Jane had no intention of submitting to another painful round of the social whirl. Of setting herself up to be judged and found wanting. Balls and soirees and parties might sound lovely in theory, but in reality they were exhausting and heartbreaking. Instead, her wants were simple.

Do good things.

Make more friends.

Keep the friends I have.

After a long moment’s thought, she added one last item.

Prove Oliver wrong.

It belonged on her list. Fourth, she decided—he deserved no more importance in her future life than that—but it belonged. For now…

It still hurt. She ached from it hurting. She’d spent the afternoon with her sister, planning details of the wedding. She’d smiled so much she felt as if her mouth would crack from the effort.

It hurt.

But even beneath that ache, she felt a cool clarity: She was glad she had known him, glad that she’d broken away from the person she once had been. From the façade that had played her more than she had played it. She wouldn’t take on another role, least of all because a man who claimed to love her asked her to do it.

He’d hurt her, but she’d make it like all the other hurts she’d received: nothing more than an act of propagation.

Jane was poised on the verge of something even better. And she knew exactly how it started: with friendship.

Jane set her list to one side and pulled another sheet of paper to her.

Dear Genevieve and Geraldine, she wrote. The last time we corresponded, you were in London and I was in Nottingham. Circumstances have changed, and I am now in town. I had hoped we might be able to renew our friendship…

Chapter Twenty-nine

Oliver was still in a daze by the time he returned to Clermont House. He shrugged off his brother’s condolences and retreated to his chambers.

Many months ago, Oliver had purchased a book. He’d intended to look through it at the time, but then events had intervened. It had been shunted to the bottom of this trunk; when he’d come back from Cambridge, it had been shuffled to a low shelf. He hunted through the books, checking dusty spines, until he found the one he was looking for.

Mrs. Larriger Leaves Home.

The pages were still crisp, the leather binding not yet cracked. He felt a lump in his throat as he opened the book to the front page. These were Freddy’s words, Freddy’s thoughts. He’d purchased it, and he hadn’t known. He had scarcely known her at all. He smoothed back the pages and found Chapter One.