sister, they had to let me have her. I’d done real well on my SAT’s, I’d been offered a place at Stanford—my ambition—but Maria came first. After all,” she said with a choked little laugh, “I’ll only be in my thirties when Maria’s eighteen, I can always go to college later … there’s nothing wrong with starting a little bit late, is there?”
“Nothing at all,” Mike said quietly. “You’re a brave girl, Lauren Hunter.”
“She was all I had left,” she said simply. “And I don’t regret my decision at all. Maria means everything to me.”
He walked with her to the parking lot, waiting while she got into her old Mustang. She switched on the ignition and rolled down her window. “I’ll be in touch, Lauren,” he said, leaning in to look at her. Their eyes met again. “Good luck, now.”
“’Night, Mike,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Thanks again for the Chinese food—it was intense.”
Mike found it hard to dismiss Lauren Hunter from his mind that night; her gallant smile haunted his dreams and he tossed restlessly in his comfortable bed. He woke up the next morning feeling tired and depressed, wishing he could tell her that all her problems were resolved and she was Poppy Mallory’s heiress. But unfortunately for Lauren, real life was much tougher than that. Poppy couldn’t have known what hopes and dreams her strange will would inspire.
The luxurious room seemed stuffy as he lay there thinking about the story that was emerging from Rosalia’s journals about Poppy, and her father, Jeb….
CHAPTER 9
1881, CALIFORNIA
Jeb Mallory disembarked from the coastal steamer
Santa Rosa
, swinging his malacca cane jauntily. The cane, with its silver lion’s-head handle, had supposedly been made for a prince of Russia who had gambled away his inheritance and all his possessions. Jeb had bought it casually from the pawn shop in Monte Carlo intending it as a gift for Nik, but had decided that he liked the air of a boulevardier it gave him, and so he’d kept it.
He was wearing a pair of silver-gray worsted trousers and a black broadcloth jacket fashioned by one of London’s finest Savile Row tailors. His soft black leather boots were handmade to his own last at yet another expensive London establishment, and the light cashmere overcoat slung around his shoulders had been purchased in Paris. His gunmetal-gray silk cravat came from Italy, and he had been assured by the Monte Carlo jeweler that the large pearl stickpin he wore came from the deepest waters of the South Seas. With his shiny top hat placed at exactly the right angle, he looked the perfect picture of a man in mourning.
Removing a fat Romeo y Julieta from a solid gold cigar case, he snipped the end neatly with a small gold clipper. Cupping his hands, he lit it with a wooden match taken from another small gold case and then, puffing luxuriantly, he smiled at the group of awed children who had gathered to watch the steamer from San Francisco dock, and who were now watching him instead.
As he boarded the horse-drawn Arlington Hotel bus waiting on the wharf, Jeb glanced around at the other passengers, tipping his hat as he recognized the wife of the local architect. She had been present at his wedding and he was surprised when sheturned her face away at though she hadn’t recognized him. He shrugged indifferently; after all, he’d been gone for some time and he guessed he looked like a foreigner in his new European finery.
The town looked even smaller than he remembered. The bus trundled slowly past the curve of the beach and Castle Rock, and past the stately white Diblee house, Punta del Castillo, with its wonderful ceilings painted by a French artist, and its beautifully landscaped gardens. It was Santa Barbara’s masterpiece and exactly the kind of house Jeb would like to build. Only not in Santa Barbara, he thought with a smile. It was much too provincial. No, with his new fortune he would build his mansion along the
“Nothing at all,” Mike said quietly. “You’re a brave girl, Lauren Hunter.”
“She was all I had left,” she said simply. “And I don’t regret my decision at all. Maria means everything to me.”
He walked with her to the parking lot, waiting while she got into her old Mustang. She switched on the ignition and rolled down her window. “I’ll be in touch, Lauren,” he said, leaning in to look at her. Their eyes met again. “Good luck, now.”
“’Night, Mike,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Thanks again for the Chinese food—it was intense.”
Mike found it hard to dismiss Lauren Hunter from his mind that night; her gallant smile haunted his dreams and he tossed restlessly in his comfortable bed. He woke up the next morning feeling tired and depressed, wishing he could tell her that all her problems were resolved and she was Poppy Mallory’s heiress. But unfortunately for Lauren, real life was much tougher than that. Poppy couldn’t have known what hopes and dreams her strange will would inspire.
The luxurious room seemed stuffy as he lay there thinking about the story that was emerging from Rosalia’s journals about Poppy, and her father, Jeb….
CHAPTER 9
1881, CALIFORNIA
Jeb Mallory disembarked from the coastal steamer
Santa Rosa
, swinging his malacca cane jauntily. The cane, with its silver lion’s-head handle, had supposedly been made for a prince of Russia who had gambled away his inheritance and all his possessions. Jeb had bought it casually from the pawn shop in Monte Carlo intending it as a gift for Nik, but had decided that he liked the air of a boulevardier it gave him, and so he’d kept it.
He was wearing a pair of silver-gray worsted trousers and a black broadcloth jacket fashioned by one of London’s finest Savile Row tailors. His soft black leather boots were handmade to his own last at yet another expensive London establishment, and the light cashmere overcoat slung around his shoulders had been purchased in Paris. His gunmetal-gray silk cravat came from Italy, and he had been assured by the Monte Carlo jeweler that the large pearl stickpin he wore came from the deepest waters of the South Seas. With his shiny top hat placed at exactly the right angle, he looked the perfect picture of a man in mourning.
Removing a fat Romeo y Julieta from a solid gold cigar case, he snipped the end neatly with a small gold clipper. Cupping his hands, he lit it with a wooden match taken from another small gold case and then, puffing luxuriantly, he smiled at the group of awed children who had gathered to watch the steamer from San Francisco dock, and who were now watching him instead.
As he boarded the horse-drawn Arlington Hotel bus waiting on the wharf, Jeb glanced around at the other passengers, tipping his hat as he recognized the wife of the local architect. She had been present at his wedding and he was surprised when sheturned her face away at though she hadn’t recognized him. He shrugged indifferently; after all, he’d been gone for some time and he guessed he looked like a foreigner in his new European finery.
The town looked even smaller than he remembered. The bus trundled slowly past the curve of the beach and Castle Rock, and past the stately white Diblee house, Punta del Castillo, with its wonderful ceilings painted by a French artist, and its beautifully landscaped gardens. It was Santa Barbara’s masterpiece and exactly the kind of house Jeb would like to build. Only not in Santa Barbara, he thought with a smile. It was much too provincial. No, with his new fortune he would build his mansion along the
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