Passion in Secret

“You were the last person to see my wife alive. The last one to speak to her. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Why?” she said again, stifling a moment of panic. “The police report spells out the events of that night pretty clearly.”

“I’ve read the police report and also heard my in-laws’ account of what took place. It’s what you have to say that interests me. They know that an accident occurred, but you’re the only one who knows how or why.”

The panic stole over her again. “I’ve already told everything there is to tell, at least a dozen times.”

“Humor me, Sally, and tell it once more.” He indicated the cane in his left hand. “They released me from the military hospital in Germany less than twenty-four hours ago. I got home early this morning, just in time for the funeral. Everything I’ve learned so far has come to me secondhand. Surely you can understand why I’d like to hear it from the only person who was actually there when Penelope died.”

“What do you expect to accomplish by doing that?”

“It’s possible you might remember something that didn’t seem important at the time that you gave your statement. Something which would fill in what strike me as gaping holes in the accounts I’ve so far received.”

In other words, he suspected there was more to the story than the nicely laundered official version. She’d been afraid of that. Afraid not of what he might ask, but that he’d discern the painful truth behind the lies she’d told to spare his and the Burtons’ feelings.

“Sally?” Margaret, her older sister, bore down on them, her slight frown the only indication that she found Sally’s fraternizing with the widower, in full sight of the bereaved family, to be totally inappropriate. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Yes.” For once glad of her older sister’s interference, Sally put a respectable distance between herself and Jake. “I was just explaining that I can’t make it to the reception.”

“Well, of course you can’t!” Margaret’s expression softened as she turned to Jake. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Jake, as are we all. What a dreadful homecoming for you. But I’m afraid we really do have to go. I need to get home to the children.”

“You and Sally came here together?”

“Yes. She hasn’t been too keen on driving since the accident. It shook her up more than most people seem to realize.”

“Did it?” His glance swung from Margaret and zeroed in again on Sally with altogether too much perception for her peace of mind. “At least, you escaped serious injury.”

“I was lucky.”

“Indeed you were. A great deal more than my wife.”

A trembling cold took hold as memories washed over her: of the protesting scream of the brakes, the smell of burning rubber as the tires left tracks on the road. And most of all, of Penelope, flung out of the car and lying all broken in the ditch, mumbling with a spectral smile on her face, Silly me. I fell off the merry-go-round before it stopped, Sal.

With an effort, Sally shook off the painful recollection and, aware that Jake continued to scrutinize her, said, “Yes, I was lucky. But not all injuries appear on the outside. Watching a friend die isn’t something a person easily gets over.”

“Not as a rule.”

Although polite enough on the surface, his words rang with such searing contempt that, ignoring her better judgment, she burst out, “Do you think I’m lying?”

“Are you?”

“Good grief, Jake, even allowing for your understandable heartache, that question is uncalled-for!” Margaret seldom approved of anything Sally did, but when it came to outside criticism, she was all mother hen protecting her young. “My sister was—is!—devastated by Penelope’s death.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not a softening, exactly, but a sort of resignation. “Yes,” he said. “Of course she is. I apologize, Sally, for implying otherwise.”

Sally nodded, but her sigh of relief was cut short when he continued, “And I’ll be glad to arrange a ride home for you after the reception.”

“Thank you, Jake, but no. I’ve already inconvenienced Margaret. I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you as well, especially not today.”

“You’d be doing me a favor. And if you’re afraid—”

“Why should she be?” Margaret interjected sharply. “Penelope’s death was ruled an accident.”

“I’m aware of that, just as I’m equally aware that not everyone accepts the verdict at face value.”

“Then perhaps you’re right. Perhaps taking her to the reception isn’t such a bad idea.” Margaret pursed her lips in thought, then gave Sally an encouraging poke in the ribs. “Yes. Go with him after all, Sally. Face the lot of them and prove you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

Rendered speechless by Margaret’s sudden about-face, Sally groped for an answer which would put a definitive end to the whole subject. She had enough to cope with; she wasn’t up to dealing with the unwarranted antagonism she’d face by agreeing to Jake’s request.

“No!” she finally spluttered. “I don’t have to prove anything to anyone!”

But the only person paying the slightest attention was Jake. Having issued her decree, Margaret had cut a brisk path among the graves to that section of the road where she’d parked her car a discreet distance away from any other vehicles, and was already climbing behind the wheel.

“It would seem,” Jake murmured, clamping his free hand around Sally’s elbow before she bolted also, and steering her toward the sole remaining limousine, “that you have no choice but to prove it. Let’s not keep the driver waiting. I can’t speak for you, but I’m in no shape to hike the four miles back to my in-laws’, especially not under these conditions.” He glanced up at the leaden sky pressing coldly down on the treetops. “We’re lucky the snow held off this long.”

Thankfully the last car was empty except for a couple from out of town who didn’t seem to know that the passenger accompanying Jake was the woman whom popular opinion held responsible for rendering him a widower. Grateful that they showed no inclination to talk beyond a subdued greeting, Sally huddled in the corner of the soft leather seat and welcomed the blast of heat fanning around her ankles.

She’d be facing another round of chilly displeasure soon enough. In the meantime, she might as well take comfort wherever she could find it.

Lovely Sally Winslow was lying through her teeth. It might have been years since he’d last seen her, but Jake remembered enough about her to know when she was covering up. The question buzzing through his sleep-deprived mind was, for what purpose?

She’d been formally cleared of blame in the accident. So why couldn’t she look him straight in the eye? Why was she instead staring fixedly out of the window beside her so that all he could see of her was the back of her head and the dark, shining cap of her hair. What was with her sitting as far away from him as she could get, as if she feared grief might prompt him to grab her by the throat and try to choke the truth out of her?

The chauffeur drove sedately along the broad, tree-lined avenues of Bayview Heights, turned onto The Crescent and past various stately homes sitting on five acre lots, then hung a left through the iron gates guarding the Burton property. Except for the gleam of lamplight shining from the main floor windows and casting a soft yellow glow over the snow piled up outside, the massive house, built nearly a hundred years before from blocks of granite hewn from the quarry just outside town, rose black and brooding in the early dusk.

The limo barely whispered to a stop under the porte-cochère before Morton, the butler, flung open the double front doors. At the sight of Sally climbing the steps, a flicker of surprise crossed his face. “Ahem,” he said, extending one arm as if to bar her entry.

“Miss Winslow is here as my guest,” Jake informed him, taken aback at the surge of protectiveness he felt toward her. Whatever else she might not be, Sally had always been able to fend for herself. She hardly needed him playing knight errant.

With fastidious distaste, Morton relieved her of her coat. “The family is receiving in the drawing room, Captain Harrington,” he said. “Shall I announce you?”

“No need. I know the way.” Jake handed the manservant his cap, brushed a few snowflakes from his shoulders and cocked his head at Sally. “Ready to face the fray?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

He thought of offering her his arm, and decided she’d have to make do with his moral support. No point in rubbing salt into his in-laws’ wounds. They were suffering enough.

The drawing room, a masterpiece of late nineteenth-century craftsmanship with its intricate moldings and ornately coffered ceiling, hummed with the low buzz of conversation. Every spare inch of surface on the highly polished furniture was filled with photographs of Penelope framed by huge, heavily scented flower arrangements.

Under the tall Arcadian windows overlooking the rear gardens, a table held an assortment of fancy sandwiches, hot canapés and French pastries. A fat woman whom he didn’t recognize presided over the heirloom sterling tea service and priceless translucent china. At the other end of the room, a Chippendale desk served as a temporary bar with his father-in-law in charge. Colette, an empty brandy snifter at her elbow, perched on the edge of a silk-upholstered chair, accepting condolences.

Fletcher Burton saw him and Sally first. At six foot one—only an inch shorter than Jake himself—he stood taller than most of the rest grouped about the room. About to pour sherry for the weepy-eyed woman at his side, he thumped the heavy cut-glass decanter back on its silver tray and cut a swath through the crowd. “I don’t know how this young woman managed to get past Morton—!”

“I brought her here, Fletcher.”

“What the devil for?”

“She and Penelope had known each other from childhood. They were friends. Sally was the last person to see your daughter alive. I’d say that gives her as much right to be here as anyone.”