Kat Martin - Heart of Fire

Krista’s gaze held a trace of pity. “I know you loved her, Corrie, but even if you are right, there is nothing you can do.”

Corrie ignored the feeling those words stirred. “Perhaps not.”

But she wasn’t completely convinced.

She had been thinking about the circumstances of her sister’s death since news of the tragedy had arrived—her sister drowned, remnants of an infant’s blue knit sweater clutched in her hand.

Corrie had been devastated. She loved her older sister. She couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.

Dreadful things were being said about Laurel but Corrie refused to believe them. Laurel’s death could not possibly have been suicide.

In time, surely the truth would be unearthed.

London

Three Months Later

The offices of Heart to Heart weekly ladies’ magazine were located in a narrow brick building just off Piccadilly. Corrie had begun working at the gazette shortly after Margaret Chapman Hart had died and her daughter, Krista, had taken over the business, running the company along with her father, Professor Sir Paxton Hart. Last year, Krista had married Leif Draugr, now the owner of a successful shipping enterprise, and nine months later had borne him a son, but Krista still worked most days at Heart to Heart, her pride and passion.

As Corrie entered the office in search of her friend, she spotted Bessie Briggs, the typesetter, working to get the big Stanhope press, the soul of the gazette, ready for the next edition. Bessie looked up and smiled but kept on working, paying no attention to the dismal black mourning clothes Corrie had worn for the past three months and would wear for three months more.

Corrie tapped on the open door to Krista’s ground floor office.

Her friend looked up and smiled. “Since you rarely knock, I assume this must be important. Come in, Coralee.”

Her stiff black skirts rustled noisily as Corrie moved to close the door behind her. “I have something I need to discuss, and since you are my very best friend…”

Krista eyed her with speculation. “What is it?”

Corrie sat down and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from the front of her skirt. “I’ve tried to put Laurel’s death behind me, but the fact is, I simply cannot. I have to find out the truth, Krista. I’ve never believed Laurel killed herself and her month-old child, and I am going to prove it.”

Krista’s features softened. “I know losing your sister has been hard on you. I know that in some way you feel responsible. But Laurel is gone and there is nothing you can do to bring her back.”

“I realize that. But I failed her once when she needed me, and I will not do so again. My sister did not kill herself, which means someone else must have done it, and I intend to discover who it was.”

One of Krista’s blond eyebrows arched. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?”

“I shall start by doing some investigating right here in London. I am good at that, am I not? It is part of my job to unearth both facts and tidbits of gossip for my column.”

“Yes, but that is hardly the same.”

“I think it is exactly the same. I intend to go over every letter my sister wrote before she died and look for clues.” Corrie glanced up, a fierce light coming into her eyes. “Then I shall leave for the country. I’m going to find out who fathered Laurel’s child, and then I will know where to start looking for the answers to how and why she died.”

Learning the name of the father was an important piece of the puzzle, the man her sister must have loved. Not even Aunt Agnes knew who he was. According to her, Laurel had adamantly refused to divulge his identity.

“You don’t need to worry about the gazette,” Corrie continued before Krista could speak. “I already have a temporary replacement in mind. Assuming you approve, I shall ask Lindsey Graham to fill in for me while I am away.” Lindsey was a school chum, a former classmate at Briarhill Academy, where Krista and Corrie had met.

“Lindsay is currently penning textbook articles,” Corrie said, “and extremely bored, I think. Her father is a baron and very well connected so she is able to move freely about in society. I believe she will handle my job very well.”

“I imagine she could, but—”

“Actually, I considered hiring Lindsey while you and Leif were gone off to his dreadful island.” Corrie smiled. “Running this place without you was a nearly impossible task. I have never been so happy in my life to see anyone return.”

Leif and Krista’s story was a well-guarded tale. That the big man and his brother had come from an uncharted island far north of Scotland where people still lived as Vikings was, at best, totally incredible and better left unsaid.

All that mattered was that Leif had found Krista and she had found him, and they loved each other desperately. Corrie wondered if the right man would ever come along for her.

Which returned her thoughts to her sister. In Laurel’s early letters from Selkirk, she had mentioned meeting a man. She had described his many virtues and said how much she enjoyed his company. Corrie intended to review the letters, see if there might be a description, something that might help her find out his name. Who had stolen Laurel’s heart, taken her virtue, then abandoned her?

Corrie wondered if the man who had fathered Laurel’s child would have gone so far as to murder them.

“You can’t be serious, Coralee. Tell me you do not intend to dredge up this painful affair all over again.” Agnes Hatfield sat on the rose velvet settee in a small salon near the back of the Whitmores’town mansion, a room done in white and rose, an elegant, feminine salon that overlooked the garden. Three days ago, the black crepe strung round the room had been removed after three long months of mourning.

“I realize it will take some doing, Aunt Agnes, but I have given the matter considerable thought and I have no choice but to act.”

Aunt Agnes, which Corrie had always called her though they were not actually blood-related, was a lady in her sixties, plump and silver-haired, and until the death of her beloved niece, always smiling. Seated next to her, Laurel’s cousin, Allison Hatfield, a thin young woman with a razor-straight nose and pointed chin, very dark hair and hazel eyes, listened to Corrie with obvious trepidation. Allison’s parents had died of cholera, leaving her in the care of her aging aunt.

At the viscount’s invitation, both of the women had elected to remain in the city rather than return to Selkirk Hall and the awful memories the place still held for them.

“So you intend to begin some sort of investigation?” Aunt Agnes asked.

“Yes.”

Allison made no comment. She was a shy, unobtrusive young woman rarely inclined to disagree with anything anyone said. Which was perhaps the reason she had agreed to leave East Dereham and accompany Laurel on her return to Selkirk Hall, pretending to be the baby’s mother.

Or perhaps it was because Allison was tired of scraping by on her aging aunt Gladys’s generosity, and Laurel had promised her a goodly sum and a better future in exchange for her help with the child.

“I do not believe for an instant the authorities’ version of what occurred,” Corrie said, “and after months of consideration, I have decided to act. I plan to take whatever steps are necessary to discover the truth of what happened to my sister. Aunt Agnes, you and Gladys helped Laurel. Now you must help me find out what happened to her and her baby.”

Allison pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. She had been as fond of Laurel and her month-old infant, Joshua Michael, as Agnes, who also dug out an embroidered square of cotton and blew her powdered nose.