Page 11 of Hearts of Stone

“You want me to…” He stared at the house anew. “We’ll…”

I shrugged. “You offered me a place to stay at your apartment.” I waved at the house. “I’m returning the favour.”

“Well, perhaps the two of you would like to see your new home?” Mellors produced an ornate key, but instead of slotting it into the door, he handed it to me.

The brass key was warm to the touch, like it’d absorbed some of his body heat in his pocket. My hand shook slightly, my muscles forced to clamp down hard to put the key in the lock. But when I turned it, the tumblers moved smoothly, the lock clicking audibly, and then the door swung open. The light from outside allowed me to catch a glimpse of marble floors and dark wood, but I was barely able to see the interior due to the darkness. But I walked in, running my fingers across the scratchy wallpaper, hearing a small hush of sound before I found the light switch and then all was revealed.

Oh my Bridgerton.

It couldn’t be real. The whole day had to be one long fever dream. No, the last few days. From the ghost tour, to the gargoyle, to this. The floor was indeed marble, several different colours cut precisely, forming intricate patterns. But I couldn’t stop and take it all in. My eyes felt like they were tugged from one thing to another, struggling to absorb it all. The finely carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs, the thick carpet that covered every step all the way up, the subtly patterned wallpaper, the gilt frames. Everything about this place screamedold world, old money, so how the hell had I ended up here? I was a scruffy Australian girl, the product of a nice, solid, lower middle class family, who’d gone to the local public school. None of that had prepared me for such a place.

“Come through,” Mellors said, following us in. “We’ll go into the kitchen and I’ll outline the details of your inheritance. The recommendation you get legal advice about this is a sound one, though I can understand why you would not want that legal advice from Trevor Davis.”

“You know Pencil Dick?” Daniel asked.

Mellor’s full lips thinned, but a small quirk up at the corner let us know what he thought.

“Mr Davis and some of his clients have been very interested in the Whiteley estate. This much prime land so close to the city centre has many a developer salivating over the prospect of turning part of the property into luxury apartments,” he replied.

“Apartments?” I looked out the huge windows that would let all the natural light in during the day, but only caught shadows of the perfectly manicured grounds outside. “Oh no, that’s not going to happen.”

“Too right, love.” Harry appeared with several of my boxes and set them down on the floor. “Property developers are bloody parasites, preying on the unwary so they can make the big bucks. Don’t let the pricks within ten feet of the place.”

“Harry…” Mellors said.

“Just calling a spade a spade,” Harry said.

“I’ve got a spade he can call whatever the fuck he wants,” Daniel muttered, coming closer to me. He didn’t mean for anyone else to hear that, but Harry’s eyes jerked up and I braced myself when their gazes locked. Harry had that big, burly, Aussie tradie thing going on, and homophobia was real in some aspects of that part of the community. Instead I saw the opposite, just abrief flare of heat, there and gone again in those blue eyes, right before Mellors stepped in.

“But, in essence, the property and entire fortune of the Whiteley family belongs to you, Jade. We’ve been looking for you for some time. When the last master of the house died without issue, he made clear in his will that a distant relative, the great, great granddaughter of his ancestor’s mistress, would inherit everything. We have been going over genealogical records, trying to find a trace of the person he meant, when we discovered you.”

There was something as warm as the coffee he’d given me before in Mellor’s gaze.

“Your ancestress was a beautiful woman who came to a much smaller British colony in Adelaide. Madeline took up with the then master of the estate, Kenneth Whiteley, and oversaw a lot of the additions to the gargoyle collection. They never married, but the master always promised that The Eyrie would become hers upon his death.”

He shook his head.

“Unfortunately they had a falling out and your ancestress left the estate, taking with her an unborn child. The heir. When the master died, his wishes were disregarded after a cursory attempt was made to find Madeline, but they didn’t look very hard, not when Luther Whiteley was poised to inherit everything. He took control of the estate until his death, and his descendants afterwards, but…”

I watched his brows crease and smooth and wondered at it.

“The family seemed to founder over the years, their number dwindling down until there was only Master Ashley left. He made clear in his will that the house was to remain empty until the heir was found.”

“But…” As I thought it through, my hands smoothed over the marble countertop before I snatched them back, before belatedlyremembering that Mellors was saying they were mine. “If one of my ancestors was a Whiteley, shouldn’t Mum or Dad be the one who inherits?”

“Your mother.” Mellors nodded. “She was Madeline’s descendant, but, no, the youngest unmarried female member of the family is the one who inherits.” He pushed the papers towards me. “It’s all here.”

“Johnny is gonna be so pissed about this,” I said, leaning over to peer at the documents. My big brother could never understand why I left Daysborough anyway and definitely not to live with the likes of Trevor. He warned me about my ex, growled in Trevor’s direction that if he did anything to hurt me, he'd have to answer to Johnny, but… I fished out my phone and tapped on my contacts, bringing Mum and Dad’s number up despite the late hour. I’d intended to call them tonight, to say I was coming home, but…

“Jade?” Mum sounded perfectly alert, wary and on edge. “It’s late, honey. Is everything OK?”

“Mum, do you know anything about an ancestor called Madeline?”

“You rang me up at 10 PM for a family history project?” she asked, a slight trace of irritation in her voice. “I’m not sure. I could talk to your nan if you like.”

“Can you?” I gripped the phone tighter, staring at the tessellated tiled floor of the kitchen. “Because I’m standing in a fancy old mansion in the middle of Adelaide with the people that look after it. And they say it belongs to me.”

Chapter 8

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