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Chapter One

The mere fact that she'd let herself in was telling-in their more affluent days, her mother would have hired someone to man the door for special events. From what Beatrice had told her, only their former governess, Fran, was still employed. It wouldn't have surprised her if she stayed without being paid.

Exhaling, she reluctantly shrugged out of her coat, left it with her bags, and headed down the corridor to the old ballroom, where Bea said the memorial was being held.

The doors were closed. She opened one, wincing as it screeched. She peeked inside, ignoring the people in the back row who turned to look at her.

Taking a deep breath, Rosalind stepped inside. The room was set up much like a wedding would have been: two sides, a wide aisle in the middle, and a podium at the front where a man droned on about the raptures of heaven. She surveyed the room, surprised by the number of people present. Knowing her father, they were there to celebrate his death.

She made a face. No unkind thoughts-not today.

There were two empty seats: one next to her oldest sister Beatrice to the left in the second row and the other in the last row, next to a man she didn't recognize. He was dark haired, tanned, and chiseled in the best way. He watched her over his shoulder, but then he turned around and leaned toward the blonde sitting with him.

Taken. Unfortunate. He'd have made for a great fling.

She studied the blonde's profile, a classic beauty despite her tear-blotchy skin. Rosalind frowned. The woman looked familiar, though she couldn't place her. Maybe she was one of her sisters' friends.

Edging along the side of the room, she eased herself next to Beatrice.

"You're late," Bea pointed out under her breath.

She was lucky she'd made it at all. Fog in San Francisco had delayed her flight. "It's nice to see you, too, Bea."

The corner of her sister's mouth quirked, and, without a word, she reached over and held Rosalind's hand.

The tension in her shoulders eased, and she leaned into Bea's shoulder.

In the front row, her next oldest sisters, Viola and Portia, flanked their mother Jacqueline, who listened with razor-sharp focus, her face frozen in a mask of politeness. What could you expect given that she was embroiled in the scandal of the decade?

Viola was hard to read, but Portia looked like she was grieving hard. Portia had always chased their father's love. None of them had ever had the heart to tell her it'd been pointless.

On Viola's left, an adolescent sat looking sullen and resentful. Given the resemblance to Viola, Rosalind figured that was her niece Chloe. The girl looked different than the sunny four-year-old she'd been when Rosalind had left for the States ten years ago.

Fran, who sat next to Chloe, turned to give her a warm wink.

Rosalind smiled for the first time in the past forty-eight hours. Fran had raised them all. She'd been more of a mother to them than Jacqueline had been.

Exhaling those regrets, Rosalind craned her neck. "Where are Imogen and Titania?"

"Gigi is on a movie set somewhere in the Pacific," Bea explained softly. "She couldn't leave. No one knows where Titania is, like usual."

She frowned. Imogen and Titania had been teenagers when she'd left. She didn't know the women they'd grown into, other than the basics: Gigi was an actress and Titania a photographer.

The droning words of the man giving the eulogy filtered into her consciousness, and she transferred her attention to him. After listening for a minute, she whispered to Bea, "Pillar of the community? Giver to those less fortunate? A family man? Is he talking about Father?"