She ducked down, crossed to the other side of the window and made her escape. Retaking her seat in the park, she kept her binoculars fixed in place to watch for Tweedledum’s exit. It came only minutes later, the man striding down the street in short, jerky steps.

Dropping the binoculars into her pocket, Jo sat staring at the house, considering her next step. Her plan had been to find the Portia woman and get rid of her but perhaps that was an unnecessary step.

Much better to keep it simple. Better, too, to proceed with speed. If she was right, if Allison had come into such colossal wealth, perhaps she wouldn’t have to linger in London until the investigation was over. She’d leave London, might even vanish from sight and Jo would have to start all over again.

She was weary from her search, from the years of planning for revenge, from everything she’d been through. Now that Allison had succeeded beyond her dreams, it was time for Jo to finally make her move.

Slowly, though. Too many years of pain had built up. She wasn’t planning to let Allison off lightly.

47

Allison hadn’t moved following Benjamin Brown’s earth-shattering visit. Everything, even the simple act of getting to her feet, seemed a waste of time. She was floundering in a deep pool of despondency when the doorbell rang, making her surface with a gasp and gulp. Was it the solicitor, back to tell her he’d made a mistake? That what he’d said had all been one big fucking joke?

She remembered the pity in the funny little man’s face. Pity. For her. No, it wouldn’t be him.

When the doorbell rang again, more insistently, as if the caller was putting their whole weight behind their finger, she knew who it was. That bloody woman, Jo. No way was Allison going to answer the door. And she would have remained steadfast if Jo had possessed any sense of decorum. But she didn’t, and seconds later Allison looked up, startled, when something banged the window. Jo. Nose pressed against the glass, knuckles poised to strike again. There was no bloody getting away from her.

Allison raised a hand in greeting to prevent another clatter against the window and shuffled to the edge of her seat. Despair sat heavily on her shoulders, pushing her down as she tried to stand. She groaned at the effort, conscious of the woman staring through the net curtains. Sweat gathered in her armpits, at her hairline. She wished for Brown’s pristine handkerchief, settling for the sleeve of her blouse, wiping it across her forehead, sweat leaving unsightly darker streaks on the black fabric.