Katherine O’Neal (10 page)

“This is unbelievable,” Winston muttered.
“What did you say your real name is?
Sa
ran—”

“Sa-
ran
da,” she corrected Winston’s
pronunciation. “Rather like Miranda. The truth of the matter is, my
family have been confidence artists for generations. Almost three
hundred years, to be exact,” she added, with an unconscious pride
in her tone. “We started off small, as cockney pickpockets
scrapping for a bit of bread. Then, because that was the only sort
we came in contact with, the tradition continued. We were poor, but
we certainly weren’t stupid. Each successive generation added new
skills to the family’s repertoire of tricks. One married a cat
burglar, another a carnival performer, another a cardsharp, and so
on along the line. The parents passed down the skills to the
subsequent generation. So by the time I was thirteen, I knew how to
do it all. I’m quite good at it, you see.”

“Indeed,” murmured Jackson grimly.

She took another breath. “My father,” she
continued in a softer tone, “was a master at the con. In all the
generations of our family, it was he who excelled. He was so
remarkable, he could fool even me. But good as he was, he was
always aware that he was still a member of the lower classes. That
no matter how he succeeded, it would always be them against us.
Don’t misunderstand me. He loved being a confidence artist. And
artist he truly was. He wasn’t fully alive unless he was using his
skills to pull the wool over someone’s eyes. It wasn’t the money he
relished—it was the challenge, the sheer effrontery of the
game.”

Jackson glanced about the study at the
expensive bric-a-brac, as if wondering what might be missing. She
chose to ignore the implication.

“Love the profession as he did, my father led
a hard life because of it. He’d been kicked about considerably,
even been in prison a time or two. Suffered rather badly, I’m
afraid, as did my mother. In the underworld,” she added with a
slight raise of her chin, “my father was considered the king of the
con. Aristocracy in his own way. But he was still looked down on
and defiled by the true aristocracy.”

“He wasn’t surprised?” Jackson asked
incredulously.

“Of course not. We had a long tradition of
such discrimination in our family. As I grew older, though, it
haunted him. He cherished me, you see, as any ordinary father
would. He wanted more for me than a life of uncertainty, of
constantly being on the run. He worried that I’d suffer as my
parents had. He despised the class system of England and wanted me
to rise above it. To be a lady. To become one of the
aristocracy.”

“You mean he was willing to sell you to the
highest bidder.”

She felt a flash of anger. “I don’t expect
you to understand. You can’t conceive of what it was like to come
from such a background. By conventional standards, perhaps my
father’s thinking was twisted. But he wanted nothing more for me
than other fathers desire for their children. A better life. So he
began early, planning the most elaborate hoax of his career. When I
was just a child, he began grooming me to marry into the
aristocracy. Taught me how to speak properly, how to dress, how to
dance and converse so no one would ever guess where I’d come from.
It became so ingrained in me that as I grew, it was second nature.
I became as focused as he. I knew from an early age that I was
slated for something special. He even called me Princess, as if to
remind me. ‘You’re better than this,’ he’d tell me. ‘You were born
for royalty.’ The tragedy was, I believed him.”

“Tragedy?” Winston asked.

“I might as well be honest. While my father
was grooming me to marry a prince, I was learning other things as
well. He tried not to teach me the tricks of his trade. But I was
clever, you see. I could see the joy he took in his work. And I
wanted to share that with him. When I asked how he’d perpetrated
some gambit, he’d gruffly refuse to tell me. But I’d sit on his
lap”—her lips turned up in a tender smile—“and beg prettily, and
soon he couldn’t refuse. I found I was more my father’s daughter
than he wanted to admit.” She gave a small sigh. “You may well
imagine my dilemma. I loved my father tremendously. He was, quite
simply, everything to me. But resigned as I was to the path he’d
chosen for me, I loved the con as well.”

Winston was clearly in shock as he stared at
her. Jackson, shifting in his seat, said, “You spoke of a
tragedy.”

She stared into the fire, standing with her
back to them. “My parents were murdered. Horribly, when I was
thirteen. I tried to help them, but I was”—her voice cracked—“I was
prevented
,” she finished bitterly. She could see it all
again in her mind’s eye. The flames, the screams, the wretched
laughter as Lance Blackwood...

She shook her head to clear it and returned,
with some effort, to her story. “It took me years to recover from
the—consequences of my parents’ death. When I finally did, I did
the only thing I could do: traveled about Europe, perfecting my
technique. My father’s dream for me had quite literally gone up in
flames. I had nothing with which to make a living except the wits
I’d been born with and what my father had taught me.”

“Why didn’t you marry as your father
wanted?”

A stab of pain caused her stomach to chum.
She grabbed hold of the mantel and took a deep breath. She hadn’t
allowed herself to think about this in years. After all this time,
it was still too raw to remember now.

“I had all I could do to recover. Don’t
forget, I was only thirteen.”

“Go on,” said Winston softly.

“I came to this country three years ago.
Traveled extensively, pulling various scams as a means of making a
living, before deciding on New York as a base. I shan’t sugarcoat
this. When I arrived in the city, and heard about you, I
thought—well, I suppose I thought it was an opportunity to make my
father’s dream come true.”

It wasn’t the truth, not completely. But
professional pride had been bred into her. She wouldn’t expose
Blackwood to save herself. Not if there was any other way.

“And you chose us because of Lalita?” Jackson
asked, glancing at the portrait of his beloved wife. “You made
yourself over to resemble her.”

“Yes. I read everything I could about her.
She was, as you recall, prominently displayed in the newspapers of
the time. Lalita skating on the lake. Lalita attending the opera.
Lalita winning prizes for her roses. I began to study her. Spent
six months learning to ice-skate to perfection so I could happen
upon Winny skating on the lake and make his acquaintance. Studied
the Dutch customs Lalita was known to hold dear. It took eight
months of grueling work to come up with the right approach, to
perfect my credentials. It had to be perfect, you see, because with
any luck it would be the last time. Then, through a stroke of
fortune, I discovered how much you both missed her. And I knew I
could use that.”

“Did your conscience never bother you?”
Jackson asked in an uncharacteristically acid tone.

“I never thought about it, to be honest. It
was, if anything, the crowning glory in a spectacular career.”

Winston was turning progressively more pale.
He rose and went to the sideboard, muttering, “I think I will have
that drink.” She watched him, the slump of his shoulders, the
deliberation of movement that spoke of his shock. She waited for
him to turn back around, then fixed him with a sorrowful gaze.

“You weren’t people to me in the beginning,”
she explained. “You were simply suckers to be had. What I didn’t
count on was your decency.”

“Forgive me,” Jackson interjected, “but that
strikes me as an odd thing to say, considering all that’s come
before it.”

“You must remember, I grew up pilfering from
British aristocracy. I was taught, and truly believed, that those
who had money either took possession of it through illegal means or
inherited it from those who had. If, through my wits, I could
purloin some of it for my family, why shouldn’t I? The wealthy
stole their wealth in much the same manner we did, only they were
hypocritical enough not to admit it. That, I was taught, was why
they spent so much of their money on charitable pursuits. To
assuage their guilt over the manner in which the money was made in
the first place. So, naturally, I had a certain contempt for the
moneyed classes as a whole. It seemed to me that I was somehow more
honest in my dealings. At least I made people happy while I was
with them.”

“I can vouch for that,” said Winston,
draining his brandy.

“We didn’t have many rules when I was growing
up. What few there were pertained to not fraternizing with those
outside the family, that sort of thing. But one tenet was strictly
adhered to. Suckers deserved what they got. The premise being that
anyone stupid enough to be suckered in the first place was going to
be taken advantage of by someone, somewhere along the line. So it
might just as well be us. Do you see the sense in it?”

Winston set his glass down on the table and
dropped back into his seat. “Not particularly,” he said, growing
gloomier by the moment.

“I don’t say this to be unkind. Only to help
you understand my state of mind on meeting you. I suspected your
goodness as the same sort of act that mine was. But it wasn’t long
before I realized you
seemed
good because you were. No one
has ever been so monstrously kind to me.” She paused a beat, then
played her trump card. “Because of that, I knew I couldn’t go
through with it. You deserve better than a baggage like me. So, I
was planning to tell you the truth this evening. In fact, I’d
already written out a confession. If you’ll have one of the
servants look in the top drawer of the room I occupied this
weekend, you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

A servant was summoned, and Saranda told him
where to find the letter. As they waited, she had time to reflect
on her good fortune at having thought of such a ploy ahead of
time—in case of just such an occurrence. The servant returned and
handed the confession to Jackson, who read it before passing it on
to his son.

“I suppose,” she said when they’d finished,
“when all is said and done, I’d already decided to sacrifice my own
happiness and set you free.”

She began to walk dejectedly toward the door.
“What do you intend doing?” Jackson asked.

“I shall—return to the old life, I suppose.
There’s nothing left to do. I’m so terribly sorry, Winny...
Jackson. It never occurred to me that I would come to care for you
both the way I do. I only hope, in the lonely years ahead... when
you remember me... that you can find it in your heart to forgive
me.”

“Father, surely—”

Whether she was an adventuress or not,
Winston was madly in love with his fiancée. She was like no woman
he’d ever known. Now he knew why. He found it oddly exciting,
knowing the truth. It was intriguing. It was glamourous. His
intended wife—a woman of mystery? Yet he’d never disobeyed his
father in all his life. If something could keep her from leaving,
it would have to be with Jackson’s blessing.

Jackson waved his son to silence. “I told the
man who informed me of this that he was wrong. That if you were
involved in such a thing, you’d changed. That you were a loving and
decent woman and wouldn’t be able to bring yourself to coldly—” He
flushed. “Well, I knew you couldn’t go through with it, that’s all
that counts.”

“You couldn’t have pretended to—care for me,
could you?” Winston asked shakily, hoping against hope that this
glorious woman had been sincere in her feelings, at least.

She turned to look at him, at the dark and
light shadings of his salt-and-pepper hair, at the sincerity of his
trusting aqua eyes. She saw, too, what this discovery had done to
him. That arrested look of heightened interest. Winston Van Slyke,
who considered himself too dull to woo a woman, wanted to know if
he was really loved by this bad girl. She’d learned long ago never
to be surprised by anything.

“I care for both of you more than you’ll ever
know,” she said sincerely.
And that’s why I can’t let Blackwood
get away with fleecing you
. She turned to Jackson.

“I assume Archer—with his great investigative
abilities—was the one who told you.”

Sadly, Jackson nodded his head. “Of course
Archer’s dead set against this marriage. He’s of the opinion that
charges should be pressed against you, the police called—”

“Arrested?” cried Winston.

Her anger choked her.
Bloody
Blackwood
! Just like his hateful brother—and all the other
Blackwood scourges down through the generations. How could she have
been so blind? Hadn’t her father warned her? It wouldn’t be the
first time the Blackwoods had broken the professional code of
honor. It was just like one of them to resort to this sort of
despicable tactic...

It was for that very reason that she couldn’t
retreat and leave him free access to the Van Slyke fortune and
power. She had to fight him with all she had available. And she had
within her arsenal weapons she’d never even dusted off.

Saranda crossed the city room at a fast clip,
endeavoring to be as inconspicuous as a lone woman could be in such
surroundings. Several reporters were putting the finishing touches
on stories for the morning edition, their typewriter keys clicking
irregularly. Editors were calling for copy. Everywhere, desks were
piled high with books, magazines, stacks of paper, galley proofs,
and half-empty coffee cups. Ashtrays overflowed, and the air was
thick with smoke. Everything seemed to be smeared with ink. It was
all she could do to get through the room without ruining her
costume.

The men stopped to look at her, sweeping
along in her pink satin gown. She paid them no mind. If she stopped
to explain, she’d be delayed again, and Blackwood—if he was here at
all—might slip through her fingers. It was bad enough that she’d
had to argue her way past the guard at the front door. He’d let her
pass only because she’d reminded him of her marriage to Winston the
following day—a marriage that would make her part-owner of the
Globe-Journal
.