Legacy of Lies (22 page)

But the idea of Nelson Montague getting his grubby Australian raider's hands on any Lord's stock bothered the hell out of him.

A former miner who'd made his first millions when he'd struck a mother lode of gem-quality diamonds on Australia's Kimberly plateau, Montague was a ruthless, take-no-prisoners type of businessman who viewed things like laws
and ethics as nothing more than petty annoyances to be overcome.

“You're not going to sell.” It was not a suggestion. Nor a request. It was an order, pure and simple.

“Not right now,” she agreed. “However, Nelson assures me that before long, if I were to sell, he'd have controlling interest in the company you and Auntie care so much about.”

Zach damned her dissolute father for having sold his family stock in the first place. If Lawrence Lord hadn't been such a poor excuse for a man, if he hadn't succumbed to gambling fever, if his luck hadn't always been so bad, the company his brother founded would not be in jeopardy now.

“Actually, to tell the truth, I don't really like the man,” Miranda confided. “He's coarse and crude.”

“He's also the fifth wealthiest man in the world.”

“That does make up for a great many faults,” she agreed pragmatically. “And I can't deny that I found much of what he was offering quite attractive. Did I tell you he proposed?”

“I don't believe you mentioned it. Tell me, did you accept?”

That would certainly solve one of his problems, Zach considered. Unfortunately it would also mean that Eleanor would end up losing control of Lord's. Something he would not allow to happen.

Although he was more than capable of starting over, Zach knew exactly how much Lord's meant to Eleanor. The company was, quite simply, her life, second only to her quest for Anna. He didn't think her aging heart could take such a loss.

“Of course not, silly boy. How could I? Since I'm already married to you.”

“There's also the little matter of that Aussie thug probably killing any wife who dared even think about playing around.”

Rumors of the corporate raider beating a former unfaithful mistress to death had been circulating in the international business community for years. The official report was the depressed young woman had jumped from Montague's penthouse terrace.

“Well, there is that,” Miranda agreed. “So,” she said with a remarkable amount of cheer, considering the mutual antipathy surrounding the discussion, “we're agreed? You keep your hands off that conniving little fortune hunter and help me get Auntie the help she needs, and in return for your husbandly fidelity, I'll not sell my stock.”

“I won't let you do anything to Eleanor. You make one move against your aunt and I'll refuse to cover up for your shoplifting ever again.”

Frown lines furrowed her porcelain brow. “Honestly, Zachary, you can be so distressingly unbending.” She bit her lip and considered her options. Jail was not one of the prettier ones. “All right. I suppose we've reached a stalemate. So long as you're at the helm of Lord's protecting my investment, I'll allow Auntie her little eccentricities.

“But,” she continued, her tone growing hard, “I want that girl gone.”

“That isn't my decision to make.”

Miranda's eyes turned as flinty as her tone. “Then you'd better figure out something, darling. Because if you won't get rid of Alexandra Lyons, I will.”

It was not, Zach feared, an idle threat.

R
efusing to allow Alex to make the drive up the coast in her weakened condition, Eleanor sent a limo to fetch her. As the white limousine approached the estate, winding its way through avocado orchards and eucalyptus groves, Alex felt as if she were entering another, more privileged world.

She rode through pastures, where Arabian horses galloped across wildflower-dotted fields, their manes flowing in the breeze. The driver paused momentarily at the palace-like wrought-iron security gate hung with bright pink bougainvillea, where an elderly guard welcomed Alexandra to Casa Contenta. His proprietorial air made Alex suspect he'd worked for Eleanor Lord for a very long time.

Majestic, graceful California oaks flanked the long, curving brick driveway which led through even more acres of brilliantly colored formal gardens in full bloom, accented with cascading fountains. Finally they arrived at the sprawling, Spanish-revival mansion.

The house, if such a magnificent display of architecture could be deemed a mere house, perched atop a gentle rise
of luxuriant bluegrass, offered panoramic views of pastures, mountains and sea.

The limo had no sooner glided to a stop beneath the wide red-tiled
porte cochère,
when the towering oak doors opened and Eleanor emerged.

“Welcome, Alexandra dear. I've been waiting for you.” As she hugged her guest, kissing her on both cheeks, Eleanor wondered what Alexandra would say if she knew exactly how long.

If she'd thought the drive through the Lord estate was like entering another world, Alex was struck momentarily speechless by the baronial splendor of the home's interior.

Sunlight streamed through a bank of skylights, casting a warm yellow glow over the deep red Spanish tile of a reception galleria that was more spacious than many of the apartments Alex and her mother and brother had lived in during their Gypsy years. The hand-carved wooden posts lining the plaster walls and the massive beams adorning the dizzyingly high ceiling overhead recalled California's earlier era of Spanish
dons
and
doñas.

“Well, Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore,” she murmured.

Eleanor laughed. “I realize it seems a little grand at first sight, but we live quite casually.” She patted Alex's arm comfortingly. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

One grand room followed the other as she led Alex into what she called the library and what, if the rugs had been taken up from the floor and one didn't worry about all those undoubtedly priceless knickknacks perched atop marble pedestals, was large enough to double as a gymnasium. As in the galleria, wood was abundant—in the heavy Mexican furniture, in the built-in bookcases lining the paneled walls, on the high, elaborately honeycombed wood ceiling. They could have held the NBA finals in this room, Alex mused.
And still have room down by the massive see-through stone fireplace at the far end for the concession stand.

A portrait of Eleanor as a young woman hung in a gilt frame above the fireplace. Alex stopped in her tracks, stunned. Except for the fact that the portrait's subject had glossy auburn hair and was wearing a wedding gown, she could have been looking in the mirror.

“That was painted a month after my marriage to James,” Eleanor said. “I see you've noticed the resemblance.”

“It would be hard not to.” Alex wondered why Eleanor had never mentioned this before. “They say everyone has a double, but this is incredible.”

“Isn't coincidence a remarkable thing?” an all too familiar, distinctly British voice offered from the other side of the vast room. Alex slowly turned.

They were waiting for her. Zach was wearing the same smooth mask of composure he always donned when forced to rein in his emotions, while Miranda looked as if she'd like to pull Alex's hair out, strand by strand. Before she had time to dwell on Miranda's obvious antipathy, Alex was being introduced to a heavyset woman outrageously clad in a rainbow-striped chiffon caftan and matching turban, and a tall, handsome man in his fifties.

Although he appeared momentarily startled by Alex's appearance, Averill quickly recovered.

“Welcome to Santa Barbara, Alexandra,” he greeted her warmly. The laugh lines framing his friendly eyes crinkled attractively. “I've been looking forward to meeting Eleanor's brilliant designer. You know,” he said, dropping his tone confidentially, “you're all she talks about these days.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Dr. Brandford.”

“Please…call me Averill.” His gaze turned momentarily professional as it swept over her face. “Eleanor says you've had pneumonia. How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine. Well, mostly fine,” she amended, when she saw the physician's eyes narrow.

“This is an excellent place for R & R,” he assured her. “And perhaps, before you leave, you'll let me take you out on my ketch. You do sail, don't you?” he asked with the air of a man who couldn't imagine otherwise.

“Actually, I've never been sailing.”

“Then you must. You'll love it, Alexandra.” He rubbed his hands together with anticipation. “There's nothing more invigorating than the tang of the salt spray and the sea breeze in your hair.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Alex agreed, returning his smile.

There was a momentary lull in the conversation. The way they were all suddenly staring at her made Alex feel like a laboratory specimen.

The suspended moment was broken by the arrival of a housemaid with a trolley of steaming tea and fresh-baked pastries. Over the brief repast, Averill entertained Alex with amusing anecdotes of past sailing adventures.

Zach did not enter the conversation. Nor did Miranda, who seemed content to sip her Scotch and glower at Alex. Eleanor, too, remained oddly quiet, watching Alex with a deep, unwavering gaze that reminded Alex of the first time they'd met.

After a time, fatigue from the trip abetted by the strained atmosphere, began to take its toll.

“You've had a long drive,” Eleanor said, noticing Alex's slight, stifled yawn. “Why don't we get you settled into your room?”

“Thank you. I am a little tired,” Alex admitted.

She followed Eleanor out of the library, up a gracefully curving staircase and down a hall adorned with framed, formally posed portraits of elegantly clad individuals she
assumed were Lord ancestors. For some reason she could not explain, she paused momentarily before a closed door.

Watching Alex stop in front of Anna's nursery, Eleanor experienced a burst of pure victorious pleasure. Of course Anna would remember which door it was!

“Your room is right next door, dear,” Eleanor said in a mild tone she was a very long way from feeling.

Shaking her head to rid it of a sudden strange, slightly disorienting sensation, Alex entered a room that was both luxurious and cozy at the same time. The bed, ornately carved from the same dark wood that graced the honeycomb ceiling in the library, was draped with a crocheted comforter.

More crocheted and needlepoint pillows had been scattered at the head of the mattress. There was a fireplace in this room, as well, topped by a hand-carved mantel; needlepoint tapestry rugs were scattered over the polished oak flooring.

Ceiling-high windows looked out over the vast green grounds; from this vantage point, Alex could view a Palladian teahouse, leafy dark green hedges and a red clay tennis court that had been built beside a serene, crystal blue swimming pool.

“It's absolutely lovely,” she murmured. “Exquisite, actually.”

“I want you to feel at home here, Alex.”

She laughed at that. “Never in my wildest dreams could I imagine living in a home like this,” she said with her characteristic frankness. “But I know I'll be comfortable,” she tacked on quickly in a belated attempt to avoid hurting Eleanor's feelings.

“I do so hope so,” Eleanor said fervently. “The bathroom's right through that door. It's stocked with soaps and shampoos and various other items, including a hair dryer,
but if you need anything, anything at all, just pick up the phone and dial zero for the housekeeper. She'll be able to get you anything you wish.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Then I guess I'll leave you to your rest,” Eleanor murmured, appearing oddly reluctant to leave.

Something occurred to Alex as the older woman reached the door. “Oh, I could use my suitcase from the limo.”

“It's already been brought upstairs,” Eleanor assured her. “Maria has already put your things away.”

“Maria?”

“Juanita and Jesus' daughter. Juanita is the housekeeper,” she explained. “Jesus is our main gardener. He took over after Averill's father, who had the job for years, died. Maria's the upstairs maid.”

With that she was gone, leaving Alex to sink onto the bed and stare around at her luxurious surroundings.

“The upstairs maid,” she murmured. “Of course.” She began to giggle. “Boy, Mom,” she said, flinging herself backward onto the mattress and staring up at the restful garden mural painted on the ceiling. “I sure hope you can see me now.”

Although Alex was tired, she found she could not relax. After thirty minutes or so, inexplicably drawn to the room next door, she crept back down the hallway, feeling like a cat burglar.

The room was a lovely flowered bower. Dainty pink rose blossoms bloomed on the cream wallpaper, stuffed animals and exquisitely dressed dolls with porcelain faces and hands lay atop a quilt hand-appliquéd with pink and pastel yellow tulips. Peeking out from beneath the quilt was an eyelet dust ruffle accented with pink grosgrain ribbon; more white eyelet draped a round bedside table and framed the windows. A pine rocking horse painted glossy white and
boasting a white yarn mane stood in one corner of the room, while a Victorian dollhouse claimed another corner. Entranced, Alex was examining a beautiful wicker carriage, fit for a princess—or her dolls—when Eleanor, who'd come upstairs to fetch her for dinner, entered the room on silent cat feet.

“This was Anna's room.”

The quiet voice behind Alex made her jump. “Anna?” A pink-cheeked, cupid-mouthed doll lay in the wicker carriage; Alex reached down and carefully adjusted the battenberg lace christening gown.

“My granddaughter.”

“I didn't know you had a granddaughter.” Now that she thought about it, Eleanor had never mentioned any family other than her late husband, James. Alex had assumed the couple had been childless.

“Oh, yes.” A shadow moved across the older woman's face. “She was the most beautiful child. With a personality like summer sunshine. Even as a baby, she brightened the room with her sweet smile. Her mother, my son Robbie's wife, always accused me of spoiling her, but I never believed it possible to spoil a child with too much love.”

“That's what my mother always said,” Alex murmured. Although she may not have possessed Anna Lord's wealth of toys and treasures, Alex had always known that she was much loved. “You said
was,
” she said, as the thought suddenly occurred to her. “Anna isn't—”

“Dead?” Eleanor broke in, saving Alex from having to say the unthinkable. “No.” She shook her auburn head. “No, my Anna isn't dead. Unfortunately her parents are. They were murdered,” she revealed. “Downstairs, in the library, twenty-eight years ago. When Anna was only two.”

“How tragic!”

“It was horrific,” Eleanor said. “But quite honestly, it
took a long time for Robbie's and Melanie's—that was my daughter-in-law—deaths to sink in because Anna was kidnapped at the same time.”

“Kidnapped?” Alex's startled gaze moved slowly around the room.

“She was taken from her bed the night of the murder.” Eleanor was watching Alex carefully. “Naturally, I've left the room exactly as it was that night. The only change I've made was to replace the crib with a child's bed, and now this full-sized Shaker.

“Although the police never found my granddaughter, I've always known Anna will return. I want her room to be waiting for her.”

“It's a beautiful room,” Alex murmured. “When I was little, I used to dream of a room like this.”

“Of course you did.” When Alex gave her a quick, puzzled glance, Eleanor hastily added, “Doesn't every little girl?”

“I think so.”

Alex walked over to a glossy white bookshelf and ran her hands over the leather-bound classics—
Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Robin Hood, Black Beauty, Treasure Island
—which were far too advanced for the two-year-old child Anna Lord had been when she disappeared.

“
Black Beauty
was one of my favorite stories.” Alex wondered if Anna's mother had read this book to her at bedtime, as her own mother had done.

“Anna loved horses.” Eleanor's eyes misted at the memory. “I wanted to get her a pony for her third birthday, but Melanie thought she was too young. Of course, Papa put me on a horse before I could walk.”

The brief flash of temper in Eleanor's eyes suggested that she was recalling the long-ago argument with her daughter-in-law. “My earliest memory is sitting in front of Papa on
Moonglow—his favorite Thoroughbred from the family stables—feeling on top of the world.”

Once again Alex noticed Eleanor's casual regard toward such vast family wealth. She'd tossed off the comment about the family stables with the same offhand attitude she'd mentioned the upstairs maid. When she'd been younger, during those years when her mother had struggled to keep a roof over their heads and the wolf away from the door, there had been innumerable times when Alex had thought that if only they were rich, all their problems would be solved.

After watching some of Debord's customers, not to mention the chronically dissatisfied Miranda Deveraux, along with having a front-row seat for Sophie's bitterly fought divorce and, now, hearing of the tragedy in Eleanor Lord's privileged life, Alex considered that wealth was not all it was cracked up to be.