Legacy of Lies (5 page)

“All right. Three days,” Eleanor said finally, ignoring Clara's frustrated huff. “Then if you won't release me, I'm checking myself out.”

Although Eleanor knew Zach was more than capable of handling business, she insisted on remaining a vital part of
Lord's. She'd seen too many of her male colleagues retire, only to drop dead of a heart attack six months later. Eleanor had no intention of joining their ranks.

“Three days,” Averill agreed. “That's all I'm asking.”

“And I want Clara to have a bed in my room.”

“Impossible,” Zach ground out before Averill could respond. His rugged face could have been chiseled from granite. “There's no way you're going to get any rest with Sybil the Soothsayer hovering over you like one of Macbeth's damned witches.”

Clara's scowl darkened. She crossed her arms over her abundant bosom and glared at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very negative aura, Mr. Deveraux?”

“All the time,” he snapped.

“Eleanor—” Averill deftly entered the debate “—Zach's right. You need rest. Time away from all this.” He waved his hand, encompassing the accumulation of mystical accoutrements that had taken over the house.

Eleanor held her ground. “Those are my terms, Averill. Take them or leave them.”

Professional demeanor was abandoned as he allowed his frustration to show. “There are times when I can't decide whether you are the most obstinate woman I've ever met or simply crazy,” he muttered, picking up the receiver to make the arrangements.

If she was insulted, Eleanor didn't reveal it. “That's precisely the reason I'm going to find Anna.”

T
wo days later, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe burst into Eleanor's hospital room. She was fashionably thin and sported a sleek blond hairdo that was as much a signature of her British Ascot class as her accent. Although she was in her midforties, her complexion, thanks to a benevolent British climate and the clever hand of her plastic surgeon, was as smooth and unlined as that of a girl in her twenties.

“Dear, dear Aunt Eleanor,” she greeted the older woman with a brush of powdered cheek. “I rushed over from London on the Concorde as soon as I heard! Honestly, I don't understand how you could have let that horrid old witch get you so upset!”

“Clara doesn't upset me, Miranda,” Eleanor said mildly.

“She gave you a heart attack.”

“It was a flutter. And Clara had nothing to do with it.”

Miranda took a cigarette from her Gucci bag and was prepared to light it when she caught sight of the No Smoking—Oxygen in Use sign posted beside Eleanor's hospital bed.

“Those things already killed your mother,” Eleanor pointed out knowingly.

“Living like some over-the-hill party girl, squandering her inheritance from my father, instead of putting it somewhere safe such as blue-chip stocks or bonds, is what killed my mother,” Miranda said. “Why, if it weren't for all the money she threw away on those damned gigolos, I wouldn't be fighting to keep the wolves away from the door.”

Lawrence Lord, James's younger brother and business partner, and Miranda's father, had been an avid tennis fan and nationally ranked amateur player. Forty-six years ago, when he'd returned from a trip to Wimbledon with news that he had fallen in love with the genteel daughter of an impoverished viscount, James had established a Lord's in London and made his brother president of the new European branch, where Miranda now worked as a style consultant.

“You're far from destitute, dear,” Eleanor reminded Miranda. “Your salary is generous. And you still have your stock.”

“That's another thing.” Miranda began to pace, the skirt of her emerald silk YSL dress rustling with each long stride. “My barrister assures me the prenuptial agreement will be upheld, but in the meantime, Martin is demanding a share of London Lord's.”

Eleanor frowned. She knew Miranda's latest marriage—to a London bond trader—was in the process of ending, as had her marriage to a Brazilian polo player before it, in divorce. But she hadn't been informed of this unfortunate legal development.

“Well, we certainly can't have that,” she said.

“I'd shoot Martin through his black heart with one of his antique shotguns before I let him get his greedy, aris
tocratic hands on the family business,” Miranda agreed grimly.

“I believe we can defuse this little problem without resorting to violence,” Eleanor murmured. “Why don't I ask Zach to meet with your attorney? Or even with Martin himself? Zachary can be very persuasive.” Eleanor knew from personal experience that Lord's president also wasn't above employing street-fighter skills when necessary.

Frown lines etched their way into Miranda's smooth forehead. “If you think it will help. Although I still prefer the idea of shooting the bastard. Or perhaps putting poison in his sherry.”

As if aware of how unpleasant she sounded, she said, “But enough about my petty problems. Let me arrange your pillows, Auntie. You need your rest.”

Her niece's pretense of concern grated. Before Miranda's dramatic entrance, Eleanor had overheard her talking with Averill outside the room.

Averill had spoken gently, in the reassuring way doctors had. Although with proper care she probably had many years left, if Eleanor's heart did fail, Miranda would be able to glean comfort from the fact that her aunt had had a full life. And though she would be missed, all that Eleanor had done would remain as a memorial.

Averill had reminded Eleanor of a man rehearsing a eulogy. The unctuous testimonial had made her mad enough to want to spit nails.

“The rumors of my impending death have been greatly exaggerated,” she paraphrased Mark Twain now.

“Of course, Auntie,” Miranda agreed quickly. Too quickly, Eleanor mused. “We all know you're going to live forever.”

Well, maybe not forever. But if Averill or Miranda thought she was going to die anytime soon, they had an
other think coming. Because Eleanor refused to leave this world until Anna was back home again. Where she belonged.

“Miranda, dear, would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Would you please find Clara? I believe she's in the cafeteria.”

Miranda's forced smile revealed her distaste for Clara, but she held her tongue. “Of course.”

“Oh, and Miranda?”

She turned in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Ask her to bring her tarot cards. I had a dream about Anna when I dozed off earlier. I think a reading is in order.”

A nerve twitched at the corner of Miranda's red lips. “Whatever you say, Aunt Eleanor.”

 

Zach sat in a corner of the hospital cafeteria, drinking coffee from a brown-and-white cardboard cup and eating a ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich. The coffee tasted like battery acid, the cheese was processed, the dark rye bread stale.

His mind was not on his unsavory meal. It was on what he was going to do about Eleanor. Every morning, when he went to work, he was in charge of millions of dollars and thousands of Lord's employees. He was intelligent, capable and clever. So why the hell couldn't he figure out what to do about Eleanor's unwavering efforts to locate her missing granddaughter? A granddaughter who'd likely been dead for twenty-four years.

Zach polished off the thick, unappetizing coffee and lost in thought, began methodically tearing the cardboard cup to pieces. On some level, he was vaguely aware of a growing commotion nearby. But since this was a hospital and
there was always some tragedy occurring, he paid the raised voices no heed.

Last year Eleanor had been convinced she'd discovered Anna. The woman, a blackjack dealer in a Las Vegas casino, had been an obvious impostor. It was also obvious she'd been put up to the charade by her boyfriend, a low-level gangster.

But when Zach had argued that the things the woman professed to remember about the Montecito house and the family could be found in newspaper morgues and style magazines, Eleanor, her steely logic fogged by unrelenting desire, had refused to listen.

Ignoring Zach's protests, Eleanor had moved the woman and her boyfriend into her home, treating them like family. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was too good for her darling “Anna.” On one memorable day, Zach had arrived in Santa Barbara with the quarterly reports just as Eleanor and “Anna” returned home laden down with resort clothes, dresses, and elegant evening gowns—suitable for all the parties Anna would be attending, Eleanor had pointed out. Later that same afternoon, a red Corvette from a local Chevrolet dealer had been delivered.

Although Zach detested anything resembling a lie, he had reminded himself that what Eleanor was seeking was family. That being the case, did it really matter all that much if this newly discovered family member was not really tied by blood?

It did.

Six weeks after their arrival at Eleanor's door, the unsavory pair absconded with all the gifts Eleanor had bestowed upon the woman she'd believed to be her granddaughter, along with several thousand dollars from the household expenses checking account, a tea set crafted by Paul Revere that had been in the family for two hundred
years, and a stunning diamond-and-pearl necklace set in platinum that James had given Eleanor on the occasion of their son Robert's birth.

Had it not been for the necklace, Eleanor, horribly embarrassed by her uncharacteristic mistake in judgment, undoubtedly would have let the matter go. But the sentimental value of that jewelry overrode any fear of public humiliation.

She'd pressed charges, and two weeks later, the couple was discovered celebrating their good fortune in Cancun. Well aware that what he was doing was bribery, Zach traveled to Mexico with an attaché case filled with American dollars to grease the normally slow-moving machinery of Mexican justice.

He was successful. The fugitives were extradited to California, charged and convicted.

Although still slightly bothered by the way he'd skated along the razor's edge of principle—bribery and veiled threats were not his usual method of doing business—Zach did not for a single moment regret his actions.

The son of an impoverished Louisiana trapper and sugarcane farmer, Zach had come up the hard way and was immensely proud of his white-collar status. He also understood that it was not that great a distance between wearing a starched shirt and suit in his executive suite to his early days laboring in a sweat-stained T-shirt on the loading dock of the New Orleans Lord's.

Eleanor Lord had offered Zach wealth, security and the opportunity to prove himself. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her.

The voices in the cafeteria grew louder, infiltrating their way into his thoughts. When he recognized Clara's voice, he looked over to see what the witch was up to now.

She was engaged in an argument with another woman
whom Zach recognized as Eleanor's niece. Eleanor kept a crystal-framed photo of Miranda Lord, smiling up at her first husband, the dashing, unfaithful Brazilian polo player, on her desk.

Deciding he'd better intervene before the two women started pulling hair, Zach cursed and pushed himself to his feet.

Clara's pudgy face was as crimson as today's turban, while equally bright color stained Miranda's cheekbones.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, from behind Miranda's shoulder, “but you ladies are drawing a crowd.”

Miranda spun around. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?”

Her green eyes were flashing like emeralds and her complexion reminded him of the Devonshire cream he'd sampled the time Eleanor, intent on teaching him manners, had taken him to afternoon tea at the Biltmore.

“If you do not mind, Mr. Deveraux,” Clara said, giving him her usual glare, “we are having a discussion.”

“Sounded more like an argument to me.”

“Mr. Deveraux?” One perfectly shaped blond brow lifted. The fury faded from her bright eyes, replaced by blatant feminine interest. “
You're
Aunt Eleanor's famous Zachary?”

Miranda Lord was reminiscent of an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. One of those bright, shining people, like Daisy from
The Great Gatsby
. Zach felt a burst of masculine pride that she knew of him. “Not all that famous.”

“On the contrary.” Her lips curved, and he was reminded of a cat regarding a succulent saucer of cream. “You're practically all Auntie talks about. And although I knew you were a change from those old fogies who usually sit on the board, I don't know why she never mentioned
how—” she allowed her eyes to sweep slowly over him “—substantial you are.”

When her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on his thighs, Zach knew he was being expertly, seductively summed up.

Her openly predatory gaze returned to his face. “I'm so sorry,” she cooed. “All this has been so upsetting that I've completely forgotten my manners.” She held out a slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I'm Miranda Lord. Soon to be the former Lady, or Mrs. Martin-the-bastard-Smythe.” Her silvery, breathless voice, a voice Judy Holliday had invented and Marilyn Monroe had perfected, carried an unmistakable British upper class tinge.

“I heard about your divorce.” Her hand felt soft and smooth. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, you shouldn't be,” Miranda insisted. “Personally, I look on divorce as not so much of an ending, as a new beginning.”

She gave him a suggestive smile before turning back to Clara. “My aunt wishes to see you. Oh, and she wants you to bring your tarot cards.”

“Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?” Clara huffed. Gathering up her immense shoulder bag, she waddled from the bustling cafeteria.

“Do you suppose,” Miranda suggested, “that if we threw water on Clara, she might melt?”

Zach threw back his head and laughed. A rich, booming release of sound that eased the tension. “It's definitely worth a try.”

“Why don't we discuss the logistics? Over coffee.” She glanced disparagingly around the room. “I'm absolutely exhausted from traveling. But I doubt the chef at this bleak establishment knows how to brew a proper pot of tea.”

“No problem. I know just the place.”

Placing a palm at her elbow, he led her out of the hospital.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the Biltmore's La Sala lounge. The lounge, with its wealth of polished stone-work, luxuriant greenery and comfortable, overstuffed sofas and armchairs, was the most gracious in the city.

“I really am so horribly worried about Aunt Eleanor,” Miranda said over porcelain cups of impeccably brewed Earl Grey tea. Her heady, exotic scent bloomed in the warmth of the room, mingling with the aroma of cedar from the fireplace.

“Join the club,” Zach said. “If it's any consolation, there's no sign of senile dementia.”

“You actually considered that possibility?”

“Of course. Your aunt's a logical, pragmatic woman—”

“Except when it comes to her darling Anna.”

“Except when it comes to Anna,” Zach agreed. “But although she's admittedly driven and obsessive when it comes to finding her granddaughter, it's only been these last few months that she's decided to try the spirit world.”

“That is so bizarre,” Miranda murmured. “I had my barrister retain a private detective when Clara moved into the house with Aunt Eleanor.” She frowned. “Did you know she's a widow? Three times over? And that all her husbands have been wealthy?”

“I had her checked out, too.” Zach knew Eleanor would hit the roof if she found out about his investigation, but that didn't stop him from wanting to protect her. “One of her neighbors insists Clara poisoned her husbands with her herbs.”