Legacy of Lies (23 page)

Oh, it could certainly buy a great many lovely things, such as this house and its exquisite furnishings. And it could ease a great many financial concerns of day-to-day living. But the one thing money couldn't buy was happiness.

Or, she considered, thinking of Zach and Miranda, love.

“Gracious,” Eleanor said, breaking into Alex's thoughts with a soft, self-conscious laugh. “I certainly didn't mean to cast a pall over your first night here.” She reached out, rubbing away the lines that thoughts of Zach and his wife had etched into Alex's forehead. The maternal gesture seemed perfectly normal.

“We'd better get downstairs,” Eleanor suggested, “before Beatrice starts yelling at me for ruining her dinner.”

“Beatrice is the cook,” Alex guessed, beginning to get a handle on how things worked around this vast estate.

“That's right. And unfortunately, when God was passing
out short fuses, Beatrice must have been first in line, then turned around and gone back for seconds.

“She has a temper that could blow us all off the face of the earth,” Eleanor said conspiratorially as they descended the stairs. “But one taste of her heavenly
crème brûlée
and you'll understand why I've let her bully me all these years.”

A
lthough the food was as delicious as Eleanor had promised, Alex found dinner to be a decidedly strained affair. Averill's queries about her life, her family, her career, were couched politely enough, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling she was being cross-examined.

As for Zach, Alex doubted if he uttered two words during the entire meal. Miranda also remained silent, although it would have been impossible to miss the cold fury directed Zach's way. That they had quarreled recently was more than a little obvious.

Eleanor, on the other hand, was as charming as usual, entertaining Alex with stories of her colorful family.

Her father's family, Alex learned over a rich salmon bisque, had been the Philadelphia Longworths, business people, leading players in the world cotton market and patrons of the arts. One of Eleanor's Longworth ancestors had established the Longworth Philadelphia Trust Bank, a leading financier of the American Revolution. Another had been on the board of directors of the Pennsylvania Railroad,
which, in the City of Brotherly Love, established one as an undisputed member of the city's aristocracy.

Over hearts-of-palm salad, Eleanor told Alex that her mother's family were New Yorkers, whose roots, like the Longworths, predated the revolution and whose forebears included a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Eleanor had grown up in splendid luxury on a cotton plantation outside Atlanta, Georgia, where her father raised and brokered cotton. Clothes for the ladies of the house came from Christian Dior, Chanel and Madame Grés in Paris.

She attended Foxcroft, that very proper Virginia private school, where she achieved the polish required of a young lady of her station. Like so many of her equally privileged classmates, she summered in Europe with her grandparents. She made a stunning debut at her grandparents' home on Long Island, then was sent to Paris to be “finished.”

She'd wed when she was twenty, wearing a wedding gown of beaded, handmade alen
n lace—the same gown she was wearing in the painting that had so startled Alex—and carrying a white Bible that had been in the Longworth family since the 1600s.

“James's parents tragically went down on the
Lusitania
when he was a boy,” Eleanor divulged over the main course, grilled pheasant with lingonberry sauce. “I've always thought that being orphaned helped my husband develop the independent streak that served him so well when he began the Lord's chain.”

“Those must have been exciting times,” Alex said.

“They were wonderful.” Eleanor smiled reminiscently. “Why, when he decided to move to the Deep South shortly after our marriage, the
Wall Street Journal
declared the region hadn't seen such a sweeping campaign since Sherman marched through Georgia.”

“And of course there's always the London Lord's,” Miranda reminded her aunt. A bit testily, Alex thought.

“Of course,” Eleanor said agreeably. She did not add that she'd always found Miranda's father lacking. Although James had defended his younger brother on numerous occasions, it had been obvious to Eleanor from the start that Lawrence did not possess the intelligence, vitality, or work ethic of his brother. Given the choice between reading a sales report from a regional manager or playing a set of tennis, Lawrence could always be found on the court.

After the dessert cups had been cleared—Eleanor hadn't exaggerated about the hot-tempered Beatrice's
crème brûlée
—the group moved into the library for brandy and coffee.

It was then that Miranda addressed Alex directly for the first time since she'd come downstairs with Eleanor. “From what Zach and Aunt Eleanor tell me, you're the quintessential workaholic, Alex.”

Alex looked for the trap, but couldn't find it. “I like to keep busy.”

“So I hear. Imagine working so hard that you'd give yourself pneumonia.” She refilled her brandy snifter from a Waterford decanter. “How fortunate that Zachary was with you when you collapsed.”

The insinuation hovered over the room, just waiting for Alex to pick up on it. “I was grateful for your husband's assistance.”

“I'm sure you were.” Miranda smiled first at Alex, then Zach, her eyes glittering with anticipation of impending violence, like a spectator at a prize fight. “My husband can be very helpful when he puts his mind to it.”

Those dangerous eyes narrowed, giving Alex the feeling she'd just landed in the center of a very deadly bull's-eye.

“Tell me, dear,” Miranda said in a silken voice that
belied the malice in her gaze, “how do you make time for men in such a busy, allegedly fulfilling life?”

“I manage.”

Actually she didn't. Not that there was a shortage of candidates. Actors, agents, heirs to old California fortunes, even a rising young culinary star, whose trendy new Beverly Hills restaurant had Hollywood insiders actually willing to stand in line for a table, had all repeatedly asked Alex out. But she wasn't interested in any of these contenders for her heart.

Because she'd given it to Zach on that magical star-kissed bayou night. And her feelings hadn't changed. She still found Zach fascinating; she still wanted him. He was still married.

“I have the most scintillating idea!” Clara, clad tonight in royal purple, clapped her pudgy hands. “Let's have a séance!”

“No!” Zach and Averill shouted in unison.

“I was speaking to Eleanor.” Alex found Clara's waspish tone a direct contrast to her soft, pink features.

All eyes turned to their hostess, who, Alex thought, suddenly looked every day of her seventy-plus years.

“I think,” Eleanor said slowly, “that perhaps Alexandra should be given time to settle in before we expose her to the supernatural, Clara, dear.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Zach and Averill visibly relax. “A séance sounds fascinating,” she told Clara not quite truthfully. Although she didn't believe in ghosts, Alex was not all that eager to go dabbling in the afterlife. “Perhaps some other time.”

Slightly mollified, Clara spent the next half hour regaling Alex with tales of supernatural manifestations, and although Alex had no desire to insult Eleanor's elderly friend, she was relieved when the dinner party finally broke up.

After extracting a promise from Alex to go sailing soon, Averill left. Zach was next, accompanied upstairs by Miranda who, after several glasses of brandy appeared none too steady on her feet.

Alex rose to go upstairs as well, pausing briefly to wish the two elderly women good-night and to give Eleanor a quick peck on the cheek. Although she realized such behavior was unprofessional, for some reason, in this house at this time, it seemed right.

As she entered the comfortable guest room, Alex realized she was exhausted. Her head ached and she felt both cold and hot at the same time, just as she had in Zach's office. Worried that she might be in danger of a relapse, she poured a glass of water from the crystal carafe that had appeared as if by magic on her bedside table, took two aspirins, then, on second thought, swallowed a third.

“All you need is a good night's sleep,” she told herself as she slipped beneath the perfumed sheets.

Unfortunately sleep proved a frustratingly elusive target. Alex tossed and turned, twisting the Egyptian cotton sheets into a restless tangle. The house was dark and silent, with only the occasional creaks as it settled for the night, as old homes seem to do.

It was after two in the morning before she finally drifted off.

Sometime later, awareness filtered slowly into Alex's subconscious mind. Something feathered against her cheek. She groggily brushed it away.

“Go home,” a low, deep voice intoned.

Murmuring a protest, Alex rolled over.

“You should not have come.”

Alex was emerging from the depths of what she thought to be a dream. The room had gone cold. Alex had curled up in a tight ball in an attempt to keep warm. She felt rather
than saw the movement above her. She blinked slowly, trying to focus in the darkness. A strangely familiar, musty scent teased her nostrils.

A gauzy figure was standing over her. As she watched, momentarily transfixed, it began to lower a fluffy down pillow over her face.

She came to full alertness as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown on her. Arms flailing, she struck out wildly at the white-draped figure. Her bloodcurdling screams awakened the entire household.

They all rushed in—Eleanor, Clara, Zach and Miranda—and found her standing beside the bed, shaking like a leaf.

“Alex?” Although her own eyes were wide with lingering fright from being roused so abruptly, Eleanor placed a calming hand on Alex's shoulder. Alex flinched. “What's wrong?”

“Someone was in here.” One of them had turned on the light upon entering. She blinked against the brightness.

“Who, dear?”

“Three guesses,” Miranda drawled. She shot a blistering glare Zach's way. “And the first two don't count.”

Alex was still shaking. She was as white as the pillow lying on the floor by the window. Seeing her in such obvious distress made Zach want to take her in his arms, to hold her until the color returned to her cheeks, to stroke her hair until her fright was vanquished.

“Shut up, Miranda,” he said equably. He picked up an afghan from the foot of the bed and draped it over Alex's trembling shoulders. Her turquoise nightshirt ended high on her thighs. Drenched with sweat as it was, it clung to her body. “Are you all right?”

“I—I—I think so.” Alex's confused gaze circled the room, taking in the quartet of faces watching her with varying levels of intensity. “I thought I saw someone. Standing
over my bed. And then…” She was hit with violent tremors.

Knowing he'd pay for this later, Zach dared Miranda's wrath and put his arm around her. She was as taut as a wire. He could practically feel her nerves crackling.

“And then?” he prompted with a gentleness that had Miranda grinding her teeth and Eleanor looking at him with sharp interest.

She felt so safe in his embrace. So protected. Alex knew she should move away. But she didn't. “I thought he was going to suffocate me. With that pillow.”

“The one by the window?”

Alex followed his gaze to the floor below the open window, where the pillow had landed when she'd wildly knocked it out of the intruder's grasp.

“I think so.” The entire experience was taking on the surrealistic sensation of a nightmare.

“Ghosts,” Clara declared knowingly. She'd wrapped her ample body into a silk kimono embroidered with a fire-breathing dragon. The purple and red rollers in her hair made her look as if she were trying to pick up satellite signals from space. “Perhaps Rosa has finally made contact. Your aura, Alexandra, dear,” she confided, “is very strong.”

“I rather doubt that Alexandra's midnight visitor was a ghost,” Eleanor murmured. She'd long ago given up on Clara's psychic abilities. Especially since her own explanation was so much simpler. It was not lost souls who'd plagued Alex in the lonely dark night, Eleanor surmised. But memories. Memories, perhaps, of a child's last night in this house. The night her mother and father had been murdered.

“Well, the answer is obvious,” Miranda said scathingly. Her black silk robe billowed out behind her as she marched
across the room and shut the window. “The wind made the white lace curtains billow,” she said. “Which to Alex's overactive imagination must have looked like a ghost. That's all there is to it. So, now that the gothic mystery is solved, can we all go back to bed?”

“I'm sorry to have bothered you all,” Alex said. She glanced at the window. She could have sworn she'd closed it earlier. “Miranda's right. The curtain makes the most sense. Or a nightmare.”

“It was a ghost,” Clara repeated with surprising cheer considering the circumstances.

“Good night, Mrs. Kowalski,” Zach said firmly.

“But—”

“Come along, Clara.” Eleanor seconded Zach's order. “Let's let Alexandra get back to sleep.” She kissed Alex on the cheek, gave her a fond look and practically dragged the robust woman from the bedroom.

Miranda folded her arms. “Coming, Zach?”

He knew he should go. But he couldn't. “Go on to bed, Miranda,” he instructed, knowing he was further risking her ire, but feeling an even stronger pull to ensure himself that Alex was truly all right. “I'll be along in a minute.”

Miranda surprised both Zach and Alex. “Whatever you say,” she said sweetly. “Good night, Alex. Sweet dreams.”

Her friendly smile matched her pleasant tone. So why, Alex wondered, did she hear a threat behind those sugar-coated words?

“How are you, really?” Zach asked when they were alone.

“Fine.” Her voice was frail. “I'm fine,” she repeated more firmly this time. “Actually, I'm more embarrassed than frightened.”