The Secret Heiress

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“This is unforgivable,” Marie accused.

“I’m doing it for your own good. It’s what Colette wanted and I did it for her, as well. Don’t go all high and mighty on me. Just do your job like the trouper you are. It’s not just me that drew you here. It’s destiny. Bye, love. Talk to you soon.”

With that, he blew her a kiss, drove off and left her standing there.

She stared after him, bewildered, fighting back tears. But for now she had no choice but to brazen it out until she could make her escape. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to march to the kitchen door.

A red-and-yellow object lying in the grass caught her eye, and she bent to pick it up. She stared at it curiously: it was a carved wooden bird with a large yellow beak. The rest was patterned in black and white and red, and it hung from a broken red string.

It was the charm Andrew Preston had worn. He must have lost it, she thought numbly. She slipped it into the pocket of her slacks as she entered the kitchen, her mind dazed, her body working on automatic pilot.

“Welcome back,” said Mrs. Lipton. “I’ll be with you in a little while, but must catch up on my paperwork. I’ll be in my office if anyone wants me. Tonight’s staff menu is on the bulletin board. You could start the potato salad if you like. We need to feed about eighteen.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Marie said. The baked potatoes were already cooling on a large metal sheet on the counter.

“And could you make a meringue for tonight? Miss Louisa loves her meringues and Pavlovas.”

“Certainly,” Marie said, still stunned, but hiding it with all her might.

Mrs. Lipton bustled off.

Alone, Marie again felt almost overwhelmed by the modernity of the shiny white-and-chrome kitchen. What would Mama have done in a kitchen like this? she wondered with a pang. What couldn’t she have done?

Yearning for Colette stabbed through her. I’ll find out who this Fairchild woman is, she promised her mother’s spirit. And if she’s not worthy of you, I’ll walk away and never look back. And she’ll never know what a fine daughter she had—and lost.

But she couldn’t yet think about Colette or Louisa or Megan and Patrick Stafford who might be cousins—and she couldn’t yet deal with what Reynard had done. She simply couldn’t sort it out yet. It was all too sudden.

Get control of yourself, she thought sternly. Get control and keep control, no matter what. There’s work to be done. Do it.

She began to peel potatoes.

Andrew pulled up again at the Fairchild mansion’s kitchen door. He knew he’d been wearing the charm this morning when he’d left Lochlain Stables. A hand from Whittleson’s, Sandy Sanford, had been helping build a sleep-out addition onto the main house. Sanford had given him a condescending look. “Hey, mate, goin’ native?” he’d asked with an unpleasant grin. Andrew’d ignored him and gotten into the Jeep.

The charm must have dropped off on his walk from the Jeep to Mrs. Lipton’s kitchen—or the walk back. If it had hit the kitchen’s tiled floor, he would have heard it, wouldn’t he?

He had no rational reason for attaching any importance to the thing, except it had been given as a friendly gesture. And the Aborigine culture fascinated him; it seemed rich and mysterious. He’d spent a lot of time in Kentucky reading about more exotic cultures than his own. And now, at last, he was seeing them first hand.

He got out of the Jeep and retraced his path to the back door. He looked three times, but saw no sign of the necklace. He pulled the bell, and an instant later Marie Lafayette appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel she’d pinned round her waist for an apron.

She didn’t seem taken aback to see him, and smiled her cheery smile. She looked like a woman almost totally sure of herself. “Oh, Mr. Preston. Can I help you? Mrs. Lipton’s not here, but she should be back in a minute. Would you like to step inside where it’s cool?”

She swung open the door and he entered, glad to escape the heat. He said, “Sorry to bother you. I was driving back and I missed a—a kind of charm someone gave me. I thought maybe I’d lost it here.”

For a moment she looked strangely blank. But then her face lit up, and he realized for the first time that she was not merely pretty, she was exquisite. Her thick cap of hair shone like spun gold in the artificial light. She wore no makeup except pink lip gloss, but she didn’t need makeup. She was stunning without it. And those dimples. Good Lord.

She reached into the pocket of her slacks and drew out the charm. “Is this it?”

She must have seen by his expression that it was and held it out on her palm. “I thought it was yours. I meant to tell Mrs. Lipton, but she was involved in something else.”

Her smile flickered away as he took it from her, his fingertips brushing the smoothness of her palm.

But that too-brief smile made his heart quicken with pleasure. It had been a smile that hinted at mystery and complexities. And her eyes, he suddenly realized, were the most startling and pure green he’d ever seen. Men must fall at her feet like flies. What was such a woman doing, working in a kitchen?

“Thank you,” he managed to say, wondering why he seemed to have something stuck in his throat. “I—I don’t really know much about it, but a blacksmith gave it to me, and…”

She looked up, listening, and he realized he didn’t have an end for the sentence.

“And?” she questioned.

“I hated to lose it,” he finished lamely. “In this age of plastic and—”

“Mass manufacturing?” she supplied.

“Exactly,” he said, trying not to get lost in those depthless green eyes. “That’s it.”

Maybe she wasn’t as poised as she seemed. Almost subliminally he sensed emotions coursing through her, emotions she guarded carefully.

“The string wore through.” She pointed at the frayed edges. “Odd. It looks good and stout.” Her voice was low and soft, her accent delightful.

He forced some words out. “I hope I didn’t interrupt you.”

“No,” she said, with a nonchalant shrug. “I’m just making potato salad.”

“Potato salad,” he repeated.

“I was looking for the mayonnaise,” she said. His gaze must have been too intent because she glanced away.

“Mayonnaise,” he echoed. Good Lord. I’m talking like a parrot, and I was the captain of the college debating team. What’s wrong with me?

But her bearing was almost carefree. Almost. “Yes. None in the fridge. I thought there must be some in the cabinet. I couldn’t find a kitchen stool to see on the top shelf.”

She was petite, almost tiny, beside him. He cleared his throat and said, “I’m tall. I’ll like if you look,” he offered. “I mean, I’ll look if you like.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

He peered at the row of top cupboards. He went to the nearest, opened the door, looked on the top shelf, and behind eight jars of mustard found four quarts of mayonnaise. He pulled one down. “Do you need more?”

“Oh, no. Thank you. That’s plenty.”

He handed it to her, careful not to touch her this time. He realized he still had the charm in his hand.

She licked her lips, and the tip of her tongue was daintily pointed and daintily pink. He felt carnal stirrings. She set aside the jar and murmured, “Maybe you should buy a thong.”

“A thong?” he asked, picturing her in a thong, her arms crossed modestly across her breasts. It was a most arousing image and not the sort that often popped into his head. He was usually a man of stern self-control.

“Leather,” she corrected. “A strip of leather for the bird.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Leather. The very thing. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

“I’d better be going,” he said. “Um. See you later.”

“Yes. Perhaps.” She gave him an unreadable smile.

He made his way out the door and into the Jeep. He got onto the road again and felt the blood roaring in his ears.

What the hell had gone wrong with him back there? When he’d seen her earlier this morning, he’d thought she was singularly pretty, but this time—she’d affected him as few women ever had. Why?

Because you got a closer look at her, he told himself. You looked into those green, green eyes for the first time. And she had such a unique air about her. You touched her. You were alone with her.

He’d slipped the charm into the front pocket of his jeans, and it seemed to spread the heat of desire through his groin. He smacked himself in the forehead with the heel of his palm. Why did she make him react this way?

But he knew why, and had known, perhaps unconsciously, from the moment he’d seen her again.

She somehow reminded him of Kellie Maguire, whom he’d loved all those years ago. The girl who’d been so strong of purpose, but turned out to be so vulnerable.

Marie was small, like Kellie, and beautiful, but in a completely different way. He remembered her at the Scepter, speaking foreign languages fluently, working so gracefully and with such sparkle—and defending herself like a champion. And yet there was vulnerability there, he could feel it, and it brought out an almost fiercely protective urge in him.

Again he seemed to hear Kellie’s voice. “I don’t know how you did it, Preston. It’s broad daylight. But maybe you just found the door into the moon. Glimpse of the future, Mr. Serioso?”

Chapter Five

That afternoon, the Fairchild household bustled, readying itself for Louisa’s return. Helena, the kitchen assistant, made sure all spices and condiments and baking goods were in perfect alphabetical order; Bindy and Marie polished the counters and appliances to an even higher sheen.

“How long has Miss Fairchild been gone?” Marie asked, puzzled by cleaning things that already seemed spotless.

“Only since last night,” Bindy said. “But she gets irked if there’s any sign of people slacking off when she’s not here. And nobody wants her irked.”

Marie wondered if the very ground would shake when Louisa Fairchild drew near and if small animals would run for cover. “Is she as fearsome as everybody seems to think?”

Bindy rolled her pale blue eyes. “That girl who was here before you? Annabel? Fired for kissing one of the Lochlain stable boys. He was always hangin’ about. Miss came and found them snogging and groping outside, while inside eight apple pies was burning. She made Annabel weep like a waterfall and told her to get off the property by sunset. She watches her single girls, Miss does. She’s strict.”

“But what if you want to go out?” Marie asked.

“We go on our time off and we have to be back here by midnight—alone. The guard lets us in.”

“Do you go out?” Marie asked curiously. Bindy wasn’t traditionally pretty, but she had a lot of bubble and bounce to her.

“Me? Oh, yes. I mean, there’s nothing to do around here at night except watch detective shows on the telly. I’ve got a boyfriend, but I’m careful. Still, lately I’ve found my eye roving. That Andrew Preston’s major sexy.”

Marie hoped her cheeks didn’t flush. “Is he?” she asked with false innocence.

“Can’t you see?” Bindy demanded. “My word! Every woman here’s noticed, even the laundress, Mrs. Fife, and she’s at least a hundred and fifty!”

“He’s too tall,” Marie said, improvising. “Looking at him’s like staring up at a giraffe.”

Bindy laughed, then suddenly looked alarmed. She went pale. “Oh, dear! I see Miss Fairchild’s car! She’s home early. I need to change my apron. And hide my book. She hates it if she catches me sitting about reading.”

She snatched her mystery novel off the counter and rushed to the restroom off the kitchen, just as Mrs. Lipton ran in from the dining room. “She’s here, she’s here. I must make coffee,” she cried. “She’s at least an hour early.”

“She’s driven all this way alone?” Marie asked.

“No, no. The deputy housekeeper drives, Agnes. Have you started those desserts yet? Oh, my God, she’ll be expecting her coffee and a lovely snack.”

“I’ve done a banana meringue with raspberry-brandy sauce,” Marie said. “I can have it ready in a few moments.”

“Bless you, my girl,” Mrs. Lipton panted, flying about the kitchen. “Oh, Lord, I hear them at the front door. Can you do the espresso? I must go greet her.”