The Secret Heiress

by Bethany Campbell

  “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 g
racefully 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.”

  “Certainly,” Marie assured her, but her heart hammered. How long before she faced this dragon that sent everyone into such a frenzy?

  It was not long. Mrs. Lipton came back to the kitchen, puffing from rushing about. “Millie took the tray up,” she said, fanning herself with her hand. “Miss Fairchild is having it on the terrace. She tasted your meringue and pronounced it adequate.”

  Marie’s heart sank, but her pride made her feel bristly. “Adequate?” she repeated.

  Mrs. Lipton patted her arm. “From her, that’s a high compliment. She’d like to meet you. She asked that you bring her more meringue.”

  Now nervousness stole through Marie. “Am I supposed to curtsy or anything like that?”

  “No, simply call her ‘Miss’ and be on your best behavior. Don’t act intimidated. She doesn’t like people she can easily intimidate. But don’t be overbold, either.”

  Marie headed for the terrace with another serving of banana meringue. Mrs. Lipton had given her a short tour of the house, and Marie thought that to live there must be like dwelling in a museum. Everything was rich, elaborate and perfectly placed.

  She went through the French doors to the terrace, and saw Louisa Fairchild, sitting at a small table, her back to Marie. Her spine was extremely straight, and her hair pulled back into a meticulous bun.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” Marie said, going to face her. “Mrs. Lipton said you’d like for me to bring you more meringue. I’m Marie Lafayette, the new assistant cook.”

  Louisa gazed over her teacup, unsmiling. She had an aristocratic nose and a humorless mouth. Age had hollowed her cheeks and wrinkled her skin, but she wore pink lipstick, perfectly applied, and gray eyebrow pencil. Marie could not help feeling nervous meeting those critical eyes.

  “Marie Lafayette,” the older woman said, slowly. “The niece of Reynard Lafayette, who works at Lochlain?”

  Marie nodded. “I am.”

  “He’s a rascal and a scamp. I’m not sure I trust him,” Louisa said in clipped tones. “But he amuses me. Will you amuse me?”

  Marie couldn’t help herself. “I hadn’t planned on it, Miss. I thought my job was to cook, not entertain.”

  Louisa lifted an eyebrow. “Ah. You’re saucy. And there’s something in your bearing that reminds me of someone I didn’t like.”

  Marie could only gaze at her as calmly as she could, but her pulse galloped.

  Louise gave her a wry look. “I mean to say myself. I was saucy at your age. I thought I knew everything. Do you think you know everything, Lafayette?”

  “Not at all,” Marie replied as pleasantly as she could.

  Louisa gazed at her so intently it made Marie’s nerves prickle, but she met the old woman’s eyes unflinchingly. At last Louisa said, “I’m not on good terms with the Prestons, especially lately. I know they think I killed that bugger Sam—the dolts. Your uncle works for them. And you work for me. Don’t you find that strange?”

  “No,” Marie said calmly. “People such as us work where we can.”

  “Mrs. Lipton showed me your credentials. They’re surprisingly good. That raises questions in my mind. I’m not the easiest woman in the world to work for. I know it, and so does your uncle. So why did he bring you here? Do the Prestons want you in my house?”

  Marie took a deep breath and tried to say something that wasn’t precisely a lie. “The job was open. I wanted to be near my uncle. He’s my only remaining relative.”

  “In my experience, relatives are vastly overrated,” Louisa said. “I have only a great-niece and nephew that I hardly know, and they’re more than enough family for me, thank you.”

  She paused and added, “I’m leaving for England in a few days. I intend to tell Mrs. Lipton that if you’re caught in my rooms or going through my private things in any way, she’s immediately to sack you. I cannot abide a snoop. Comprenez-vous, Lafayette? Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear,” Marie answered with a polite smile. But with distaste she thought, What a cold woman. Why should I want her to claim me as her granddaughter? I’m glad my mother never met her, never knew what she’s like. I’ll talk to Rennie. I want no part of this.

  Louisa tapped her fork against the dessert plate. “How much of this is left?” she asked.

  “Two servings,” Marie said.

  “I want you to take them over to Lochlain. Tyler Preston always lords it over everyone about his cook’s ‘perfect’ meringues. Give them to him and tell him they’re a neighborly gift after his troubles. Ha!”

  She laughed with seeming satisfaction. “But if that upstart cousin of his is there, that Andrew, tell Tyler that man may not taste my gi
ft. I don’t like his gall. Coming to my country, to my shire, to run against my candidate.”

  Marie’s stomach did a slight loop-the-loop. Louisa wanted her to deliver an insult meant for Andrew? She stood straighter still. “I’d take it, Miss, but I have no car, only a bicycle.”

  “Then ask Mrs. Lipton for the keys to the truck. And come straight back. No dallying.”

  She paused and looked Marie up and down as if she were livestock on the sale block. “And leave word for your uncle to bring more eggs. By the way, my sympathies, etcetera, to both you and him about your mother. You may go now.”

  “Thank you, Miss,” said Marie, wanting to add And get stuffed, you imperious old bat.

  Marie took the blue pickup truck that was treated like common property by the staff of Fairchild Acres. Its bed was littered with hay and straw, and oil and paint stained it.

  She followed Mrs. Lipton’s directions and easily found Lochlain Racing. She flinched when she saw the burned barn, leveled now, heavy equipment parked near it, men sifting through the ashes.

  She pulled up at the back door of the house, and chagrin flooded through her. Andrew stood a mere twenty feet away, and beside him another man, his arm in a sling. He resembled Andrew enough to be his brother. Tyler Preston? It had to be.

  Andrew wore jeans, a white T-shirt and his riding boots. He looked at her as if in disbelief, and he didn’t smile. Her heart pummeled her breastbone. But she carefully picked up the box holding the meringues and reached for the door handle.

  Then Andrew was beside the truck, opening the door for her. He clasped her elbow to help her step down, and his touch tingled through her like an electrical shock. She found herself staring at the carved bird that rested against his chest.

  “What brings you here, Miss Lafayette?” he asked in his low voice.

  She looked up, met his dark blue gaze, and did her best imitation of a perfectly composed woman. “Miss Fairchild sent me over with something for Mr. Tyler Preston.”

  “That’s me,” said the other man. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Who are you? And what did you bring?”