Kitabı oku: «The Secret Heiress», sayfa 3

“I didn’t feel much of anything,” she said honestly. “Rennie, it’s like an invisible suit of armor fell from the sky and clamped itself on me. It won’t let me feel yet.”

“Ah. I know the sensation.” He looped his arm around her shoulders. “Maybe now that I’m here, you can come back to yourself. Let’s go inside.”

As she unlocked the door, he said, jokingly, “I hope you’ve got a drop of something for you old uncle. The long drive made me thirsty.”

She nodded sadly. “I bought a bottle of port.”

“Then let’s have a glass. It’ll loosen you up. Your body feels tight as a knot, my girl. You should come back to Hunter Valley with me. Get away from this place for a while.”

He was steering her into the living room, but she stopped and stared at him in alarm. “I can’t leave here,” she protested. “I have classes. I have a job. I have this apartment.”

“Details,” he said with a careless air. “I have a proposition for you.”

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

He gave her his most winning smile. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. After…you know. Now let us drink a toast to our Colie. And that old bat Louisa. Who might be your granny.”

She could no longer think clearly. She didn’t want to think at all about Louisa Fairchild, only Colette. “Yes,” she said. “A toast. She deserves that.”

Marie had reserved a small hire boat. Reynard, of course, could pilot it, for he truly was a jack-of-all-trades. After her classes the next day, they took the boat out into the harbor to a pretty and private spot that Colette had always loved.

They said their own silent goodbyes and released the ashes into the waves. Then they returned to shore. And nothing, to Marie, would ever be the same.

Afterward, she and Reynard sat in a pub near the harbor. Reynard had a whiskey, but Marie barely touched her wine.

“Oh, knock it back,” Reynard urged her. “You’ve been through bloody hell, my girl. Drink a bit more. It’ll help you to sleep.”

“Sleep?” she asked dubiously.

“I’ll drive us back, and you should take a nap,” he said. “You look all fagged out. You’re not Superwoman, y’know.”

She saw the logic, but still she didn’t want the wine.

“You remember what I said last night?” Reynard asked. “About you coming back to Hunter Valley with me?”

“Remember what I said? I have commitments here.”

“Perhaps you have commitments there,” he argued. “To your mother, for instance.”

“Mama?” she asked, puzzled.

“Yes,” he said, leaning closer, staring intently at her. “She gave you the letter from Willadene Gates, didn’t she? She expected you to deal with it. Knew she didn’t have the strength to do it herself, poor thing. Wanted to know the truth. Knew the end was near, I’ll warrant. Thought it was time to put things in your hands. Trusted you, she did.”

“She didn’t know if anything should be done,” Marie objected.

“She kept the letter, didn’t she?” he challenged. “She gave it to you, didn’t she? Read her note. She practically begs you. She thought she failed you by not following through. But that you could handle it. And so handle it you must.”

Marie felt a bit dizzied by his reasoning. “What difference does it make if Mama was Louisa Fairchild’s daughter? I mean, it can’t mean anything now that Mama’s—”

She found it hard to say the word dead.

Reynard looked both saddened and angry. “If the Fairchild woman had been kinder, Colie might not be dead. Years of poverty ground her down. But Fairchild just cast out Colie and let the fates take her. God, I’d show a dog more kindness.”

“Rennie, she probably thought that Mama was going to a good, safe home. Mama loved the Lafayettes. Didn’t you?”

“I was a mere toddler when they lost everything. I don’t remember the good times. No, I’ve no happy childhood memories. They couldn’t even afford to get my ears fixed. My life might’ve run a different course if that had happened.”

Colette would agree to this, Marie knew. Reynard said that he did poorly in school because of his tinnitus, the constant ringing in his ears. He was bright, but he knew he’d never get through college, so never tried.

Instead he’d drifted across Australia, back and forth, up and down. He’d lived that way for decades, and Colette had always feared he’d die that way, aimless, rambling and poor.

Marie looked at him in concern. He raised his chin and said, “I think you owe it to her to find out about the old Fairchild girl. And who knows? Maybe you could put things to right.”

“To right?” she repeated, frowning slightly.

“Maybe Louisa was forced to give away her baby and that’s why she’s so sour. You could bring her happiness. And find some yourself. Colette would want that for you. You know she would.

“Besides,” he added, “the old girl might settle a bit of money on you. God knows you and Colie never had help from any corner.”

“I don’t want that woman’s money,” Marie said firmly. “I can take care of myself.”

Reynard shrugged. “I wish I could say the same. If she was my gran, I’d feel her out. She might at least give me enough for better hearing aids. Why, there’s even doctors in England and America that say they can cure tinnitus.” He smiled philosophically. “But I’ve borne it this long, haven’t I? I can bear it for the few more years I’ve got.”

The few more years I’ve got. The words struck Marie hard. When she was young, she thought Colette would live forever. And Rennie, vital, mischievous, clever Rennie—why, if he could live by his wits, he’d never have to die. But he was aging. And mortal.

“It seems to me,” he said, “if she’s your gran, you might close a long, sad chapter in your family history. Bring about a sort of healing. A sort of—fairness. And forgiveness.”

Marie could say nothing.

“What do you say? Come back with me,” he urged. “It would do you good to get away for a while. You’ve worked yourself half to death with your school and your job and caring for Colie. Will you think about it at least? For me?”

Her head swam, and she felt emotionally exhausted. “I’ll think about it,” she said without conviction.

“Good girl,” he said with a disarming smile. He patted her hand. “Good girl.”

The next morning Reynard kept after her. He had an answer for her every argument. Perhaps Louisa would have helped Colette and her family—if only she’d known what had become of her daughter.

What was wrong with going to Fairchild Acres, just to see if Marie might like the old girl? “You could work there, you know. Observe her. She lost an assistant cook right before I left for here. You’d be the perfect replacement.”

“Go in as a spy?” Marie demanded, appalled. “And if I like her, pop up and say, ‘And by the way, I’m your long-lost granddaughter?’ No! It’s awful. It’d never work.”

Reynard then explained for a full hour why it would work. “Again, if you don’t like her, she never needs to know. You can leave and never look back.”

“I have to take my finals.”

“Take them early. You’ve got fine grades. Tell ’em your mother’s died and you’ve got family business to tend.”

“I have a job.”

“Colette said they think the world of you. They’d give you a leave of absence. Your apartment? Sublet it. It’s an excellent location, the uni so close.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t not do it. It may be the chance of your lifetime.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“Work, that’s all you ever do. You’ll end up like your mother. And she’d hate that.”

He made her head spin. She was glad to escape to the Scepter.

When she came home again, Reynard was watching television. He switched it off with the remote control. “Sit down with me,” he said. “I got news.”

Now what? she thought. But she sat. “Yes?”

“I phoned Mrs. Lipton,” he said with his most benevolent smile.

“And who, pray tell, is Mrs. Lipton?”

“Louisa Fairchild’s housekeeper. Lovely woman. I see her almost every day.”

“Why do you see her so often?” asked Marie. “And why’d you phone her?”

“I bring her eggs. The old girl—Miss Fairchild—likes her eggs fresh, but she won’t keep chickens. Afraid of birds. Was chased by a goose as a child.”

This was the first humanizing detail Marie had heard about the woman.

“I called Mrs. Lipton to ask if she was still in search of an assistant cook. She is.”

“Reynard…” Marie said in a warning tone.

“She’d found nobody suitable yet. So I told her about you, that you have your certificate in cookery and hospitality from the uni, that you work at the Scepter, that your mum was a cook, too, and she taught you to make wonderful desserts and pastries. She said you sounded perfect.”

“Reynard,” she exclaimed in shock. “How could you?”

“I told her you need a change of place with your mum just dead and all. So tomorrow just e-mail her some references or whatever. I didn’t tell her you were workin’ on a second certificate. Didn’t want you to sound overqualified. I told her it’d take you about two weeks to make arrangements to leave here. She said fine.”

She stood, torn between laughing or exploding in anger. “No. And that’s an end to it.”

That was not an end to it. He argued, he cajoled, he flattered, insisted, urged, coaxed, wheedled, pleaded and finally goaded. It was when he called her a coward that she snapped.

“You’re afraid,” he taunted. “You’ve never had an adventure in your life. I defy you to name a single one. You’re a lovely young woman, but you’re becoming a drudge. Now adventure comes knocking, and you pretend you’re not at home.”

Marie, sad, exhausted, worn down, finally agreed. She went to bed, wondering if she’d gone insane.

Reynard had to go back to Hunter Valley, and Marie, still filled with doubt, scurried to put her affairs in order. Always efficient, she’d finished her arrangements in just over a week.

Two days after he got back to Lochlain, Reynard phoned to say there’d been a spot of trouble at his employer’s, a stable fire, but not to be alarmed by anything she heard on the news; the fire had been contained. Nobody had been seriously hurt. All was well.

Marie, who had no time to follow current news, took him at his word and told him she’d see him soon. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m buying my bus ticket today.”

“No you’re not,” Reynard told her. “I got you a plane ticket to Newcastle. It’s only a skip and jump from there to Fairchild Acres. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

His generosity stunned her. He couldn’t afford such a gesture. “Reynard, you can’t. That’s too much money. I can’t allow it.”

“The ticket’s in the mail, duck. And like a duck, my duck, you will fly. Think of it not as a gift for you, but for Colie. It’d make her happy.”

She bit her lip so that she wouldn’t cry. “Thank you, Rennie. I’ll pay you back some day.”

“You’ll pay me back by coming here. And that’s your gift for Colie. To find out the truth about her and Louisa Fairchild.”

PART TWO
Hunter Valley, New South Wales

March

Chapter Four

On a morning in early March, Marie found herself in a cramped economy seat on the cheapest airline out of Darwin. It was small and a bit shabby, but she was thrilled, for she’d never before been on a plane.

The inside of it looked no more glamorous than an elderly bus, but it was a magical thing, for it quickly whisked her up into the clouds and in an unbelievably short time, she was hundreds of kilometers away, in the Newcastle, New South Wales, airport, hugging Reynard.

He flinched at her tight embrace, and when she kissed his cheek, her lips touched a long cut just starting to heal. “Oof.” He drew back from her slightly, and she realized that under his work shirt she could feel something suspiciously like bandages.

“Rennie, what’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Oh, the bloody fire,” he said dismissively. “Cracked a few ribs, that’s all. Don’t worry, love. I’m a tough old bird, I am.”

Instantly she suspected his injury—and the fire—had been more serious than he’d let on. “Reynard, tell me more about this whole thing. Were you in the hospital?”

“Only overnight. Come on. Let’s go find your luggage. Ah, it’s lovely you look. Flying agrees with you?”

“It was wonderful,” she answered. “But I want to know more about what happened to you. And about the fire.”

As he steered her toward the baggage claim area, she saw that he carried himself gingerly and walked with a slight limp. “Rennie,” she prodded, “what happened?”

“A horse panicked, rammed me against a wall,” he told her. “That’s all. The scratch? The wall had a nail in it. And for a few seconds, so did I. A bit of a bashing, nothing life-threatening, I assure you.”

“And the fire? How bad was it?”

Gruffly he explained that in terms of money, the fire was a disaster for Lochlain Racing, where he worked for Tyler Preston. Several horses had died, and many more had been permanently damaged by smoke inhalation. There was one human fatality, a body that had finally been identified as old Sam Whittleson.

“Sam Whittleson?” Marie echoed in disbelief. “That man Louisa shot?”

“The very one. Somebody killed him this time. They found a gun half-melted in a burned fertilizer barrel, and a lab’s trying to identify it. The cops say the fire was arson, and—”

“Wait,” Marie interrupted. “Arson? Murder? You told me nobody was seriously hurt.”

“When we talked, I didn’t think anybody was,” Reynard said defensively.

“Who killed him? Why?”

“Nobody knows,” Reynard said with an impatient shrug. “Anyway, the authorities said the fire was set, and some yobs whisper Tyler Preston himself set it. To hide that he was drugging his horses.

“But,” Reynard said flatly, “he didn’t drug horses, and he set no fire. That’s the trouble living in the sticks. Too much gossip, too many rumors. Now, take Louisa Fairchild. Some even say she done Sam in—ridiculous. An eighty-year-old woman steals out in the wee hours. She lures a man who wouldn’t trust her for a second into a neighbor’s barn? And she guns him down? Not bloody likely.”

The luggage carousel buzzed, and suitcases began to cascade onto the moving belt. Her bicycle appeared with a clatter. “God’s holy trousers,” Reynard exclaimed. “You brought that bloody old wreck of a bike?”

“I have to get around. I don’t have a car.”

“You’ll frighten horses,” he grumbled. “Nobody rides a bike up there. You ride something with four wheels or four legs, and that’s it.”

“I’m not afraid to be different,” she countered, lifting her chin.

He shook his head. “You never were. And I don’t know if that’s your blessing or your curse. Indeed I don’t.”

Reynard refused her help in loading his old blue pickup, even though the job was clearly a strain on his taped ribs. Soon he and she were in the truck, and she gawked at the quaintness of Newcastle and then at the beauty of the Hunter Valley countryside.

Woods and peaceful fields and hills and vineyards stretched on until they met the shadowy lavender of mountains in the distance. Rain poured daily in Darwin, but in the Hunter Valley, the sky was cloudless and blue.

“It’s more beautiful than I imagined,” she murmured. “So tranquil.”

“Appearances deceive,” Reynard said. “Too dry. There’s spot fires near the Koongarra range. There’s wildfire warnings all over the valley. It’s not tranquil, and neither are the people. The stable burning, the killing, it spooked everybody. And the locals were still squabbling about Louisa’s shooting Sam Whittleson last year.”

“Tell me more about that,” Marie said. “They were feuding about water rights or something?”

Reynard nodded. “And there were factions from the start. Some say it was Sam’s own fault. Some say it was Louisa’s. Now at Lochlain, where I work, Sam’s son’s the head trainer. So the Prestons sided with Sam. That irks the old girl. But then she never really took to the Prestons in the first place.”

“Why not?” Marie asked, the familiar uneasiness stirring again.

“The Fairchilds’ve been in Hunter Valley for a century and a half. The old girl sees the Prestons as upstarts and Yanks to boot. Still, they say she was usually civil to them—until they sided so strong with Sam. Now she’s offended about racing politics, too. Really offended. You see, my boss, Tyler Preston, he’s got this cousin. Well, the cousin—”

They rounded a curve and the view was suddenly dominated by a huge set of gates, framed by stone pillars ornamented with bronze and red crests. “Ta-da!” said Reynard with a chuckle. “Behold—Fairchild Acres.”

The security guard let them in, and Marie looked at the great lawn and the seeming endless pastures and paddocks beyond. Did Louisa own all this land?

They bounced down a broad drive between jacaranda trees, plots of bright flowers and the flash of water from a myriad of sprinklers. The rest of Hunter Valley might be browning and dry, but not Louisa’s lawn.

They rounded another curve. “And there is the humble abode of Louisa.”

At the end of the drive stood an enormous house. Gray stone and stucco, it rose three stories, with a gabled roof and rows of mullioned windows. The jacarandas gave way to a wider sweep of manicured lawn, decorated with large formal gardens. There was even an ornamental marble pool with a three-tiered fountain at its center.

She gaped at the house, the grounds. Reynard took a fork in the drive that led to the back of the house. “You’ll meet Mrs. Lipton first.”

Marie’s heart beat hard. Too hard. But Reynard had kept reassuring her that she wouldn’t need to lie. Her identity was true, her experience real, her credentials excellent. She should simply be closemouthed about her family.

“Just remember the nursery rhyme, love.” With a sidelong smile, he recited the poem:

“A wise old owl sat in his oak.

The more he heard, the less he spoke;

The less he spoke, the more he heard;

Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird?”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Is that how you know so much about what goes on here? And you’ve only been here—what?—two months?”

He winked. “That’s it, love. Eyes open. Ears open. Mouth shut. That’s how you learn.”

He parked, got out stiffly, and opened Marie’s door as smoothly as if he were a trained chauffeur. Perhaps he’d once been one, for she didn’t know all of his past. Not by half.

He escorted her to a back door and gave the bellpull a smart ring, and then two more.

A girl of about eighteen opened the door. She had curling red hair and freckles all over her ruddy face. She wore navy-blue shorts, a white short-sleeved blouse and a white apron.

“Oh, Rennie,” she said with a grin. “Come in. And this must be your niece. Marie, is it?

“I’m Belinda, but everybody calls me Bindy. I’ll get Mrs. Lipton.”

Bindy talked fast, and she dashed off into a hallway just as fast. Marie stood, dazzled by the huge modern kitchen, gleaming with whiteness and chrome.

“Hello, Rennie,” said a man’s deep voice. The accent was American.

Marie turned to see a tall figure standing near a table. She looked up into his face, and her heart, already pounding, almost leaped out of her chest.

He was the man who’d defended her in the parking lot of the Scepter that night, the stranger she’d clung to so foolishly, so desperately. Suddenly the room seemed to swim round her, dizzying her.

Did he recognize her? Would he remember her? She prayed not.

“Mr. Preston,” said Reynard, heartily shaking hands with him. He grinned.

“What are you doing here? Miss Fairchild must be gone.”

“She is, and somebody had to do your work. So I brought the eggs today.”

Rennie grinned more widely. “Thanks kindly, mate. And meet my niece, Marie Lafayette from Darwin. She’s the new assistant cook. Marie, Andrew Preston from the U.S.A. He’s running for the presidency of the ITRF. Staying with his cousin over at Lochlain.”

Marie was still struck dumb and immobile. Andrew Preston stepped over to her and offered her his hand. Somehow she raised her own and placed it in his. It was like having tiny flames shoot up her fingers, through her arm, and into her heart.

She remembered he’d been handsome, but not as handsome as this. He might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, but it was a purely masculine beauty. He wore a white T-shirt that emphasized his shoulders and chest and revealed tanned, muscular arms. Around his neck was a peculiar necklace, a carved bird on a red string.

Low-riding blue jeans hugged his narrow hips and long legs. His riding boots were tall, black and dusty. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said.

His eyes were such a dark blue they seemed nearly black. His wavy hair was a dark and gleaming brown, and he seemed fully a foot taller than she.

Assume a virtue if you have it not, she thought. She raised her chin and gave a perky smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

He smiled back and released her hand. Again, strange sensations tripped through her body, making her giddy.

“I heard about your mother,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He sounded as if he actually meant it.

“Thank you,” she said, her smile dying.

Andrew turned to Reynard. “I was just starting back to Lochlain,” he said. “See you there later. And I hope we meet again, Miss Lafayette.”

Marie nodded. She’d let down her guard, so she gave him a mildly friendly, totally professional and completely manufactured smile.

Andrew smiled again, almost hesitantly, and left by the back door.

“Well, you seemed a bit gobsmacked at the sight of him,” Reynard said, eyes narrowing.

“I didn’t know anyone was there. H-he surprised me,” she said defensively.

“I’ll bet he did, I’ll bet he did. And you surprised me.”

Before Marie could reply, an interior door opened and a tall woman entered. She had perfectly sculpted gray hair, a strong jaw, a kind face and a firm, stout figure. She wore a navy-blue skirt and blouse, and a ruffled white apron with a bib. “Rennie, you rascal,” she said, obviously pleased.

“Ah,” he replied, his tone silky. “And what mischief are you up to, entertaining gentlemen in your kitchen? Miss Louisa doesn’t know he was here, does she? You’re a bold one, you are.”

She made a shooing gesture at him. “She’s in Sydney getting her annual checkup. She won’t be back until this evening. Ah. And this is your niece, Marie?”

“The very one. Marie, Mrs. Lipton, the housekeeper. A marvel of organization, she is.”

Mrs. Lipton almost smiled, but her face grew serious. “Marie, I’m very sorry about your loss. It’s good you’ve come to join your uncle. It’s a very empty feeling, losing one’s mother. I remember all too well.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Marie almost whispered.

Reynard said, “My sister was a darling woman and a lovely cook.” He pinched Marie’s cheek affectionately. “And this one’s every bit her mother’s child. She’ll do you proud.”

Mrs. Lipton moved to a small cabinet built into the wall. She opened it and pulled out a set of keys. “Rennie, will you be a dear and take Marie to her quarters? I suppose she has things you’ll have to help her move in. Then bring her back here, and I’ll explain her duties to her. Marie, did you bring a uniform?”

Marie said, “Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Lipton had e-mailed the uniform requirements.

“You needn’t wear it until this evening. We’ll also provide you with one of our staff T-shirts with the Fairchild logo. Now, help her settle in, Rennie.”

He gave her an appreciative look from beneath half-lowered lids. “Right away. By the way, Mrs. Lipton, you’ve changed your hair somewhat, haven’t you?”

“Oh. Just a bit,” she said, toying with a gray curl. “Now run along. I know Tyler will want you back at Lochlain.”

“He’s a good enough cove, Andrew Preston,” Reynard said, as they parked in front of the staff bungalow. “I see him around Lochlain all the time. Not our sort, of course, but a good cove. The old girl doesn’t like him, of course. She’s got her back up because he’s a Preston and a Yank and dared come here to campaign against her candidate—Jacko Bullock.”

“I see.” But Marie didn’t really understand; she was still in shock at seeing the man again. Andrew Preston. She hadn’t even known his name. Andrew Preston.

Reynard parked and unloaded the truck, talking the whole time.

Numbly she listened as he explained that Bullock had used all his media clout to defend Louisa in the shooting case the year before. He’d been her loyal supporter, and she intended to be his. She therefore hoped that Andrew Preston would not be merely beaten, but crushed like a bug.

“When it gets to racing politics, she can be hell on wheels,” Reynard said as he unlocked the door to her room. The cottage was sparklingly clean, not fancy, but comfortable, with a shared living room and kitchen.

“It’s nice.” Marie nodded in approval. “And Mrs. Lipton is a nice woman.”

“She is indeed.”

“She seems to like you,” Marie said with a hint of mischief. “And you flirt with her.”

“She needs a bit of fun in her life. So does old Louisa, if she’d admit it. I do my bit, is all. I’ll bring your things. There’s a place to chain your bike near the main entrance. “

Reynard put her bike in place and carried her secondhand suitcases inside. “You need help unpacking?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Then let me take you back to the kitchen and I’ll be off to Lochlain.”

“Your boss has been generous, letting you off this long.”

“Tyler? Very decent fellow, a good mate. Andrew Preston’s cousin, did I say?”

“You did.” Her pulse speeded up at the mention of Andrew. It was ridiculous, she scolded herself. Seeing him again wasn’t exciting. It was just a surprise. And—awkward.

“I thought he eyed you like you were something special,” Reynard said.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a kitchen worker.”

Reynard frowned as if in puzzlement. “Bad as my old ears are, I thought I heard something when you saw him.”

She threw him a puzzled look. “Heard something?”

He scratched his chin. “A clickety-clackety. Like maybe someone finally shook those hormones of yours into action.”

She smacked him lightly on the arm, but her eyes flashed in irritation. “You’re impossible.”

“Unfamiliar sensation, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Hormones romping around?”

She smacked him again. He threw his head back and laughed. But then he sobered. “He’s a handsome devil. But out of your league, love. Be careful of men like him. Would to God that Colie had been.”

Andrew, who’d borrowed Tyler’s Jeep for the trip, drove back to Lochlain in a pensive mood. It had been odd, when he’d delivered the eggs, to be welcomed so warmly by the kitchen staff. It meant not everyone at Fairchild Acres hated his guts. Just Louisa.

But that wasn’t what most interested him. Images of Reynard’s niece, startlingly vivid, kept flashing into his mind. Marie. She’d stood so demurely in the kitchen—yet with confidence.

He’d recognized her almost instantly, but he never would have taken her for Reynard’s niece. While Reynard exuded a raffish air of good fellowship, Marie seemed carefully controlled, sure of herself, yet at the same time a bit shy. It was a paradoxical combination, and it intrigued him.

He remembered holding her in his arms so briefly. Too briefly. He rubbed his chest, which sweated in the rising heat. Then he realized Raddy’s charm was gone. He stopped the car, searched the seat and looked on the floor.

Where in hell was it?

Reynard insisted on driving Marie back to the kitchen, although the distance was short. She kissed him in thanks, said she’d phone, then hopped out of the truck.

“Oh, wait,” Reynard said. “There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

She came to his opened window and looked at him in puzzlement. “What?”

“Louisa’s great-niece and nephew are here, staying with her. Megan and Patrick Stafford.”

“What?” she demanded, swept by both surprise and anger. “You said she wasn’t close to any of her family.”

“I never did. Willadene Gates wrote that. And Louisa wasn’t on speaking terms with them. I think this is kind of a test. To see if they’re worthy of inheriting her money bin. Maybe they are, maybe they’re not. Either way, there’s enough to go around.”

Marie, appalled, stared at him. “Reynard! If she’s reconciling with them, I shouldn’t even be here. It makes me feel—underhanded. Why didn’t you tell me, for God’s sake?”

“I didn’t know until they arrived. There were just rumors.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me when they got here? Why’d you wait until now to spring the news?”

He shrugged. “You wouldn’t have come. Now you can’t go. You’re moved in. You might like them, love. They’re probably your cousins. I’ve heard the woman’s nice, but the bloke’s a bit of a layabout.”

“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.