JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

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, aristocratic 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 another 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.