The Secret Heiress. Bethany Campbell
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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.
“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