Legacy of Lies. JoAnn Ross
“It won’t hurt to have a checkup before we leave for the Paris shows next month,” Zachary pointed out with the unwavering logic she’d always admired.
In so many ways Zach reminded Eleanor of her dear James. Granted, their backgrounds were vastly different. But even discounting her late husband’s family wealth, both James Lord and Zachary Deveraux were quintessential self-made men.
Zachary had been her personal discovery. Eleanor had watched his meteoric progress with a certain secret pride. And although he didn’t yet know it, she was grooming him to take over the reins of the Lord’s chain when she retired.
Upon her death, this man she’d come to think of as a son would receive enough of the family stock to ensure control of The Lord’s Group. But included in her will was a provision for Anna to receive the bulk of Eleanor’s personal estate.
“All right. Three days,” Eleanor said finally, ignoring Clara’s frustrated huff. “Then if you won’t release me, I’m checking myself out.”
Although Eleanor knew Zach was more than capable of handling business, she insisted on remaining a vital part of Lord’s. She’d seen too many of her male colleagues retire, only to drop dead of a heart attack six months later. Eleanor had no intention of joining their ranks.
“Three days,” Averill agreed. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“And I want Clara to have a bed in my room.”
“Impossible,” Zach ground out before Averill could respond. His rugged face could have been chiseled from granite. “There’s no way you’re going to get any rest with Sybil the Soothsayer hovering over you like one of Macbeth’s damned witches.”
Clara’s scowl darkened. She crossed her arms over her abundant bosom and glared at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a very negative aura, Mr. Deveraux?”
“All the time,” he snapped.
“Eleanor—” Averill deftly entered the debate “—Zach’s right. You need rest. Time away from all this.” He waved his hand, encompassing the accumulation of mystical accoutrements that had taken over the house.
Eleanor held her ground. “Those are my terms, Averill. Take them or leave them.”
Professional demeanor was abandoned as he allowed his frustration to show. “There are times when I can’t decide whether you are the most obstinate woman I’ve ever met or simply crazy,” he muttered, picking up the receiver to make the arrangements.
If she was insulted, Eleanor didn’t reveal it. “That’s precisely the reason I’m going to find Anna.”
Chapter Five
Two days later, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe burst into Eleanor’s hospital room. She was fashionably thin and sported a sleek blond hairdo that was as much a signature of her British Ascot class as her accent. Although she was in her midforties, her complexion, thanks to a benevolent British climate and the clever hand of her plastic surgeon, was as smooth and unlined as that of a girl in her twenties.
“Dear, dear Aunt Eleanor,” she greeted the older woman with a brush of powdered cheek. “I rushed over from London on the Concorde as soon as I heard! Honestly, I don’t understand how you could have let that horrid old witch get you so upset!”
“Clara doesn’t upset me, Miranda,” Eleanor said mildly.
“She gave you a heart attack.”
“It was a flutter. And Clara had nothing to do with it.”
Miranda took a cigarette from her Gucci bag and was prepared to light it when she caught sight of the No Smoking—Oxygen in Use sign posted beside Eleanor’s hospital bed.
“Those things already killed your mother,” Eleanor pointed out knowingly.
“Living like some over-the-hill party girl, squandering her inheritance from my father, instead of putting it somewhere safe such as blue-chip stocks or bonds, is what killed my mother,” Miranda said. “Why, if it weren’t for all the money she threw away on those damned gigolos, I wouldn’t be fighting to keep the wolves away from the door.”
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