Fire's Lady Page 4

  "How do you know my name?" she managed, wishing her voice hadn't suddenly taken such a vulnerable turn. She had heard that servants in upper-class houses knew everything but nothing in her past had prepared her for this.

  His sensual mouth twisted in something more like a grimace than a smile. "I know everything that goes on in this house, Miss Glenn, and if you're as smart as you seem to think you are, you'll have Lowell put your bags back in the carriage and get the hell out of here."

  Outrage erupted inside her breast. "And what gives you the right to speak to me in such a manner?"

  "Not one damned thing," he said, eyes glittering as he looked at her. "Just some friendly advice you should take in the manner given."

  The sting of whiskey reached her nostrils and, behind her back, Alexandra's hand closed around a brass candlestick.

  "I'd thank you to cease intruding upon my person," she said, praying her fear didn't show, "and move before Mr. Lowell returns."

  "So he's been filling you up with pretty talk, has he?"

  "He has been a gentleman which is more than I can say for you."

  "Go home," he said. "Break your arrangement--whatever it may be--and go home."

  She tightened her grip on the candlestick. "If you don't move within the next three seconds, I shall—"

  In a flash his arm snaked around her waist and she felt her wrist encircled by a grip of pure steel.

  "Picking up a souvenir to take home with you?" The pressure on her wrist increased and her fingers flew open against her will. The candlestick clattered to the marble floor and the sound echoed in the cavernous foyer.

  "No," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "I intended to hit you with it."

  "Then you are damned lucky," he said, laughing at the look of outrage she was unable to mask. "Next time you try a stunt like that, don't stand before a mirror."

  She picked up her heavy skirts and turned. "When Mr. Lowell returns, please tell him I am waiting outside."

  He grabbed her wrist as she made for the front door.

  "One more thing." His voice was low and menacing.

  "Another piece of friendly advice?"

  He ignored the gibe. "Don't become too attached to anyone, Miss Glenn. Your stay at Sea View may not be an extended one."

  "Thank you," she said, sweeping past him. "And now if you'll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air."

  #

  Matthew McKenna watched, fascinated, as Alexandra glided across the hallway and out the front door. Even the heavy traveling costume she wore couldn't hide the sweet curves of a body made by a very generous god.

  When he'd heard the words "art student," he'd conjured up a picture of a serious, bespectacled miss as studious as she was plain. Never had he imagined a creature so glorious.

  And Alexandra Glenn was glorious.

  The sound of her voice, laced with the flavor of both Britain and France lingered in his ears. The way her golden eyes flashed at him as she threw her slim shoulders back and gave him a look worthy of one of the crowned heads of Europe had done more to win his respect than any coy posturing by another woman.

  But what the hell did any of this matter anyway?

  She was here at the behest of that sniveling Stephen Lowell, part of his grand scheme to win control of Andrew's assets. What other possible reason could explain the sudden reappearance of Andrew Lowell's daughter after nearly twenty years of silence?

  A gravely ill man, an avaricious nephew... a perfect opportunity for a clever young woman.

  And Matthew McKenna knew all about clever young women. He knew enough to understand that a man needn't be a genius to recognize danger when he saw it.

  But the flashing brilliance of her golden eyes, the frothy cloud of Gypsy-black curls, the delicate curve of her cheek....

  Desire, hot and urgent, flared within him.

  She was magnificent.

  She was dangerous.

  And nothing on earth excited Matthew McKenna more than danger.

  #

  Alexandra waited on the front porch for nearly a quarter hour, alternating between berating the man in the foyer for his unconscionable rudeness and berating herself for allowing it to affect her. A thousand cutting responses now flooded her brain as she waited for Stephen Lowell to return, and she wondered why she was always struck dumb when she most needed her wits about her.

  But, no matter.

  Surely what had happened in that foyer was an isolated experience. Not even in America, land of equality, could a servant so abuse a guest.

  But then she wasn't a guest, was she? No, her mother had seen to that. Her laugh was low and bitter as she leaned against the porch railing and looked out at the rolling green lawn and the curving drive lined by tulips of poppy red and butter yellow.

  She was a servant same as the man she'd just encountered, with no more rights or privileges than her position allowed, and no matter how charming he might be, she couldn't run to Stephen Lowell with her problems, both real and imagined.

  "Miss Glenn?"

  Alexandra spun around at the sound of the voice. A woman of some sixty years stood before her, clad in a black dress with an immaculate white apron tied around her waist.

  "Yes," said Alexandra, smiling politely at the woman. "And you are—?"

  The answering smile was perfunctory. "I am to escort you to your quarters." The woman turned and headed toward the front door leaving behind the scent of vanilla. "If you'll follow me..."

  I have no choice, thought Alexandra as she hurried across the shiny floor of the foyer. Choice was a luxury taken from Alexandra when her mother set forth to rearrange her life.

  The older woman took the stairs with a stately measured pace and as Alexandra followed behind, she found herself with ample opportunity to gaze at the faces of long dead Lowells whose portraits angled up the staircase wall. A number of Andrew Lowell's ancestors had eyes of a deep topaz color much like her own, and Alexandra smiled to herself to think she had even that in common with such a great man.

  At the second floor landing the woman murmured, "This way, please," and glided her way through the hallway to the eastern wing. Alexandra hurried after her, making a mental note to examine the objet d'arts scattered on various side tables once she was settled in.

  "What an enormous house," she remarked, attempting to break the overwhelming silence. "How many rooms has it?"

  The older woman came to an abrupt stop in front of an open door near the end of the hallway. "Only one you need worry about," she said briskly. "You will find your trunk and valises in here. Janine will bring up a tray of tea and cakes. Dinner will be at seven and Mr. Lowell said it is formal." With an incline of her head, she glided back down the endless hallway.

  Alexandra stood frozen in the doorway until the woman disappeared, thankful that she was there in a working capacity and not as the lady of the house. The thought of coping with such arrogant, overbearing hired help was more than she could manage and turned to look at her room for the first time.

  Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows with their diamond-shaped panes of glass, casting intricate shadows on the parquet floor. The battered Saratoga trunk and valises were neatly stacked on the floor near an enormous armoire of lustrous pine and the scent of lemon oil delicately teased her nostrils. Her breath caught as she took in the brass bed in the middle of the room, covered with a peach satin quilt and piled high with feather pillows that begged to be tested. She ran her fingers lightly across the delicate flowered wallpaper and marveled at the wash of apricot and pearl tints.

  Outside the window lay a well-tended piece of property with narrow slate walkways that trailed through beds of budding impatiens and daisies. A large white gazebo stood between a bower of rose bushes and wooden steps that led down the dunes to the beach.

  And, of course, there was the ocean. The ceaseless, crashing Atlantic in all her savage beauty. Never in her life had Alexandra lived amidst such richness and splendor. Her senses were reel
ing from trying to take in so much loveliness at once.

  There was a knock at the door and she started, her reverie abruptly ended. Of course it was too good to be true, she thought as she went to answer it. The maid had probably discovered that she wasn't meant to be in this beautiful room at all; there was a perfect little room for her in the attic that would be much more suitable.

  "I'm Janine." A mass of red curls bobbed about a freckled face as she hurried into the room, bearing a silver tray. "Cook told me she had taken you to your room. This here is your tea and cakes but I have to warn you that Cook makes way too much food what with dinner not too far away from now and you needin' your rest. If you ask me, just have one cup and try the walnut and be done with it." The girl met Alexandra's eyes and her fair skin reddened until it matched her hair. "I'm oversteppin' my bounds, am I? Mr. Lowell warns me about my Irish tongue but my mother taught me to speak my mind."

  "One cup and the walnut cake?" Alexandra said, delighted by this outspoken bundle of energy who couldn't be more than fifteen years old.

  Janine nodded, turning down the quilt. "And then to bed with you. Traveling can make a body tired."

  Alexandra unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off. "Does everyone in this house know everything about everybody?"

  "The servants do talk, if that's what you mean."

  "That man downstairs," she said carefully. "The stable master or groom or whatever he is. He—" she paused, uncertain how to continue.

  "Stable master?" Janine's freckled brow wrinkled. "We don't have a stable master, miss. Cook's husband Harold takes care of the horses and carriages."

  A prickling sense of apprehension gathered at the base of Alexandra's neck. "Well, I just assumed he was a stable master."

  "Holy Mary," Janine mumbled, crossing herself. "The poacher is back after the geese. Mr. Lowell will be—"

  Alexandra placed a hand on the girl's forearm. "He wasn't a poacher."

  "Oh, I know he doesn't look like one—he's a sly one, he is. Sneaking around the back, hiding behind the beach steps. Why, he—"

  "Listen to me, Janine. This man wasn't outside. He was in the downstairs hallway." The stranger's image rose up clear before her eyes. "He's a tall man, lean and muscular. He was wearing—"

  "A white cambric shirt and black trousers."

  "You know him?" Alexandra asked.

  Janine nodded, looking exceptionally relieved. "Mr. McKenna."

  "He works here?"

  The girl's face reddened again, but this time a giggle accompanied the blush. "He lives here."

  Somehow Alexandra managed to keep her composure while the girl showed her about the room, pointing out the bell pull and the hip bath and the fireplace on the wall opposite the brass bed.

  "You eat now, miss," said Janine, as she bustled toward the door, "then take yourself a rest. I'll make certain you are up and about in time for dinner."

  Alexandra murmured her thanks then closed the door behind the red-haired maid. Woodenly she crossed the room toward the tray set up on the table near the window; her hands shook as she poured herself a cup of tea.

  What on earth had Marisa gotten her into? Stephen Lowell had been the essence of charm during the carriage ride from the station, regaling her with delightful stories about East Hampton and its residents. Yet, the moment he deposited her in front of Sea View, he'd disappeared, sending a maid to see her to her room. And the man in the white shirt—McKenna Janine called him—had gone out of his way to let her know her presence was most unwanted.

  As for Andrew Lowell—only God in His heaven knew what his thoughts were.

  She brought her tea cup to her lips but not even the bracing brew was enough to restore the happiness she'd felt but one hour ago.

  Perhaps Janine was right, she thought as she sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced her boots. Perhaps things would look brighter after a nap.

  And if not, she would think of something else, some way to escape this prison of her mother's design.

  Chapter Three

  Stephen poured himself his second drink of the evening as he waited for Alexandra to make her appearance. This formal dinner had been a stroke of genius on his part. He would welcome Marisa's girl into the fold with all the charm and warmth he could muster.

  Chuckling, he took a sip of the cognac. Mustering up warmth wasn't terribly difficult when the object was as beautiful and alluring as Alexandra Glenn. Beautiful as she was, however, he dared not allow himself to be diverted. The whole purpose of tonight's flirtation with candlelight and champagne was to lower Alexandra's defenses, to make her feel she had one true friend at Sea View and that true friend was none other than Stephen Lowell.

  He had no doubt that McKenna, awash in whiskey and anger, would disgrace himself in the girl's eyes long before the night was over.

  Stephen needed a new set of eyes and ears in the large house when he went to Europe on his art buying trips and who better than the innocent young girl who would be the catalyst of his beloved Uncle Andrew's downfall—and her own.

  He had almost panicked when Lowell had announced he intended to find an assistant to help him restore his early paintings that had suffered dismally at the hands of incompetent caretakers. The remark had thrown Stephen into a panic—how could he manage to siphon off a sizable portion of Lowell treasures if they were all neatly catalogued by some eager art student? Stephen, anxious to put his plans into motion, seized control before Andrew had a chance to act upon it himself. He would choose the assistant and, with any luck at all, choose what paintings she saw as well. The fact that the assistant was Marisa's daughter by the great Andrew Lowell was too rich. Stephen, a lover of irony, took especial delight in the layers of shading inherent in this situation.

  He'd known of Marisa Glenn for years. It had been easy, incredibly easy, to ease his way into her circle of friends and thus into her bed. The rumor of a daughter modeling in Provence had proven to be true—a gift from the gods, that—and it hadn't taken many champagne suppers to discover the truth of the girl's parentage.

  Marisa's anger would fuel his needs. Perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect.

  He knew he couldn't trust the servants to make certain Andrew received the medicine that kept him almost constantly floating in a semi-conscious state. Stephen had a great deal of foreign travel scheduled in the next few months and Alexandra could ensure—unknowingly, of course—that Andrew's condition stayed exactly the way it was. He needed Lowell malleable and helpless for a while longer until he was ready to take the final step.

  He didn't like the way McKenna poked his nose into everything that went on at the house and he damned sure didn't like that little South Seas whore who waited on Andrew by day and more than likely serviced McKenna by night. The dark-haired bitch had a way of seeing and hearing things that could make his dreams blow up in his face.

  That was one thing Stephen wasn't going to let happen, no matter what the cost.

  There were a few more key pieces of Lowell artwork that Stephen intended to amass before the last phase of his plan went into action and when it did, he would be sitting upon the largest collection of Andrew Lowell's artworks in the world.

  The imaginary poacher had been a stroke of pure genius. The entire house buzzed with it and soon it would provide him with the perfect alibi. He didn't give a damn about Marisa's melodramatic scheme to exact revenge for an old debt. He only cared about the here and now, about the riches that could be his the day his uncle died.

  And, if Stephen played his cards right, Alexandra Glenn might help make that day come about quicker than he'd ever dreamed.

  #

  To Alexandra's intense disappointment, Andrew Lowell did not make a showing at the formal dinner. He was suffering from "intense fatigue," Stephen told her, and she wondered how this would affect her working situation. Although she had had many qualms about her new position, not once during her journey across the Atlantic had she imagined that her job was anything less than secure and the thou
ght was disturbing.

  In Andrew's absence that evening, his nephew Stephen presided at the head of the table. Dressed in a fine dark brown serge suit and gold cravat, he looked handsome and quite at home amidst the lush surroundings.

  Crystal glasses with stems fine as slivers of ice were set at every place and Arthur, the elderly butler, stood in attendance in the rear of the room making certain those glasses never emptied. Her palate was alternately teased by tangy salads, soothed by creamy sauces, then satisfied by tender cuts of beef and delicate chicken.

  It was a scene of stately elegance, an elegance that spoke of generations of finely honed traditions and of unimpeachably fine pedigrees—America's royalty.

  Somehow Mr. McKenna didn't quite fit in.

  Seated on Stephen's right, Alexandra cast a surreptitious peek in McKenna's direction, trying to put her finger on exactly what was wrong. It certainly wasn't the way he was dressed. He wore trousers and a frock coat of dove grey wool, with a fine wine cravat and delicate gold stick pin. His large frame carried the clothes with a casual grace that she envied as she found herself devoting as much time to worrying about spilling something on her silk dress or losing one of her earrings in her consommé as she did to actually eating. His hair, a rich chestnut brown, was liberally streaked pale blonde by the sun and in the glow of candlelight, his eyes glittered a brilliant blue-green that reminded her of the Mediterranean.

  Alexandra despised liars and she would be lying most abominably if she said McKenna was anything but a splendid specimen of a man from the tips of his polished black boots to the top of his sun-bleached head.

  She would also be lying if she said he was anything but the most foul-tempered, rude individual she'd ever encountered.

  Three times she had tried to engage him in conversation about East Hampton, and three times he had ignored her and refilled his whiskey glass. It seemed the only time he came to life was to skewer Stephen with a look or comment sharp enough to draw blood.