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  Janine gave her a saucy look then chuckled. "Oh, no, miss, hardly that. The missus and Mr. McKenna took the carriage out near two hours ago."

  Alexandra's shoulders drooped and she made an effort to keep her confused emotions under control. Janine was delightful but servants talked and being the object of belowstairs conjecture was hardly the way to begin her new position.

  "I didn't realize Mr. McKenna was married."

  She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I call her the missus because I would be wonderin' how else to call her, what with their union not blessed by the Holy Mother Church."

  How beautiful the dark haired girl had looked in his arms last night.

  How strange it made her feel to think about it.

  "I understand," she managed finally, "and I appreciate your telling me."

  "This ain't the normal household, miss. My ma thinks I put one foot in hell the day I started workin' here."

  "No matter," she said striving to change the subject. "It's Mr. Lowell I will be working with today."

  "Cook's husband said Mr. Stephen called for the pony cart and went out right after Mr. Matthew and the missus." The look she gave Alexandra was both challenging and cautious. "And it's happy I was to see him leave."

  So Janine had felt the sharp edge of Matthew McKenna's tongue as well. "You don't like Mr. McKenna?"

  "Not Mr. Matthew. I mean--"

  "Darling girl!"

  Alexandra spun around as Stephen Lowell swept into the room smelling of leather and salt air. Before she could say a word, he grabbed her hands in his and focused his large blue eyes directly on her.

  "Can you forgive me for being so terribly late?" It was more a statement than a question. "Some little problem reared its ugly head and it was either attend to it now or have it flare up into a major conflagration." He glanced at the table where the remnants of her breakfast remained. "I'd rather hoped you would sleep late so we could have a leisurely breakfast alone."

  Janine quietly disappeared back into the kitchen. Alexandra disengaged her hands from his and smoothed down the front of her violet dress.

  "I could hardly sleep late when you said we were to begin working at eight," she reminded gently.

  "So I did," mused Stephen, scratching the underside of his chin with a thumbnail. "My memory hasn't been worth a tinker's damn lately." His smile was wide and guileless. "Am I forgiven?"

  She inclined her head politely, once again the Aynsley girl. "Of course," she said, still mildly shocked by his language. "A wise employee always sees fit to accept the heartfelt apologies of her employer."

  He looked at her for a moment then threw his head back and laughed. "Why is it I feel I'm being elegantly skewered?"

  She merely smiled brightly.

  "I must correct you on one point, however, and remind you I am not your employer. My uncle Andrew is that."

  "I have not as yet met your uncle Andrew," she said, following him into the foyer. "At this moment, you are the only authority I have come in contact with."

  "That oversight can be corrected." He stopped near the foot of the stairs and leaned against the banister. "Don't look at me that way, darling girl. His reputation notwithstanding, Andrew Lowell is just like any other man."

  If every other man happened to be a genius...

  Chapter Five

  "Saying Andrew Lowell is like everyone else is like saying Napoleon Bonaparte was just another soldier. Your uncle is a legend in Paris."

  Andrew Lowell's name had single-handedly kept the Impressionist art movement alive when most critics—and the public, as well—were clamoring for the artists' heads on a huge silver platter.

  "This legend, as you call him, may not be all you expect."

  "He is Andrew Lowell, is he not? What more can I ask." The thought of breathing the same air as the famous artist made her legs tremble.

  "This is the perfect time," he said, shepherding her up the winding staircase for you're looking pretty as a painted boat today. God knows, my uncle has an eye for beauty."

  That fact was patently obvious by the choice of extravagant furnishing in the mansion. If she'd believed the rooms on the first floor were splendid, they were nothing when compared to the riches of the mansion's master wing. A marble sculpture of Zeus, powerful and alive, dominated an alcove window at the top of the stairs, flanked by a tiny Vermeer oil, a Raphael drawing, and an illuminated manuscript on a gilt stand. Persian carpets in lustrous shades of pearl and dove grey fired with bursts of crimson covered the floors while massive portraits of long-dead Lowells watched her progress through the winding hallway toward the artist's suite of rooms.

  She stopped for a moment before one of those venerable Lowell ancestors. Once, years ago, Alexandra had seen a portrait of Andrew Lowell by Sargent hanging in a London museum and then, too, she had felt the same pull. She had stood there in front of the portrait—fascinated by the leonine head of jet black hair and the cool glitter of golden eyes—until Marisa swooped down upon her and dragged her away by her ear.

  How amazing to realize that her life had brought her to this place—and that Marisa was responsible.

  She hurried to catch up with Stephen then followed him down the hallway until he stopped before the closed door to Andrew's room and tapped on it with his huge onyx and diamond signet ring.

  "Ready?" he asked as she heard soft footsteps approaching.

  She swallowed. "No, I do not believe I am ready at all."

  "Just remember how much he needs you," Stephen said. "Just remember that—"

  The door swung open and Alexandra found herself looking down into the liquid dark eyes of the woman she'd seen in Matthew McKenna's arms the previous evening.

  "What in blazes are you doing here?" Stephen barked. "I saw you leave with McKenna this morning."

  "Yes," she said quietly. "And now I am here."

  "Where's McKenna?"

  "My business is not to know where Matthew is." Her voice was soft and melodious. "Nor is it yours."

  "We're here to see Uncle Andrew," Stephen said, his voice now clipped and businesslike. "Please tell him."

  The woman—whom Alexandra instantly realized wasn't the young girl she had believed her to be—nodded but remained standing where she was, her dark eyes intent upon Alexandra.

  Next to her, Stephen was rigid with anger. "Either tell him now or we shall see him unannounced. It's your choice."

  The woman's eyes finally left Alexandra. The look she gave Stephen was long and deep; the nuances, too subtle for Alexandra to comprehend.

  "He is in the rear studio," the dark-haired woman said as they followed her through a long hallway paneled in lustrous mahogany and into a huge, sunny sitting room. "You are to wait one minute, yes?"

  At first glance, the room seemed almost Japanese in style with eggshell walls that reflected the light streaming in through the enormous windows. A cluster of chairs, spare and angular, faced a sleek black marble hearth in the corner and an odd display of bare branches fanned out from a crystal cylinder that rested in the center of the room.

  The woman returned. "He will see you."

  Stephen turned and met Alexandra's eyes. "He's only a man," he said. "Not a god. Remember that."

  Lowell's back was to her as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom studio. An easel was set up before him with a small table to his left upon which rested some rags, tins of turpentine and linseed oil, and a palette of magnificent oils whose colors held the secrets of great art. A basket of daisies balanced on the windowsill, next to two red apples and a pale blue china cup.

  A fierce longing rose up inside Alexandra's artist's soul, and she wished it were possible to absorb all the knowledge in that room simply by running her hands over the textures of the paint itself.

  "Have you gone mute then, Stephen?" Andrew Lowell's voice rasped like a palette knife scraping over dry canvas. "Come over here and bring the girl with you."

  Stephen's hand slipped beneath her elbow and she found her
self propelled across the vast expanse of polished wood floor.

  "You're sounding well this morning, Uncle Andrew," Stephen boomed, his voice sounding falsely hearty to Alexandra's ears. "The medicine must be helping."

  "The medicine addles my brains," Lowell retorted. "Had I strength, I would toss it out the window. I may do so yet."

  Alexandra noticed that Stephen's face paled at his uncle's words. "Then it is a good thing I keep it under lock and key, is it not? That medicine is of paramount importance, Uncle Andrew." He lowered his voice until his words were almost inaudible. "I shall make certain you continue to take it."

  Andrew obviously did not hear that last statement for he continued to stare blatantly at Alexandra, taking her measure with his eyes. "I am waiting, Stephen."

  Stephen recovered his poise. "I am pleased you are eager to meet your new assistant." Placing his palm against the small of her back, he gave her a push and Alexandra found herself face to face with the great artist. The sight of his ravaged body took her breath away and she prayed her shock wasn't visible. The proud lion of Sargent's portrait was gone, replaced by a man clearly dying by degrees. His gaunt frame was dwarfed by a pale silk robe the color of weak tea. Instead of the thick mane of black hair, thinning strands of winter white crisscrossed his head. The savage yellow-gold eyes had dimmed and smudges of charcoal fanned out beneath them, dipping almost onto the slashes of cheekbone that delineated his face.

  Next to her Stephen cleared his throat. "Uncle Andrew," he said, "this is Alexandra Glenn."

  No response from Andrew Lowell.

  Stephen shifted position. "Alexandra has come here to help you. Don't you remember saying you needed an assistant?"

  "I am physically ill, Stephen, not feeble-minded. I remember precisely what was said." The look he gave Stephen was one of sheer contempt and Alexandra had to steel herself against the urge to flee when he turned his faded glance on her. Suspicion was in his eyes and she pitied the genius who was indeed mortal after all.

  "Hello," she said, inclining her head. "It is an honor to meet you, sir."

  "I hate flattery," he snapped.

  "As do I," she returned, holding her ground. "I speak the truth. Your reputation precedes you."

  "Hah!" Lowell cackled. "If that is true, you would be wise to run, young lady."

  "Perhaps, I would but I have no intention of doing so."

  He leaned closer. "I need no assistant." Stephen moved to speak but Andrew Lowell flashed him a quelling look. "I work alone."

  "Naturally. I was under the impression that I am here to begin cataloguing your works."

  "Ah, yes," he said dryly. "The inevitable gravestone summary of a man's achievements."

  "I beg to differ with you, sir. The cataloguing of one's works is an artist's duty. How else can the scope of your achievement be appreciated by art collectors?"

  Andrew motioned toward his nephew. "Did he tell you to say that?"

  Her chin lifted in defiance. "I say what is on my mind, Mr. Lowell."

  "Are you an art student?" he asked, watching her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey.

  "No, I am not." Her lessons had been catch-as-catch-can affairs that Esme had wangled for her, bartering away suppers of cassoulet and red wine in return for a bite of knowledge for Alexandra. "Someday I hope to be."

  He snorted. "Mark me well, girl: I am no teacher. I create art; I do not explain it."

  "Great art is its own explanation. I will learn whether or not you wish me to."

  Her answer seemed to please him.

  "You have an accent," he said, still watching her intently.

  "As do you."

  "I hear both French and British in your vowel sounds."

  "You're quite perceptive, sir."

  His attention shifted suddenly to Stephen. "It would be wise to remember that fact."

  Instead of responding, Stephen made a show of gazing out the window at the ocean and Alexandra wondered if his action was one of wisdom or cowardice. It was impossible, however, to pursue that line of thought for Andrew's attention returned to her.

  "I hate impertinent women," he said.

  A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I shall endeavor to remember that, sir, but at this late date change seems unlikely."

  He motioned toward the beautiful dark-haired woman who waited silently in the corner of the room. "Take the chit to the attic," he said imperiously. "We shall see how much she learns fighting spiders for her work space."

  Andrew Lowell waited for a reaction but Alexandra merely nodded and held her tongue.

  "Wait in the drawing room," said Stephen. "I shall be with you shortly."

  She turned to leave the room and, as she did, she thought she saw Andrew Lowell smile.

  #

  The first time Matthew had seen East Hampton, he'd been flat on his back in a buckboard, cross-eyed stinking drunk. Andrew had found him in a New York City tavern and decided to rescue him one more time. It was the middle of January, a dank miserable month at best, and that day the eastern end of Long Island had been under siege by a storm. A vicious wind, tempered only by its nearness to the ocean, made him shiver uncontrollably while fat heavy flakes of snow covered his eyes and cheeks and drifted into his nostrils and mouth.

  Andrew had taken pity on him and flung a light wool scarf over his head, laughing that until that moment he'd believed the turkey to be the only animal stupid enough to drown in a rainfall. Obviously Andrew Lowell had been wrong that day because Matthew knew he had been drowning for years and he intended to continue drowning until the supply of rum and bourbon and rye ran out.

  And why not? The pain he felt when sober was as slicing and intense today as it had been the morning of the accident and only the sweet oblivion found in the bottle offered him any respite.

  Enough, he thought, forcing his mind back to the present. Looking back was never a profitable venture.

  He turned the trap onto Main Street and headed west past the wooden frame houses and the up-to-date brick cottages set within the framework of towering oaks and graceful poplars that it had taken him months to even notice. Crystal clear ponds and streams with names like Georgica and Lily and Seabury Creek cut through lawns greener than the emeralds his bitch-wife held so dear.

  He reined in the chestnut near the center of town and looped the reins over the post in front of Van Scoy and Dayton's and headed toward the post office. The late morning April splendor of the day was lost to Matthew today, but this time it had nothing to do with the blessings to be found in a bottle of rum. He had taken Dayla into Sag Harbor earlier that morning to purchase some supplies for Andrew. They both had been surprised to see Stephen Lowell in deep conversation with Doctor Dwyer's young wife in front of the newspaper office. Lowell had looked sleek and sly as a prowling tomcat and Matthew's fists had clenched instinctively as he guided the trap past them and Stephen called out a cheery, utterly false, hello.

  The moment Dayla realized Andrew had been left entirely alone at Sea View she had implored Matthew to turn the trap around and he had been only too happy to oblige her. The last thing he wanted was to watch Stephen snaking through another man's garden. Watching him with Alexandra Glenn last night at dinner had been gutful enough.

  Hell, he thought as he pushed open the door to the post office. He'd had gutful enough of cheating from the moment he married Madolyn Porter.

  He remembered too well each slanted look, each secret smirk behind a manicured hand had ripped out a chunk of his heart until he was certain nothing but hard strangling ropes of scar tissue were left behind.

  "You are looking well today, Mr. McKenna." Evangeline Ames said as he entered the post office. Evangeline, a plump grandmotherly matron, handed over a stack of mail bound for Sea View and offered him a coquettish smile. "I hope Mr. Lowell is in equally fine fettle."

  "Andrew is in excellent spirits," Matthew replied, sidestepping the issue. He had become expert at evasion these last months.

  "I
was just saying to Mrs. Huntting at the town meeting on Wednesday that we sorely miss Mr. Lowell's presence at our functions. Having so famous a personage in our midst is quite delightful, I must say."

  He forced a smile. "I'll be certain to tell him, Mrs. Ames. I know if he weren't so busy with his work, he would be most happy to play a larger part in your community functions." Andrew's illness was not common knowledge and, in deference to his mentor's wishes, Matthew was making certain it did not become fodder for the gossip mill.

  Mrs. Ames's smile widened. "The Ladies' Aid Auxiliary is selling tickets for the Silver Lake Quartette's appearance. I know I speak for everyone when I say we would be most gratified if you would join us for the evening show."

  "If at all possible," he said, scanning the letters in his hand as he backed toward the door. "Good day, Mrs. Ames."

  "Must you leave so soon, Mr. McKenna? Henrietta Nugent's daughter Frances sails home from her grand tour on Sunday. Perhaps—"

  The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the good woman's words but Matthew didn't notice. There, on the bottom of the bundle of mail was the familiar ivory vellum belonging to Edward Strawbridge, his banker.

  For months now Edward had been sending him urgent messages about Madolyn's wild gambling sprees, begging Matthew to return to San Francisco and try to stop her insanity before it destroyed everything Matthew had labored so long to build. He tore open the letter, scarcely noticing as the ruby red wax seal cracked then fell to the sidewalk by his feet.

  ... my advice to you, dear friend, is to take this untenable situation in hand and move to sever the last of the ties that bind you to Madolyn in name alone... I cannot stress enough how serious matters are and can only hope you understand the gravity of my distress and will contact me with the time of your arrival so I can...

  He crumpled the letter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. "Son of a bitch," he muttered to the horror of a pair of young girls hurrying toward school, prim and proper in their navy wool uniforms and plaited hair. He didn't need to be reminded that everything he owned was slipping through his wife's elegant and greedy fingers. He didn't need to be reminded that what faced him was Hobson's choice: if he took the next train to San Francisco, he might as well sign Andrew's death warrant.