Keys to the Castle (17 page)

Sara sat down abruptly in one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs.

It was a long time before he spoke again, and then his voice was heavy, flat and stiff and deliberately devoid of emotion. “It was all simply ghastly. There were no relatives, and the police found the child, Alyssa, with her mother's body, trying to wake her up.”

Sara pressed her fingers tightly against her lips.

“Daniel felt—well, you can imagine how Daniel felt. It knocked him off his feet. He thought he was responsible. And when he realized there was no one to care for the child, he wanted to set up a trust for her.”

Sara thought, a little hysterically, He
thought
he was responsible? He
thought
?

She had married a man who had fathered a child and refused to acknowledge her. She had married a man who was responsible for another woman's death. She had done that. She had done that and she had never known, had never guessed, had never even imagined . . .

Somehow, in the spinning, sucking vortex of her wild thoughts, Ash's voice came through, anchoring her.

“That's when he came to me for money, and I offered to buy shares in the château. The trust is enough to keep her in good schools with room and board and on to university, and perhaps to set her up in a small place afterward. Since Daniel lived abroad, the law firm—well, I, actually—assumed legal guardianship, in case of a medical emergency or such as that. We managed to place her in a very nice school in Lyon. There are so very few of them that take children her age. Whenever I'm in France I visit her, and send her gifts for the holidays—that's why she calls me her
petit-papa
. Her almost-father.”

It was a long time before Sara could speak. But she thought,
I can deal with this. I can. I've had to deal with so much . . . I can do this
. When she spoke at last her voice was hoarse but almost steady. And the question she asked was not really what she wanted to know at all. It was simply all she could think of. “Why—would you do that? Any of it? Give him money, assume guardianship of a child who was a stranger to you, visit her at school . . . why would you do that?”

Through the entire speech his gaze had remained fixed on the window, his face in profile to her. Now he looked back at her. The corners of his eyes tightened just a little, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. He replied simply, “It's what we do, Sara. The Lindemans have been taking care of the Orsays for generations—straightening out their finances, managing their estates, cleaning up their messes. It's what we do.”

He spoke of a world she did not know, and didn't want to know. For the first time she felt the full foreignness of this place—this culture, the man she had married, the man with whom she had just spent a fairy-tale week in a castle. She had never known any of them.

“But . . .” She foundered, still trying to find something to cling to, struggling to make her voice work. “You're telling me that Daniel . . . that you . . . did all this, mortgaged his inheritance, set up the trust, found the best school—all for a child who wasn't his?”

Ash's eyes were weary, and his expression sad. “There was never any proof of paternity,” he said. “But if I have to be honest . . . I can't say whether Daniel ever knew for certain.”

Sara thought dimly,
I never knew him. I never knew him at all
.

From the doorway, Michele said lazily, “Don't be absurd,
mon cher
, of course he knew. Daniel was many things, but he was no fool. He must have been convinced the child was his long before he invested money in her.”

Ash turned on her, every ounce of his being radiating disdain. His tone was glacial. “This is beneath contempt, Michele, even for you. Where is Alyssa?”

Michele shrugged and responded in French, but he cut her off.

“Speak English, goddamn it.”

Hatred darkened Michele's eyes and Sara stared at Ash. The smooth Prince Charming to whom she had grown accustomed was gone, and in his place was a man she barely recognized. This man did not play games, or mince words, or make allowances. This was the man who made multimillion-dollar deals happen with a single phone call, who crushed his competition without a qualm, and who never looked back. She had always known, of course, that man was there, just beneath the surface. She had simply not expected to feel so dismayed when she met him face-to-face.

Michele turned to Sara and gave a slow, exceedingly polite nod of her head. “The child is with Cook, having a sweet. She is happy as a bird.” She even managed a smile for Sara, and strolled over to sit on the little settee across from her. She took out a cigarette and tapped it on the back of her hand. “The château is a marvelous place for a little one to play. I remember how much I enjoyed it as a child.”

Ash said, “Don't smoke in here.”

Glaring at him, Michele thumbed the wheel on her small silver lighter. In a single stride, Ash snatched the cigarette from her and ground it beneath his heel on the marble floor. Michele surged to her feet with eyes flaming and Sara exclaimed, “Oh, for God's sake!” She stood as well, and pushed past the two of them. “Do I have to be here for this?”

It was with a visible effort that Ash rearranged his features into something almost resembling civility, and he glanced at Sara. “I'm sorry,” he said stiffly. “You're right. This is no way for adults to behave.”

He turned back to Michele. “How did you get her out of school?”

She seemed to hesitate a moment before deciding that her own interests could best be served by controlling her temper, and then she shrugged. “It is no matter,” she murmured, smiling a little. “Soon I shall smoke wherever I want,
cher
, and then I will be grinding
you
under
my
heel.”

She settled back on the settee, crossing her long legs and stretching one arm out over the back so that her breasts pushed firmly against the silky green fabric. She answered Ash's question with another little shrug. “It was not so difficult. The school, it is on spring holiday, as any proper guardian would know. When I identified myself as Mrs. Lindeman, wife of the sweet child's guardian . . .”

“I am going to have every person at that school sacked,” Ash said tightly. “You are not Mrs. Lindeman, and you are not her guardian. They had no right to release her to you.”

Michele just smiled. “Now, that is where you are wrong . . . or soon will be, I think. You see, as Daniel's only living relative, I think it is only right that I assume . . . what is that word?
Custodianship
, yes, that is it. Custodianship of his child.”

A heartbeat passed, no more than that.

“And of her property.” Ash's voice was soft, and tinged with something like relief—or perhaps it was a touch of admiration. “So that's your scheme.”

Sara felt as though she had stumbled, somehow, into a bad play. All she wanted to do was get away from them both, from the ugliness that seemed to emanate from them and taint the very air of the room. She reached for the door.

“Sara, wait,” Ash said, though he barely glanced at her when he said it, as though he was cautious about taking his eyes off Michele. “This concerns you.”

“No, it doesn't,” she said flatly, and she left the room.

Ash found Sara less than an hour later sitting on the grassy bank beside the moat, her arms encircling her updrawn knees, absently tossing stones into the clear blue water. Three swans floated in effortless circles in the distance, watching her incuriously.

He was, not surprisingly, on the phone even as he walked down the hill toward her, but he finished his conversation abruptly and pocketed the phone before he reached her. He was wearing sunglasses that reflected the lake and the sky, but she could see the grim lines of his mouth and the set of his jaw.

“Sara,” he said without preamble. “I need to be in Paris before seven to meet with the French
avocat
, and I'll be flying back to London tonight. It's all very complex, but basically the problem is this: According to the French laws of succession, the claims of a child, even an illegitimate one, supersede the claim of a spouse on a deceased's estate. The only way Michele can file a claim on Alyssa's behalf is to file a petition for custody. She seems determined to do that and unless I can preempt her this could get very ugly indeed.”

Sara tossed another pebble into the water. One of the swans noticed the splash and began to glide from the center of the lake toward it. “She's the child's only living relative.”

“She's not a relative,” he returned impatiently. “And even if she were, an alley cat's a better mother than she would be. She has no chance of gaining custody and she knows that. But she also knows if she challenges the estate, we won't be able to dispose of it until the courts clear it—which could take years in France. That's why I have to take care of this right away.”

Another pebble. The swan circled the ripples.

“I don't think there's anything for you to worry about at this point,” he went on, “but I'll need you to sign the settlement papers as soon as possible. My office will have them waiting for you when you arrive home, and you'll fax them right back to me, yes?”

She said lowly, without looking at him, “I hate that you've done this. I hate that you've ruined my memories of this place. And of Daniel.”

He seemed startled, perhaps even hurt, and even as she said it she knew she was being unfair. It wasn't his fault her husband had had a child and neglected to tell her about it. It wasn't his fault that the innocence had been stripped away from everything she believed about her marriage. She knew that. But she didn't know who else to blame.

Sunlight glinted off his dark glasses as he glanced back at the castle, and then, quickly, at his watch. She could sense his frustration. He said, “I've ordered a car to take you to the airport tomorrow. Michele is leaving. Will you be all right here tonight by yourself?”

She didn't bother to answer.

He started to lean down as though to—what? Touch her? Kiss her?—and then he changed his mind. “I'm so sorry it ended like this, Sara,” he said quietly.

She replied, without looking at him, “So am I.”

Still, he hesitated. “I tried to protect you from this. I'm still trying to protect you. But I have to leave.”

She did not look up.

He lingered for only a moment longer. “I'll be in touch.”

She didn't answer, and he walked briskly back up the hill.

She waited until the sound of the Fiat's engine had completely faded away before she got up and walked back to the château. The black Citroën was still in the drive, and to avoid an encounter with Michele she walked around the walled gardens toward the back terrace. By the time she smelled the cigarette smoke, it was too late. Michele, stretched out on one of the teak loungers like an exotic lizard luxuriating in the sun, turned a lazy gaze on her.

Sara hesitated at the edge of the terrace, and then, feeling like a fool for allowing this stranger to intimidate her, she moved on toward the door at a determined pace. Michele turned her gaze back to the view, inhaling cigarette smoke, ignoring her. It wasn't until Sara drew abreast of her that Michele spoke.

“It truly is magnificent, isn't it? To think of the generations of my family who have trod these halls, who have gazed upon this valley . . . it truly can take the breath away.” And she glanced at Sara. “You have nothing like this in America. You cannot imagine the feelings it stirs.”

Sara said flatly, “No. I can't imagine.” She turned to go inside.

Michele drew again on the cigarette and exhaled a graceful stream of smoke. “My Ashton, he is so very clever. Too clever for his own good sometimes, I think. This agreement he has reached with the hotel . . . did he tell you he had been attempting to persuade Daniel of the same thing for years?”

Sara turned slowly to look at her.

“I wonder why Daniel would have refused?” Michele continued, pretending not to notice Sara's surprise. “It could have made him a rich man, and he did, after all, have a family to support.” She smiled then and glanced at Sara. “But I am being indelicate, no?”

Good God
, thought Sara distantly, and with something that felt like amazement creeping into the repulsion she was beginning to feel toward this woman.
All she needs is a basket of poisoned apples.

Michele blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke into the air. Sara found herself unable to look away, unable to stop listening. “Here is something you must know about my Ashton,” she said. “He is fascinated by all things Orsay. It is like a sickness with him. I think it is because, for all that he has acquired, there is something he can never be, and the Orsays—the last of the grand French aristocracy—are that. And so he is obsessed with what is Orsay. This château, me, Daniel . . .” She slanted a look at Sara. “Daniel's wife. Why do you think he worked so hard to find a way to own shares of this property? He could have given Daniel the money; he has it to spare. Or loaned it to him on other terms. And even now the contract he negotiates with the hotel is not for sale, it is for lease. He remains in control.” She took one last draw on the cigarette, gave an elaborate shrug, and blew out the smoke. “I tell you this only so that you do not imagine this inheritance of yours will ever be truly yours. He is very clever, and he will not give it up.”