Archer, Jane (2 page)

"Yes," Winchell agreed. "She could have had her pick," puffing on his cigar, the smoke and stale air swirling around him. "But she was quite ungrateful, even became upset and said she would never marry
any
of them, actually even complained that we'd kept her from meeting any other eligible young men by not letting her have a coming-out ball. Imagine! The nerve! The ingratitude!"

Stan chuckled low in his throat. He had them at last. "Well," he began, "all you've said is true, gentlemen. Are you now ready to right some wrongs, to do what is best for yourselves—and the company?"

"We've always done what was best for the company," Winchell insisted irritably.

"Of course, gentlemen, you've always done that," Stan quickly agreed to soothe their offended pride. "And I've gone along with your plans to marry Alexandra to one of your sons, but now she's seen and rejected them all, even after your persuasive hints about Thorssen's continued good health."

"I can't understand her—just can't," Winchell mumbled, pulling at his beard, images of Alexandra and her mother, Deirdre, mingling in his mind.

"Now, you do all remember our bargain?" Stan asked. "I will marry the little heiress," and for more reasons than the money, Stan added to himself, a vision of the beautiful Alexandra waiting sweetly for him in their marriage bed flitting across his mind. "Yes, I will marry Alexandra—after I've disposed of Thorssen and I'll take
that
responsibility completely upon myself. All I want is your agreement that after I marry Alexander, I will share your control of the company," Stan said, staring hard and insistently at each man in turn, carefully avoiding the rest of his plan—to eventually take complete control for himself.

There was a silence in the room. Each old man thought his own thoughts but eventually each man decided what Stan had skillfully led them to decide—that control of the company must be gained at any cost. Alexandra Clarke must not be allowed to marry out of the family.

Three pairs of cloudy eyes began to clear until finally they glinted evilly and assuredly at Stan. Their decision was made. He could read it in their faces. "Well, gentlemen?" he asked, urging them to the final, overt commitment.

Each head nodded and each voice agreed.

Suddenly Stan stood up, furious energy flowing through him, readying him for action.

"The company will be ours—yours—at last," Stan assured them. "Just leave matters to me. Whatever happens, act surprised. I will take care of Thorssen
and
Alexandra, but you must all play your parts, too."

Once more they nodded, wanting now only to be done with the formalities so that they could go back to discussing the virtues and beauty of the perfect Deirdre Magee, forgetting entirely that she was the mother of Alexandra whose fate they had just signed away to the greedy Stanton Lewis.

"Then the deed will be done—and soon," Stan promised ruthlessly, a burning eagerness spreading through his veins as his passions for riches, for power and for the beautiful Alexandra Clarke edged ever closer to a final fulfillment.

Prologue ii

Alexandra Clarke paced the floor of her upstairs sitting room nervously as she awaited the return of her old friend, Olaf Thorssen. He was late in arriving from his daily afternoon walk, and she was unaccountably apprehensive. When he had not arrived on time, she had come upstairs so that she could look for his familiar figure coming jauntily down the street, but he had not yet appeared.

She was frankly worried for Olaf. Recently, her three second cousins, William, Winchell, and Wilton Clarke, had made scarcely veiled threats against the old man, and she had not been able to shrug them off as Olaf did, or at least pretended to do.

Olaf had warned her to marry only a man that she could love, and she could hardly even stand to be in the same room with the dutiful, pompous boys that her three cousins had presented to her as eligible young men. Marry one of them—bah!

Yes, she was worried about Olaf. He had scoffed at her suggestion that he should have someone with him all the time. For even at seventy, Olaf was a strong, bull of a man and would not be intimidated.

Where was Olaf? It had been much too long. She jerked back the drapes and her heart jumped strangely in her breast as she saw a crowd gathered in the street at the intersection less than a block away—the place where Olaf always crossed the street when returning. Panic gripped her, but she would not believe the scene below had anything to do with Olaf. Her nerves were to blame—they had been so strained of late.

Yet, with a white pinched face, Alexandra threw the drapes back, ran quickly across her room, grabbed her cape, and hurried down the stairs to the front door of her mansion. She would never remember the steps that took her to that bizarre scene in the street, only the wild pounding of her heart and the urgent desire to be with those people, see for herself that it was not Olaf.

The crowd was steadily growing as she pushed them back roughly, trying to gain the center of the circle. The hurriedly gathered group parted for her as they saw her pale face and blind eyes, knowing that she was connected with this somehow. Finally, Alexandra pushed aside the last person and a small whimper came from her throat as she saw what she had known would be there and yet had denied to the last moment.

"Olaf," she whispered as she knelt by his strangely contorted body covered in dust and mud. "Olaf, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault," she said chokingly as her tears formed two paths down her cheeks. She lifted his head to her lap and for the first time saw that he looked old, tired, and at last, mortal.

"Alexandra," he whispered hoarsely.

She pushed back his hair, stroking his temples, as she leaned down close to his face.

"Alexandra, you must flee. Do not delay. They'll kill you, too, or force you to marry one of them. Beware of Stan—Lewis. He's deadly," Olaf rasped, then coughed weakly. His face was becoming grayer by the second, but yet she could not believe that he would really leave her. He was all she had, had ever had.

"I've loved you like my granddaughter, like the grandson I never got to know. Go, Alex, go to New Orleans. Find my daughter, my grandson. Perhaps they'll be able to help you. Go, while you still can. Hide from the family, at least until you come of age," he whispered weakly, his eyes glowing feverishly in his head.

She could hardly see him for the tears clouding her eyes, but she knew she would forever hear his words.

"Promise, promise me you'll go—now. Go to

New Orleans and find my family. Tell them that I always loved them and that I was... was a stupid old man."

"No! No, Olaf, you were never stupid, and I, I promise—anything, only don't leave me."

"Don't wait for my funeral, Alex. Go now. Flee while you can, before they can snare you, make you one of them. Prove that you're your father's daughter. Prove—" he started, but his breath seemed to die away and his eyes lost their brilliance, slowly losing their focus. Then he was still and lifeless against Alexandra. She hugged him to her, sobbing in her anguish.

Although her heart felt like ice, her mind was on fire with his words. They had killed Olaf—killed him to gain control, she thought. Well, she would show them. She
would
go. She would flee to New Orleans. If Olaf had used his last moments to ask her to promise him something, nothing in this world could keep her from that promise.

Yet how would she find two people she had never seen, who had been gone from New York for twenty-five years? But she
would
find them—she had promised. And she was glad that Olaf had at last forgiven his daughter for marrying a Southerner and then following him to Louisiana. Olaf had once explained to her how his only daughter, Eleanor, had fallen in love with a Southern gentleman named Jarmon from Louisiana when he had been on business in New York City. They had married almost immediately, even though Olaf had not approved of her choice. But they had been so much in love that nothing could stop their happiness, or their determination to be together, until Jarmon received word from his plantation in Louisiana that his father was sick. He was needed at home. He was afraid for Eleanor to travel with him since she was now pregnant, and so she agreed to stay in New York with her father until the child was born. Then her husband could return and take them to his plantation near New Orleans.

Eleanor had bravely accepted their separation, consoling herself with thoughts of their child and their future together. She moved in with her father and waited for word from Jarmon. She received no
letters and no replies to her own letters. Time passed and her child was born, a son, but still there was no word from her husband in Louisiana. Olaf told her to forget the man who had so abandoned her, but she finally became desperate and, after arguing with Olaf, fled, taking her infant son, Jacob, to Louisiana to find the man she loved. Olaf never heard from any of them again, and his pride had kept him from seeking them in the South.

And now, after all these years, after the bloody Civil War, would they even still be alive? Would she be able to find them? Alexandra pulled Olaf's body closer to her, thinking that if he wanted her to go to them, find them, then she must. And Olaf's death would not go unpunished. She would have her revenge. She would—

Suddenly Alexandra was jerked up roughly by strong hands. She whirled around, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Stanton Lewis," she said, surprised. "What are you doing here?" Seeing him there reminded her suddenly of Olaf's words concerning this strange, cold man—beware, deadly. She would indeed be wary of him, but then she had never trusted Stan Lewis.

"I was coming to see you, Alexandra, when I saw the commotion in the street. I came over to offer my services, but found you—and Olaf," he said slowly, without emotion.

Alexandra eyed him unsurely. His answer was too pat, too ready. She didn't trust him.

"Olaf. I don't know—" she began, feeling her tears dry and a numbness invade her body. She did not feel warm and vibrant any longer, but cold and lifeless like Olaf. Still, she had a mission and she must be very careful, cautious if she was to carry it out.

"I will take you back to your home, Alexandra. You shouldn't be out here in the street—with all of these people. It is lucky for you that I came along."

"But Olaf—"

"I will see that all is taken care of. There is nothing more that you can do for him now," he said authoritatively, as he pulled her away from Olaf, out of the ring of spectators and toward his carriage.

"But what happened? I didn't see—"

"You didn't see what happened?" he asked quickly.

Alexandra thought she heard a note of surprise, a pleased sound in his voice, but she couldn't be sure. They stopped by his carriage and he continued speaking.

"It's best that you didn't see, Alexandra. He was run over by a carriage and its team of horses."

"Oh, no. Did they tell you that?"

"That's what the spectators saw. The driver never stopped or returned to help. We'll never know now."

"No," she said vaguely, really believing that her friend had been murdered by her own family.

Stan Lewis helped Alexandra into his carriage, then jumped in beside her. They rode the short distance to her home in silence. He helped her out, hurrying her up the steps and into the large, imposing house with a proprietary air that she didn't think necessary. After escorting her into the dimly lit parlor and carefully seating her on a small settee, he rang for service. Alexandra didn't like his taking charge, but she remained quiet.

Soon the maid returned with two drinks on a heavy silver tray. Stan took them from her and came to Alexandra, sitting down beside her on the settee. The maid discreetly shut the door, leaving them alone together.

"Here, Alexandra, drink this," he said softly, handing it to her.

"I don't really want—"

"Drink it. You need it."

She took the crystal glass and touched it to her lips—it burned. Brandy. She drank a little more. It was warm and comforting. She began to feel more like herself, but even the brandy could not warm the coldness in her heart.

"Now, Alexandra," he said, leaning toward her.

Alexandra looked up and was surprised to find his face so close to hers; his gray eyes were burning with an intensity she had not thought possible. She shrank back from him, not recognizing this Stan Lewis.

"Alexandra," he began again, "you needn't worry about Olaf. I will take care of the funeral. You needn't worry about anything—anymore."

Alexandra quickly looked away from him, her heart beating faster. She knew he was going to say more and she didn't want to hear the words. Intuitively she had never trusted Stan, never, not even before Olaf had told her about him: about how he was the illegitimate son of Celeste, the sister of the Clarke cousins, about how she had been raped at fourteen; about how his birth had killed his young mother.

Under the circumstances, the Clarke family had walked the middle road, giving the child the last name of Lewis, his grandmother's maiden name. But Stan had always been an outcast, an underdog, determined to improve his lot and to prove himself more worthy than other men in order to compensate for his socially inferior status. He had worked harder than others, learned faster, risen through the company ranks quicker until at last he had been Olaf's right-hand man, helping to manage the company. But still, though Olaf could understand what drove Stan and motivated him to such extreme exertions, the old sea captain had always felt there was something disturbing and basically dishonest lurking just under Stan's hard-working, conscientious veneer. And Alexandra had felt it too, even as a little girl. Perhaps his gray eyes were too intense? Had they watched her too closely then, just as they were doing now?

She made a move to get up, but suddenly found herself stopped by the iron grip of his hand. She looked down at it and then up into his determined face. It was a face strangely without lines, the smooth pale skin drawn tightly over his prominent bone structure, and the only concession he seemed to have made to age was the silver gray hair blending in with the natural sandy color. Still, as long as she could remember, his hair had been that silver-sandy mixture, giving him the look of a wolf with his piercing gray eyes.