Guardian Girl (The Chronicles of Staffordshire) Read online

  “…And you will not abuse her, sir. If there is one thing I know about you with absolute certainty, it is that you do not have the spirit to hurt people. You must trust yourself with her. Let this be her choice, sir. Don’t force her. Lead her to her choice. Let it be her choice to accept you or not after she experiences Staffordshire.”

  The limousine rounded the last corner before arriving at the Drummond’s gated enclave.

  “Sir… We are almost to Miss Drummond’s. You must tell me what you want me to do.”

  The young executive tumbled in conflict. In less than 90 seconds the car would arrive at Alicia’s doorstep and a naïve, young woman would find herself swept up on a magic carpet ride to a mysterious, romantic home, a home saddled with a burdensome bequest.

  Rory caught the chauffeur’s eyes and asked one last question. “What if I don’t want to go through with this, Jarrod?”

  “Regrettably, sir, that does not appear to be an option.”

  Suffocated by words like “obligation” and “responsibility” and “legacy,” Rory glanced out the window to the sight of a cheery blond beauty waiting on the front steps. She bounced on her toes, eager to greet her long-time boyfriend.

  “Sir, it’s time.”

  “Un-mute the call, Jarrod.”

  Rory lifted the receiver to his ear and acquiesced. “I will not fail the family, father. I will do what must be done.”

  Relieved, H. Stanton returned to a proper, “concerned father” role. “Thank you, son. Thank you. Remember… You must report to me by tomorrow morning with news of your visit or your receipt of Staffordshire and your trust is at risk.”

  “Yes, sir. I will call as soon as her introduction is complete.”

  “Rory…”

  “Yes, father?”

  “You are doing the right thing.”

  Igniting with anger, Rory found firm footing. “NO, father! NO, God damn it! This has nothing to do with ‘right.’ I do not do this because it is the ‘right’ thing to do. I do it because I am a coward! Using this poor girl’s body and soul to seal my inheritance and perpetuate this family’s grotesque heritage is the coward’s way out! Do not comfort yourself falsely, father! This is not the ‘right’ thing to do. I will never forgive myself if I should hurt Allie!”

  H. Stanton wisely held his tongue, permitting his son the final, elegantly irritated word.

  “Now goodbye, father. Be well.”

  “Goodbye, Rory.”

  “Turn off the goddamned phone, Jarrod.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cutting the connection and pulling to a stop in front of the house, Jarrod exited the car and walked curbside. He opened the rear passenger door, held it wide for his charge, and bowed his head in deference.

  “Good morning, Miss Drummond.”

  In her typically unaffected “Allie” way, the former cheerleader stood on her tiptoes and pecked the towering chauffeur on the cheek. “Good morning, Jarrod! It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Sparkling and beautiful and blue. A perfect day for a drive up to the Hudson countryside.”

  The heiress wore a gray and yellow outfit, befitting the sunny-somber nature of the day. A fully-buttoned, lightweight, yellow, long-sleeve sweater covered a sheer, white blouse. Alicia’s cheerleader-thick bare legs emerged beneath a knee-length, gray, pleated skirt. Her feet slipped into coordinated, gray suede pumps. A gray braided hair band tucked long, straight, sandy blond hair behind her ears.

  Alicia peered through the door to see her long-time boyfriend waiting in the rear seat. He did not appear enthused for their trip, a pall settling on his face as if a loved one passed. She climbed in and sidled up to her beau, grabbing his arm, holding him snuggly. Alicia brushed the fingertips of her free hand up and down the inner thigh of Rory’s right leg. Any other time, it would have stirred a response. A kiss, perhaps. Rory remained lost in thought.

  “What’s wrong, darling? Aren’t you excited? I think this is amazing! I finally get to visit your family’s home! I thought this trip would make you happy?”

  Rory leaned over and kissed Alicia on the cheek. “Oh… It’s nothing. I just have a lot on my mind, Allie. Business.”

  “Well, I, for one, am excited about this trip! I’ve waited so long for this! Let’s go! I feel like going on an adventure!”

  Rory nodded to the chauffeur in the rear view mirror. “Jarrod, you may take us up to the estate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Alicia leaned into Rory and hugged him, her enthused demeanor antagonizing his craven, duplicitous heart. “Oh, Rory! I can’t wait to see it! I’ll bet it’s full of mysterious rooms and hallways and secret passageways! There must be so many exciting stories of all the famous people who’ve lived and visited there!”

  Prematurely world-weary, Rory looked away from Alicia, gazing again at the passing horizon as he considered her ill-advised glee. “You are a greedy, heartless bastard, Rory St. Cloud. You aren’t any different from the old man. You’re a selfish, greedy prick. You WILL hurt this girl and you will never forgive yourself. You deserve Hell for what you are about to do to this beautiful woman. You deserve the eternal torment of Hell…”

  “Yes, Allie,” Rory monotoned. “I am afraid we have many stories to tell…”

  Two

  The ruddy, square-jawed, mid-40s visage of Terry Trainor – Britain’s “Grand Inquisitor” – filled the small, black and white TV monitor perched atop Camera 1. Listening to last minute updates in his ear-piece, Trainor nodded imperceptibly.

  The Director signaled the countdown. “Right, Terry… We’re hot on the uplink. Live in 30.”

  The Producer gave Trainor final words of caution. “Remember, Terry… If you don’t have her dead to rights don’t press it. This kitten has razor sharp claws. Nobody’s laid a finger on her about the Paris incident. Do NOT go with the photos unless you are absolutely certain. Use the finger when you’re ready. Stay sharp, mate.”

  Trainor nodded, closed his eyes, rolled his head side to side, and cracked his neck. The Director began the final count.

  “Right… Stand by. We’re live in 5, 4, 3, 2… Roll theme. Chyron in. Voice up. And to Terry in 3, 2… Go 1. Go Terry.”

  The red light on Camera #1 lit.

  “Good evening. I’m Terry Trainor. For Thursday, June 12, 1980, this… Is ‘Eyes On!’”

  “Pull Chyron… Theme under… Aaaaand… Go Intro…”

  “Tonight the Eyes On team brings you dispatches from around the globe. From the Middle East, where Reggie Belden reports on the worsening Iranian Hostage Crisis… From Washington where special correspondent Lee Tripplehorn brings us an exclusive, pre-convention look inside Ronald Reagan’s rise to power within the Republican party… And here… In Spain… Where we have a rare, live interview with one of the world’s most recognized faces. From her family compound north of Madrid, we bring you an exclusive ‘Eyes On’ conversation with teen supermodel, businesswoman, and budding philanthropist…

  “Señorita Lenore De La Fuente.

  “Ready on the package… Hold 1. Right… Theme out in 3, 2…”

  “We begin tonight with our Eyes… On Spain.”

  “…Aaaand roll package.”

  A sequence of archived video footage and still photos played over a pad of high-energy dance music as Trainor continued his voice-over. The package included video clips and rapid fire stills of the now 5’8” Lenore on the runway in Hong Kong, of Lenore, her dimpled abs, and her maturing bosom in a gleaming white bikini at a shoot in Monaco, of Lenore mid-jump at an equestrian trial in Britain, of Lenore lounging barefoot in jeans and a T at her home in Madrid, of Lenore meeting the President of the United States at a state dinner, wearing a ruby red, single shoulder, full length Shalamar gown, and of Lenore on a charitable tour of Africa, hugging malnourished children during a UN-sponsored medical mission.

  “Most of you know 18-year-old Lenore De La Fuente as a runway regular and the official face of the R
aquel Shalamar design house. She’s been around the world multiple times, has introduced several hundred new designs, and is an award-winning equestrian. That’s quite a lot to accomplish for a girl who only recently celebrated her eighteenth birthday!

  “Now, Ms. De La Fuente is off for the United States, where this fall she will begin studies at New York’s prestigious, all-woman, Paulson College. As if maintaining a full-time modeling career and pursuing a degree is not challenge enough, Ms. De La Fuente has also stated she will study pre-law at Paulson and hopes to one day attend Harvard.”

  The light atop Camera #1 lit. Trainor continued on screen.

  “In addition to remaining a world-dominating supermodel and attending a top university, Ms. De La Fuente has boldly stated that she hopes to join Spain’s equestrian team at the 1984 Olympics. Thus far, she has won over 30 junior competitions across Europe. She is also the proud owner of three award-winning horses, Marguerite, an Arabian, Thor, a Standardbred, and Helen of Troy, a Selle Français on which she took second place in Dressage at last year’s Pan-Europe Junior Invitational.”

  “Runway royalty… Pre-law student at a prestigious university… Olympic hopeful… Philanthropist. Lenore De La Fuente is, by any definition of the phrase, a ‘super’ model. We are honored to have her with us tonight in our first dispatch. Good evening, Ms. De La Fuente.”

  The red light atop Camera #2 lit. A deeply-tanned, blemish-free, beaming eighteen-year-old face filled the screen. The last hints of baby fat had fled Lenore’s cheeks and the lean, smooth contours of a seductive, womanly countenance begged caress. Lenore’s hypnotic, amber-brown eyes melted the viewer’s heart, with a light touch of eyeliner and subdued bronze shadow their only assistance. Lenore’s spellbinding, broad, puffy-lipped smile reached across the airwaves, transfixing the audience.

  “Good evening, Terry, and welcome to our home.”

  “Thank you, Ms. De La Fuente. First… I have one important question before we begin. Do you mind if I call you Lenore?”

  With a nearly motionless, queenly nod and polite laugh, Lenore agreed. “Please do, Terry.”

  Interviewer and interviewee sat across from each other in the same library where Lenore’s career launched, in identical, button-tufted, burgundy leather, wingback chairs, arranged slightly off-angle to each other. Hot TV lights aimed down and into their faces. TV monitors of the live feed sat out of the shot but visible to both host and guest. The interviewer relaxed in his chair, a yellow legal pad perched on his crossed legs as he worked from hand-scribbled notes.

  As a favor to Raquel, Lenore wore one of the designer’s latest retail creations, a sleeveless, V-neck, purple swirl-patterned dress with a knee-length handkerchief hem. It plunged deeply, crisscrossing low on the teen’s still-developing bosom. A 3”-wide, black suede belt cinched her waist. Ankle-strapped, black, stiletto sandals highlighted Lenore’s pampered and pedicured feet.

  The supermodel’s stylist prepared her raven, center-parted, waist-length hair to a soft, silken shine. It wrapped behind her head and fell temptingly over her left shoulder in signature Lenore De La Fuente style, fanning out across her left breast. Statuesque Lenore sat regally erect and motionless with her hands in her lap, knees together, legs delicately crossed at the calves.

  “Lenore, I’d like to thank you for taking time out of your travel preparations to do this interview. As I mentioned during the introduction, you are indeed heading to New York in just a few weeks.”

  Two weeks of intensive preparation with Armand’s PR staff paid off. Lenore fielded the opening comment like a veteran. “Yes, Terry, I am blessed to attend the finest all-women’s college in the world. It was quite an easy decision. I very much wanted to live in New York, and I wanted to have as few distractions as possible during my studies. Paulson College was the natural choice.”

  “So I take it your family still has a home in Manhattan?”

  “Yes, Terry, we do. I was born in the United States… At the NYU Medical Center. I absolutely adore New York!”

  “Right… And your mother was a U.N. translator and your parents met in New York during one of your father’s trade missions on behalf of Spain.”

  “That is also correct.”

  “It all sounds like a modern day fairytale, full of romance, and fated meetings, and a gifted little girl who grows up to become a beautiful princess.”

  “I suppose you could say it is, Terry. At times I do feel like a fairytale princess.” Lenore smiled, not altogether plasticky.

  “I am told, Lenore, that you have been on hundreds of magazine covers during your brief career. Do you know how many? Do you keep count of something like that… Like a golfer keeping a scorecard, perhaps?”

  Lenore offered an appropriately polite laugh. “Oh, Terry, we do not keep a scorecard. Others may, but I prefer to focus on the work, not the numbers. I simply wish to model for as long as I am able.”

  “Yes, but, would you care to hazard a guess? Any idea at all?”

  “Oh… One of my assistants recently said something about 150 magazine covers, but… I do not know the exact number.”

  “Well we do know, Lenore. Our research indicates you have appeared on 157 covers in the past four years, with four or more appearances on more than a dozen publications. That’s quite an accomplishment for someone so young.”

  “I must take your word for it, Terry. You seem to know much more about the subject than I do.”

  The interviewer settled his reading glasses onto the tip of his nose and fixed his eyes to the yellow tablet. A litigator cross-examining a witness, Trainor presented his next statement with his head down.

  “Right… He’s digging in, mates! Ready on 1… Up… Tighter… Aaaaand… Go 1!”

  “We have some other interesting statistics about your career that our viewers might find interesting. In the past four years you have appeared on more than 160 different runways, introduced more than 340 unique garments from more than a dozen top designers, have met with more than 30 heads of state — including the President of the United States — and have visited more than 40 countries.”

  Proud of the numbers, becoming nervous at the interviewer’s level of detail, Lenore faked a pleasant smile.

  “That sounds about right, Terry, though, again, I do not keep track.”

  Trainor lifted his head, took off his reading glasses, and stared directly at the teen, an aggressive move intended to take Lenore off her well-polished game. “That’s quite a lot of traveling and non-stop work for a woman of your delicate years, Lenore. It seems almost improbable that you would have time to complete all of your studies with a schedule like that. I’m sure you’ve heard that some of your critics have raised questions about whether you were, in fact, able to complete your studies and hold down such an active career.”

  Trainor dropped the tablet into his lap and leaned forward. “What our viewers want to know, Lenore, is how you were you able to get into Paulson College with so much work on your hands? It seems utterly improbable to the casual fan. We’ve read reports that there might have been some… ‘special considerations…’ offered by Paulson due to your fame. Can you comment on that?”

  A mixture of rage, indignity, and confusion flooded Lenore’s keen, youthful mind. Her elegantly guarded demeanor slipped, daggers flying as Lenore glared at the journalist. Lenore got caught scouring her memory for talking points. The interrogator pounced.

  “Lenore? Your thoughts? Our viewers are curious. Do you think your fame as a supermodel helped you gain a seat at one of America’s most selective universities?”

  Over Trainor’s shoulder, out of the camera angle and standing next to a bookcase, Armand positioned himself to be visible to his daughter. With blinding camera lights in her eyes, all Lenore could see were her father’s lips and his gleaming, white teeth. They mouthed the words…

  “Tiene este ... Pruebas... Resultados... Camus...”

  A “Buckle up, son!” smile curled Lenore’s revenge-thirsting lips. Her wor
ds dripped with the seasoning of a famous figure scorned. “I cannot speak for Paulson, Terry. I do not know how they made their decision or why. I only know that they accepted me and I am most grateful for the opportunity to attend. I assure you, however, that I followed every admission requirement to the letter. If you were to ask Paulson for my documents, you will find that I completed every form with my own hand. And, as I have dual citizenship, I was required to take the same tests as any other American applicant. I passed every required test, including scoring 1560 out of 1600 on the SATs. I also personally researched and submitted a 12 page document on Camus’ work, ‘The Myth of Sisyphus,’ to fulfill their essay requirement.”

  Trainor opened his mouth to follow-up. Lenore continued undeterred.

  “You may also recall, Terry, that I graduated first in my class at L’Academie D’Internationale with a 4.2 GPA on a 4.0 equivalent scale. I am certain your researchers informed you that I am fluent in Spanish, English, and French, as well as several dialects of each. My mother - whom you noted is a professional translator and linguist - personally tutored me throughout my childhood.”

  In his ear, Terry heard the Producer raise a timely warning. “Come on, mate… She’s boxing you. Change the bloody subject!”

  Before Trainor could blink, Lenore added a deliberately humiliating, “Don’t screw with me!” jab. “You know… I just now thought of this, Terry… You must be fluent in multiple languages as well! After all, a famous journalist such as yourself must often interview world leaders. I am certain it would help to speak with them in their native tongues. I would be happy to demonstrate my skills right now, on live television, so the entire world can verify my qualifications, if that would help answer your question. Would you like to speak together in another language for a few moments? In French, perhaps?”

  The Producer wrestled to regain control of the interview. “Move on, Terry! We have the photos racked, mate!”