The Duchess And The Desperado

He nodded, his mind still on the reception, but she went on, “Very well, you will want to install it in the hotel’s stable. Tell the liveryman you work for me.”

“Duchess, you’re going to go to some party that half of Denver knows about?” Morgan said dubiously. “I don’t think you ought to go—not after that note.”

“Mr. Calhoun, I’m not hiring you so that I can stay meekly in my rooms here like a little mouse. I have agreed to be present at this event, and there are many important people who will be expecting to meet me. I will be there.”

He shrugged. He hadn’t really expected to win that round.

“Oh, and Donald, do give Mr. Calhoun an advance on his salary—say fifty dollars? Mr. Calhoun, you’ll need to pick up a suit of ready-made clothes for the sort of formal events you’ll be attending with me. Do you suppose Denver has such an establishment?”

“Well, yes, ma‘am, I imagine so, but it’s probably already goin’ on six, and I reckon the stores’re all closed.”

She looked disappointed, but darted a glance at Lord Halston and said, “All right, you may attend to that in the morning. Perhaps you could wear one of my uncle’s suits, just for this evening?”

Morgan was amused to see the Englishman bristle and begin to sputter, “Now, just a moment, niece—”

“No, ma‘am, I don’t reckon I could. Looks like his lordship’s trousers would end at my shins, and I’d probably rip ‘em at the shoulders the first time I flexed ’em.” He was trying to be tactful, but he felt the Englishman’s hostile stare intensify at the words. The duchess’s uncle sure spent a lot of his time looking angry. “Reckon I’d better be leavin’ if I’m gonna get back here in time for your party, ma’am. Don’t worry, I may not look fancy, but I’ll try to find somethin’ to wear that doesn’t disgrace you.”

If he left now, he’d just have time to explain to the widow that ran the Mountain View Boardinghouse why he was checking out the same day he’d checked in. And she might have a solution to his clothing problem. She’d mentioned that her late husband had been a tall man like him. With any luck, she’d still have his clothes, and with some of the money that the duchess’s secretary was holding out to him, he could induce her to part with something suitable for this evening—at least until he could get something of his own. Then he could get Rio, his pinto stallion, out of the livery down the street from the boardinghouse, ride him over to the Grand Central Hotel’s stable and present himself back to the duchess.

Sarah, now wearing her spectacles, watched in the mirror while Celia put the finishing touches to her hair with a curling iron. If only Thierry were here with me, then I should not be so nervous. She smiled at the thought of the handsome, tawny-haired Frenchman with his thin, elegant mustache, resplendent in his uniform as an officer of Louis Napoleon’s cavalry, escorting her to the reception tonight She wondered what he was doing right now, back home in England. Perhaps he was attending some ball in London, at the side of his exiled emperor, Louis Napoleon?

Thierry had told her he despised such events because of the fuss dowagers with marriageable daughters made over him, when he had much rather be with her. Soon, my love, she had promised. At the end of my journey we will be man and wife, and then you will be forever out of the reach of the matchmaking mamas, my poor darling.

“Your grace is in prime looks tonight,” her dresser said fondly from behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror

“Thank you, Celia,” Sarah murmured, studying her reflection critically. The gown of light blue grosgrain, with its vandyked bertha, opened in front over a white lace underwaist confined by a cluster of white satin roses, and showed off slender white shoulders and a hint of cleavage beneath a necklace of pearls with a rectangular blue topaz pendant. Matching topaz stones gleamed from her ears.

“Your grace’s gems set off your eyes.”

“They do, don’t they? They’ve always been my favorite set of Mama’s. Papa said I have her eyes,” Sarah said, and then found herself wondering what Morgan Calhoun would think of her appearance. The thought of his eyes straying toward the shadowy hint of cleavage made her pulse quicken.

The thought startled her. Why was she, a woman in love, thinking that way about a man she had hired to perform a service?

And what would Thierry say if he knew she had hired a bodyguard? He should be glad, if he could not be there to protect her, right? Instinctively, though, she knew that if the Count of Châtellerault had met Morgan Calhoun, he would be jealous, not glad.

Thierry de Châtellerault’s only fault, really, was his jealousy. Sarah had never been a flirt, had never given him cause to be insecure about her affections, but she could tell Thierry wasn’t happy whenever a well-favored lord conversed with Sarah or asked her to dance at a ball. They’d talked about it, and Thierry had claimed to understand the need for such subterfuge until their surprise marriage was a fait accompli, but each time, his face looked like a thundercloud.

Morgan Calhoun was just an employee, not a social equal, but Thierry was a very perceptive man. If Thierry had been present, he would have sensed that Morgan Calhoun had a certain effect on Sarah—and he would have been on the alert.

Just then, through the door of her bedroom, she heard the muffled knock on the outer door of her suite, and the sound of footsteps as Donald went and let in the knocker.

“Oh, it’s you, Calhoun,” she heard her uncle say, and her heartbeat quickened. He had come. Morgan Calhoun was here, and now, officially, her bodyguard. “What, you’re not dressed yet? Good God, man, we must leave within moments!”

“Now, just hold your horses,” she heard Calhoun drawl. “I got a suit of clothes right here on my arm, but I didn’t want to wear it ridin’ over here, and end up smellin’ like my horse, so I brought it in my saddlebags instead. Give me a coupla minutes and a room to change in, and I’ll be ready.”

Celia’s eyes met Sarah’s again in the mirror. “Doubtless Mr. Calhoun’s clothes will need pressing,” she informed her mistress primly. “Unless there’s something else your grace would want me to do, perhaps I’d better go put the iron on the fire. I’ll summon you, ma’am, when all is finally in readiness for our departure.”

“I believe I’m ready as I am,” Sarah said. “Yes, do go see if Mr. Calhoun needs assistance.”

And so Sarah found herself waiting in her room for a good fifteen minutes, listening to Lord Halston fume that they were going to be late, and what would everyone say if the duchess were late to the reception being given in her honor?

At last Celia opened the door and said that Mr. Calhoun was dressed, and if her grace was ready, they could depart for the reception.

Her mouth was suddenly dry, her pulse pounding Sarah rose halfway out of her seat, then sank back and reached for her bottle of scent. She applied the moistened stopper to her wrists, the area behind her ears and between her breasts, and smiled slightly at herself when she smelled the rose essence. Then she arose and started for the door, only to stop stockstill halfway out of the room and step back to the mirror. She’d almost gone out there in front of Calhoun wearing her spectacles—that would never do! Sarah frowned as she removed the gold-rimmed circles of glass and everything farther than six feet from her became blurry.

She supposed she had so many material blessings as the Duchess of Malvern that wishing for perfect eyesight was a little ungrateful of her, but she wished it anyway. Taking as deep a breath as her corset would allow, she stepped into the other room

Immediately she heard a sharp intake of breath. A dark-clad figure lounging in a chair by the door sprang to attention.

“Duchess, I...I reckon you look pretty as a...well, I don’t know what to compare you to, ma’am. You look beautiful, and that’s a fact.”

Sarah felt the blush spreading down from her scalp all the way to her toes as she came close enough to be able to focus on him.

“Her grace’s appearance is of no concern to you, Mr. Calhoun,” she heard her uncle mutter.

“Don’t be tiresome, uncle,” she chided. “I could hear you fussing from inside my room. Mr. Calhoun is very nice to compliment me.”

Now close enough to be able to see Morgan Calhoun clearly, she could tell the man was transformed. From somewhere he had managed to find a black frock coat and trousers, and a dazzlingly white shirt with a stiffly starched, upstanding collar and wide, red-striped tie knotted at his neck. The coat had been made for a man with narrower shoulders, though it was not as ill-fitting as Uncle Frederick’s would have been, but it would do very well until he could have a tailor take his exact measurements and make something especially for him. He looked imposing—and the stark black and white of his clothes made him look formidable, Sarah decided. He did not look like a man to be trifled with.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asked.

She gazed up into green eyes over which the lids drooped halfway, giving him a deceptively sleepy appearance. She was reminded of a dozing leopard—sleek, black and just as deadly.

“Yes, I believe you’ll do, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, injecting a note of briskness she was far from feeling. “Now, Donald, has the carriage been sent for? Yes? Very good. Then perhaps we had better leave for the reception. Celia, Donald, we’ll try not to be too late,” she said, waving to her dresser and her secretary. “Come, uncle,” she said, and started for the door.

But Morgan was there before her, barring her way.

“Just a moment, Duchess. I reckon we should start bein’ careful right now. Just let me check the corridor first, and the stairway down to the front of the hotel, and I’ll come back and tell you it’s safe to go.”

“Yes, very well,” she managed to say. She hadn’t realized how having a bodyguard would affect her every step, but clearly Calhoun was taking his responsibilities seriously.

He was back moments later, saying it was all right to go, and Sarah, on the arm of Uncle Frederick, descended the stairs, preceded by Calhoun.

The sun was hanging low over the mountains beyond Denver as they stepped outside the hotel and toward the waiting landau.

Morgan stopped without warning, nearly causing Sarah and her uncle to careen into him.

“I gave an order for the top to be put back up, but I see your driver didn’t do it,” he said, gesturing to the folded-down roof of the landau, which was made in two sections to go over the facing seats when desired.

“Her grace’s instructions were for the top to be down,” Ben, her groom, growled back from beside the carriage. He had been doubling as coachman when required during this journey.

“The top’s got to be put up, Duchess,” Morgan said, his face implacable. “Please just step back inside the hotel until I’ve fixed it.”

Ben wouldn’t like the newcomer telling him what to do, Sarah thought, dismayed. “Oh, but is that really necessary?” she asked Morgan, then wished she could call back the words. She sounded like a child being denied a sweet at teatime. Perhaps if she explained... “It’s such a pleasant night! I’d fancy feeling the breeze in my hair on the way to the reception.”

“Would you?” His face was unreadable in the twilight, but his next words were clear enough. “As long as you leave the top down, that man who tried to shoot you this afternoon might fancy getting a clear shot at your head or your heart, Duchess.”

She couldn’t stifle a gasp at the graphic image.

“Surely it’s not necessary to speak so bluntly to a gentlewoman,” snapped Frederick.

Morgan looked down at Lord Halston. “Your lordship, I reckon I don’t know any other way to speak. You want someone to make big speeches, you hire someone else. But I’m telling the duchess it ain’t safe to ride around in an open carriage when someone tried to shoot her just hours ago.”

Sarah said crisply, “Uncle, this is the very thing I’m paying Mr. Calhoun to tell me. Ben, I’m sorry, but the top will need to be put back up. Mr. Calhoun, we’ll just wait inside as you’ve suggested until it’s done.”

Calhoun’s nod of approval should not have mattered so.

Chapter Six

The drive to the territorial governor’s residence, an imposing brick two-storied building on the northeast corner of Welton and Blake Streets, did not take long and was without incident. Morgan hopped down from his perch beside the truculent coachman, and the curtain over one of the landau’s windows was pushed back.

“Goodness, it’s going to be a crush,” Sarah Challoner said, referring to the people spilling out over the governor’s porch and thronging the upstairs balcony.

“Just wait in the carriage a moment, Duchess,” Morgan said in a low voice as he looked up and down the street, and scanned the shrubbery and rooftops of the neighboring houses. He could see nothing moving in the rapidly fading light. He didn’t like the idea of Sarah Challoner mingling with all those people without his searching them first, but he knew that wasn’t possible. “All right, let’s go ahead, but I’m sticking right by you.”

“Do you suppose you could address your employer properly as ‘your grace,’ at least in public?” hissed Lord Halston as he emerged from the depths of the carriage.

Two men, dressed in evening black, separated themselves from the milling crowd on the porch and came forward, and Morgan recognized the taller and thinner of the two as the mayor, who’d greeted the duchess at the train station.

“Your grace, we’re happy you’re here,” John Harper said. “May I present Edward McCook, governor of the Territory of Colorado?”

The other man, whose face was decorated with a heavy mustache, bowed gravely. “Your grace, my apologies for not meeting your train, especially in view of what I’m told took place there. I understand you suffered no injury, madam—is that true?”

“How nice to meet you, sir,” Sarah Challoner said, smiling, her face serene. “And yes, I’m perfectly fine. Please don’t give that incident another thought I’d like to present my uncle, Frederick, Lord Halston, the Marquess of Kennington....”

“My lord.”

She wasn’t going to mention the written threat she had received, Morgan guessed as he kept looking in all directions. He wished they’d hurry up and go into the house. She was too vulnerable out here in the open.

“And this is Mr. Morgan Calhoun, my... bodyguard,” she said, nodding over her shoulder to indicate Morgan.

McCook and Harper looked alarmed, but were evidently not about to question a duchess. They nodded to Morgan, but did not extend their hands.

“Your grace, I’d feel better if we got inside,” Morgan said in a low voice.

“By all means, your grace,” McCook said, offering his arm even as he flashed a disapproving look at Morgan. “We’ve assembled the cream of Colorado society to greet you, madam. Everyone’s quite excited at the prospect of meeting an actual duchess.”

“Then let’s not keep them waiting further, gentlemen,” Sarah said, taking McCook’s arm with regal ease.

The crowd on the lantern-lit porch parted to let them through as the governor led them into the house.

“We’ll have a receiving line in the ballroom first, your grace, if that’s agreeable to you,” Morgan heard the governor say as he led the duchess and the rest of them up a long stairway.

They came to a large room with chairs and settees lining the walls, interspersed at intervals with large potted plants. At the far end a woman was playing a huge golden harp, her soft music reminding Morgan of clear green water running over the limestone bed of a Texas river. Here and there paintings hung on the wall, portraits of Washington and Lincoln and one of the Founding Fathers signing the Declaration of Independence.

The room hummed with chatter, and held even more people than had been out on the porch and balcony. Silence fell, however, as the invitees stepped aside to allow the host and his important guests to form a line at the entrance to the room. Morgan observed from the side of the room as they assembled, with the mayor first, followed by the governor, the duchess and finally Lord Halston.

“Mr. Calhoun?” called Sarah Challoner, looking around for him and sounding a bit uncertain.

He crossed over to her and said softly, “I’ll be right over there by the door, Duchess.” He nodded his head in that direction. “I can keep an eye on who’s approaching you from there.”

She nodded, apparently reassured, and then the guests began coming through the line. Morgan saw her turn with a brilliant smile to meet the first of them.

He watched as she was introduced to mine owners, bankers, speculators in real estate. Then came half a dozen men in the dress uniform of the U.S. Army.

Morgan nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t seen them as they had entered the governor’s residence, and the sight of those blue-uniformed officers in their gold-braid-trimmed uniforms made his heart thud beneath the borrowed white shirt. He didn’t take his eyes off them as they waited to meet the duchess. If just one of them looked at him a bit too long or pointed at him to one of his fellows, Morgan knew he was going to have to run for it—and though he’d hate himself for abandoning her, the duchess would just have to look out for herself.

None of them seemed to have eyes for anyone but Sarah Challoner, though. It was almost as if Morgan were invisible. If those soldiers only knew that the very man the army wanted for robbing the stage that had carried the troops’ payroll was right here in the room with them, they wouldn’t be so concerned with bowing over the duchess’s hand, he thought grimly. What a difference his shaving and wearing some fancy duds made! They didn’t recognize him as the desperado whose face was on all the Wanted posters.

The women at the sides of the men coming through the line were each more gorgeously dressed than the last, in silks and satins, feathers, flowers, ribbons and lace, in a rainbow of colors and accented by a blinding array of jewels.

He smiled at the irony of being in the same room with all those jewels. The ladies wearing them would have been jumpy as cats on ice if they had known how many lovely baubles he’d taken at gunpoint off the necks of wealthy women like themselves.

He wasn’t here to rob anyone, though, so he studied the ladies’ faces. Some of them were attractive, some merely well-dressed and groomed, but none was as lovely as the duchess. She shone like a gleaming diamond among fool’s gold.

He felt a pang of regret as he took in the entire scene. Once, as a Calhoun, descended from one of the original settlers of Texas and owner of the finest ranch for a hundred miles, Morgan had belonged in such a world. He had been dressed as well as any of them, not wearing rented clothes. He’d had a beautiful belle on his arm.

But that was a long time ago, before the war, and now he was a breed apart from those chattering, fancily dressed people. He was an outlaw, no matter what his temporary role was with the Duchess of Malvern.

“Hello,” he heard a husky voice say as the last few guests were going through the line, and then he was startled to feel a hand on his wrist.

Morgan looked down to see one of the ladies who had gone through the receiving line, a short brunette whose garnet brooch drew attention to the scandalously low neckline of the dark red gown she was wearing.

“I know it isn’t conventional for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman,” she said, “but I kept waiting for you to leave the wall you seemed to be holding up and come through the line, and you haven’t moved. So I decided I’d have to be unconventional and introduce myself. I’m Helen Wharton. My brother William over there—” she jerked her head in the direction of a ginger-headed young man talking to a group of businessmen underneath the chandelier “—owns the Double W Mining Company. You’ve heard of it? I haven’t met you at any of these gatherings before, and I thought I knew everyone in our social circle.”

Morgan breathed in her perfume, and was aware of a quick flaring of lust as his brain appreciated the musky scent that surrounded the woman like a cloud. At another time or place he’d have enjoyed a dance of seduction with this woman, for her bold eyes told him she’d be more than willing to partner him in that particular waltz.

“Morgan Calhoun, ma’am,” he said, inclining his head politely, “and I reckon we haven’t met because I’m not exactly in your social circle. I’m just here to guard the duchess.” Deliberately he cut his eyes back to the receiving line, expecting the woman to stalk off in search of more prominent prey.

He was wrong, it seemed. She was still there when he looked back down. Excitement flashed in her brown eyes, and she removed her long-nailed hand from his wrist to stroke down his biceps.

“Ooh, you’re a bodyguard?” she breathed. “How very exciting. Why don’t we get some punch and step out on the balcony? You can tell me all about your experiences....”

He narrowed his eyes in what he hoped was a discouraging manner, and shook his head. He couldn’t afford to let her distract him. “I’m here to keep my eye on the duchess,” he said, returning his gaze to Sarah Challoner. “I’ve got to stay by her.”

Helen Wharton pouted for just a moment. “Ah, I can see you’re devoted to duty...very commendable, I’m sure. But you’re entitled to a little refreshment, aren’t you? Why don’t I go get us both some punch and bring it back here? You can keep your eye on your duchess, and I’ll keep you company.”

Morgan gave a wary okay to her offer, then went back to watching the duchess.

The dark-haired Helen was back within moments, somehow managing to bring two cups of punch and a plate full of finger sandwiches through the crowd without mishap.

“Much obliged,” Morgan said, taking a grateful sip, and blinking in surprise as he tasted liquor mingled with the fruity liquid. Rum, he guessed.

“This is rather...potent,” he said, his eyes leaving the duchess for a moment to rest on Helen Wharton and the cup she was raising to her lips. “I hope there was something a little less...strong for you, ma’am?” He’d better limit himself to one cup, and sip that sparingly, or soon he’d be too blind drunk even to see the duchess, much less protect her.

Helen laughed merrily. “There is a punch for the ladies, but I’m drinking the same thing as you are. I’m afraid I find the other stuff rather insipid. Here, have a sandwich.”

He accepted the morsel from her, then searched and found Sarah Challoner in the crowd. The receiving line finished, she had joined the same group of businessmen that Helen Wharton’s brother had been standing among. Just then William Wharton returned, bearing punch and sandwiches, which he offered to the duchess.

“Hospitality seems to run in your family,” Morgan observed.

“Yes...I ran into my brother at the refreshment table. He’s quite taken with your duchess. Says she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Morgan sure couldn’t disagree with that, so he said nothing, just kept his eye on the duchess as the mining magnate went on chatting with her. His conversation was evidently very stimulating, for Sarah Challoner was animated, her color high, her blue eyes sparkling. Then he saw that something Wharton said had amused her, for she tipped back her head and laughed. The sound was lost in the noisy room, but Morgan fancied he could hear its silvery music.

Lord, he wished he were a rich man so he could stand talking with Sarah Challoner like this, and have her laughing at some clever thing he said.

Then he saw Wharton gesture toward the balcony, and Sarah’s narrow-eyed stare in its direction before she nodded.

From here he could see that the balcony was empty of other guests, and someone had blown out the torches that had illuminated it at their arrival. So the rich fellow imagined he was going to lure Sarah Challoner out into the darkness?

“You’ll have to excuse me,” he growled to the woman beside him, handing her his cup without even looking at her and striding forward to intercept the couple heading for the balcony.