Texas Viscount

by Henke, Shirl

  “Buying your sweetheart a love token?’’ Josh asked, oddly peeved that she might indeed have a gentleman friend. He'd judged her to be near his own age, perhaps a few years younger,, rather over the hill as far as English females in the marriage market were concerned.

  Sabrina jerked around, holding a handkerchief in one hand while the other dropped to the counter for support. He looked utterly splendid, dressed in a conservatively cut suit of fine lightweight wool and a snowy white shirt. The paisley ascot at his throat picked up the dark-green color of his eyes, which were studying her with indelicate interest.

  She refused to give him the satisfaction of craning her neck up to meet his gaze. Besides, it was safer not to be drawn into those laughing eyes. Already she could feel her pulse pick up speed like a locomotive on a downhill grade. “Whether or not I have a fiancé or am purchasing anything for him is certainly no business of yours,” she snapped. “Please be so kind as to move along and leave me alone.”

  “Aw, I was hoping to get a lady's opinion on what monogram to put on my hankies,” he said, giving her a blinding smile as he leaned one elbow on the counter directly in front of her. “I always went with JC back in Texas. Had a kinda nice ring to it, you know?”

  She started. “Only you would have the audacity to compare yourself to the Deity!” The instant she blurted out the blasphemy, Sabrina froze with shock. How could she ever have thought such a thing? Why had this man made her say it? He provoked her beyond all reason.

  Josh laughed, shaking his head. “Now, ma'am, I never would've thought of that,” he protested. “I'm right surprised you did. No, you see, I was sorta thinking along the lines of using my full handle, er, name, since I found out I was called after my uncle. I have a whole mouthful of initials—Joshua Abington Charles Cantrell. What would you think of JACC?”

  “Only that it's a pity you don't spell your last name with a K instead of a C. You could make a splendid acronym if you added an ASS on the end of it. It would suit you perfectly.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Girl, you are a caution. But I've been called worse things.”

  “And I'm quite certain you deserved every one.”

  Before he could reply, a small clock on the central counter chimed softly and Sabrina looked over at it. It was a quarter to the hour, and she would be late if she did not leave at once. How could she have been so foolish as to stand trading insults with this oaf? But the viscount did not appear to want her to leave in spite of her insults.

  “The edgy Miss Edgewater. You have more prickles than a spiny cactus, but, you know, it's the funniest thing about those plants. They can thrive without any help under the worst conditions. No one, not even tough Texas longhorns, tries to mess with them...and every spring they have the prettiest blooms.” He reached up and touched the cluster of yellow flowers on her hat. “Just about that color.”

  Somehow his hand trailed from the straw bonnet perched on her head down to her cheek, where one long finger traced a soft pattern on her skin. “Like velvet,” he breathed as his eyes met hers.

  For a moment she could not move. She stood transfixed as their gazes locked. Were they both remembering that kiss? Sabrina was. This was insane. She turned her head and backed away. “I am late for a business appointment,” she said breathlessly and darted past him like the craven coward she knew she must be. Hating herself for running, Sabrina did it anyway rather than let him touch her again. Besides, she did have to meet Mrs. Collingwood.

  So intent was she on her headlong rush away from Josh Cantrell that she did not hear the distressed call of the clerk. “Miss, miss! The handkerchief! I shall summon a constable!”

  Sabrina was halfway down the long concourse, her heels clicking on the hard floor as she walked as fast as her five-foot-two-inch frame could carry her. That was when she heard the shrill of a police whistle and an officer suddenly appeared in her path. She tried to step around him, believing he was pursuing someone behind her and she was impeding his progress, but he startled her by seizing hold of her arm.

  “This the gel, Mr. Darby?” he asked the huffing clerk, who was pointing directly at her.

  Well-dressed shoppers strolling through the large arcade stopped to stare at the altercation, women murmuring behind their gloved hands and children snickering until shushed by their mothers.

  Sabrina looked from the burly policeman with an enormous handlebar mustache to the clerk who had been waiting on her. The handkerchief! She was still clutching it in her hand. She'd been so intent on escaping from that odious Texan that she quite forgot to place it back on the counter. “Oh, dear, there's been a terrible misunderstanding. I will certainly pay—”

  “Oh, you'll pay right enough, missy. Off you go,” the officer said, nodding to Darby, who snatched the handkerchief from her as if it were the Golden Fleece and she a slavering Gorgon.

  “But, please, you must believe me, this was an honest mistake,” she pleaded. Just then she saw Mrs. Collingwood approaching. Sabrina watched with a leaden heart as the lady's expression turned from puzzlement to incredulous indignation. Oh, to be invisible! The woman actually held her skirt out as she walked past, as if wishing to avoid contamination. There went Sabrina's last hope for employment. And it was all the fault of the swaggering, grinning lout who strolled up and placed his hand on the officer's massive shoulder in male camaraderie.

  “Maybe I can help out with this fracas.” He eyed Sabrina with ill-concealed amusement, watching her expression change from blind panic to seething fury.

  “Oh, and who 'er you?” the man asked suspiciously. He was not actually a police officer but a guard hired by the arcade to catch anyone pinching small items from the shops.

  “Well now, in a few days, depending on when the House of Lords gets around to it, I'll be Viscount Wesley.”

  The guard studied the tall man with the peculiar accent, taking note of his expensive clothes; but before he could do more than twitch his mustache, Mr. Darby interjected, “Oh, this is the Earl of Hambleton's heir. But I do not know this young woman.” He eyed Sabrina as if she were a leper.

  “Well, I do.” Josh grinned. “You see, she works for my uncle and me.” He let the words sink in, nodding to Sabrina. “Isn't that right, Miss Edgewater?”

  Her eyes turned the color of a storm-tossed Atlantic. She itched to deny it. Almost shouted the truth to the high clerestory windows in the vaulted ceiling of the arcade. But she forced herself to return his nod woodenly. She'd go straight to perdition before giving him the satisfaction of uttering a word.

  “I'll be right happy to pay for the doodad, and your trouble,” Josh ventured as she jerked her arm angrily from the guard's meaty fingers. Josh wondered whom she'd punch first—him or the guard! As he fished several coins from his pocket, he was grateful that some color had returned to her face. She'd looked white as a ghost and ready to faint a moment ago, something he intuited Miss Sabrina Edgewater never did.

  Anger burned through her as she watched the arrogant rotter hand Darby far more money than the miserable handkerchief was worth. “The cost of that handkerchief—”

  “Now, now, Miss Edgewater, let's not get all fired up over the little old mistake you made.”

  Rich men. They were all alike, thinking they could buy anything they wished, caring nothing for the dignity of those beneath them. She held herself in check as the clerk and the guard bowed and scraped to the viscount as if he indeed lived up to his initials.

  As curious passersby began to drift away, the two of them were left standing alone in the center of the arcade. “You know you gave that man over twice what that article was worth. I shall repay you only for its true value,” she said, then added stiffly, “but I do thank you for coming to my assistance.”

  He chuckled. “Lordy, you sound like you swallowed a sack full of hopping toads to get that one out.”

  When she started to stalk away, he quickly fell in step alongside her. If he'd touched her, Sabrina was not certain she could
have kept from sinking her teeth into his hand, right down to the bone. “This entire debacle was entirely your fault,” she snapped. “I said I will repay you—as soon as I find another client. Thanks to you, I've just lost Mrs. Collingwood's patronage.”

  “She the one who walked by looking like she'd just found out Jack the Ripper was really female?”

  “You may make light of this, but I assure you, Lord Wesley, that I do not find it in the least amusing.”

  “What lucky fellow is this for?” he asked, handing her the linen.

  She refused it. “Keep it. You paid for it.”

  “But you said you'd repay me,” he countered. “Back where I come from, folks don't welch.”

  “If by that quaint colloquialism, you mean you don't believe I will make restitution, have no fear. Now please leave me alone, else I shall summon a genuine police officer,” she said when they stepped into Bond Street.

  “You could pay me whenever you want...real easy.”

  “If you think that blackmail will force me to become your tutor, you are most sadly mistaken.”

  “Nah, I was thinking along the lines of another kiss.”

  His suggestive tone unnerved her. “I'd rather kiss a cobra,” she replied.

  He swore softly, leaning against the wall of the arcade as he watched her stamp across the busy street and vanish into the crowd.

  * * * *

  “I don't know what it is about that high-stepping little filly, but she sure does bring out the worst in me,” Josh said glumly to his uncle that afternoon as they shared a late tea. Well, the earl was enjoying tea with sandwiches and pastries. His nephew had broken out a fresh bottle of bourbon.

  A smile touched the old man's lips as he observed the boy pacing across the carpet in the small sitting room adjacent to his office. “Miss Edgewater is an extraordinary woman. That's precisely why I intend to see that she becomes your instructor.” He gave the bottle of Who Shot John a meaningful glance, and Josh corked it, then settled down in a leather chair across from his uncle.

  “Considering that she and I get on like a barrel of bobcats, how're you fixing to do that?”

  “It's only a matter of doing a bit of investigating of one's subject. Miss Edgewater has a life's dream.” The old man stroked his slim mustache, waiting to see his nephew's reaction.

  “Life's dream, huh? What's that? To see every male in England gelded?”

  “Nothing so extreme. She wishes to open a school for indigent girls and educate them so they may aspire to bettering their unfortunate lots in life.”

  “Might have figured her for some do-good scheme.” Josh grinned. “She'll do it, too. I'd bet my pearl-handled Colt on it, but how will that convince her to teach me? I don't think I'd look like much in a dress.” He scratched the bristly beard beginning to darken his jaw line.

  The old man laughed. “Oh, she'll receive the funding for her school...after she accepts my offer.”

  “Seems to me she mentioned something about losing her last client this afternoon…” He let the words trail off as his grin matched that of his uncle. “When I first met you, I didn't think we'd have much in common. I'm beginning to change my mind. I think we share what is called bad genes.”

  The old man laughed.

  * * * *

  White Satin in Josh's opinion was a horrible English misnomer for gin, which he found even more unpalatable than vodka. Instead of tasting like horse-trough water, it tasted like perfume. However, at the club named after it, the majority of the patrons were Russian. The only white satin in the place was the fabric in waistcoats and cloaks worn by bored aristocrats. From what he'd learned about the Romanov dynasty in general and this group of “exiled” princelings in particular, poor old Bertie's excesses were tame as salted-tail deer.

  He was assaulted by the thick sweetish aroma of hashish hanging on the air the moment he stepped inside. Several musicians decked out in colorful peasant costumes were playing a lively Russian folk dance as drunken men wearing enough jewelry to sink a Newcastle coal barge wove their way around the crowded gambling tables. Here and there a scantily clad woman sat perched on some man's lap as he indulged simultaneously in a number of serious vices. The laughter was coarse and hearty, the language mostly French, which he understood well enough, and Russian, of which he knew nothing at all.

  Scanning the room, he spotted Alexi and began to make his way to where his newfound friend was sitting at a table with three other men. Several large bottles of vodka were mostly empty, attesting to the group's jump on the evening. Josh had planned it that way. To add to his advantage, he'd used an old trick Gertie taught her girls: He'd drunk several ounces of cod liver oil to coat his stomach. He figured to have three hours before the alcohol ate its way through the greasy barrier.

  After that, all bets were off. Lordy, he hadn't seen drinkers this serious since his first trail drive all the way from the Panhandle clean up to the Dakotas. Josh could feel the Russians watching him, some merely curious, others openly hostile. He waved to Alexi, who dumped a corset-clad young woman off his lap and stood up to embrace Josh in a bear hug that nearly cracked his ribs.

  “Texas Viscount, my friend,” Kurznikov slurred, slinging an arm around the taller man's shoulders. The Russian was dark with a full beard and a stocky build more suggestive of peasant than noble lineage. Presenting Josh to his companions, Alexi announced, “This is Lord Hambleton's heir, J-Jos Cantrell.” The introduction ended on a hiccup.

  Everyone laughed good-naturedly, but Josh could sense an undercurrent around the table. Not all the men were happy to see that their companion had invited an outsider into their circle.

  One of the three was a coolly amused black-haired man with a blade of a nose and a high forehead, made to appear even more so by his habit of raising his eyebrows condescendingly. He was Nikolai Zarenko, of the Trans-Siberian Railroad interests. He made a comment in French that slurred Josh's background, saying the American came from God knew where in a backward wilderness, but Josh played dumb. Let them all think he didn't know the lingo and they'd talk freely in front of him.

  Back when Josh was a green kid working in the Dakotas, an aristocrat playing at being a stockman, the Marquis de Mores, had taught him French. Already fluent in Spanish, Josh had discovered he had a natural affinity for picking up languages. He wondered how long it would take him to master Russian. Somehow, he doubted it would be as easy as French.

  When everyone laughed and he joined in, it seemed he'd passed the test. Then they got down to some serious drinking. The others partook of the potent opiated tobacco, too, offering it to him. Having seen what hashish could do to a man, Josh pulled out a plug of Lucky Boy and bit off a piece, offering it around the table. After a taste, all but the intrepid Alexi declined to “chaw.”

  If I have to get sick, at least it'll be on something I know how to handle, he thought grimly as he spit in an ice bucket commandeered in place of a cuspidor.

  After an hour or so, the door opened and a woman wearing a hooded ermine cloak, which looked ridiculous in the mild autumn weather, swept dramatically into the room. She was followed by an entourage of men, mostly in servants' livery. With a theatrical gesture that drew the attention of every man in the place, she threw back the hood and shook out a gleaming mass of ink-black hair. Her face was aquiline, its only slight imperfection a long, narrow nose. A female version of the man who sat next to Josh, Nikolai Zarenko.

  As if answering Josh's unspoken question, Alexi whispered with tobacco-sour breath, “She's Nikolai's sister. Natasha Samsonov. A famous ballerina.”

  No mention of Mr. Samsonov. Apparently he was not considered of any importance in the grand scheme of things. She was, after all, the mistress of a member of the English royal house. And trouble, Josh thought as he watched her make her way toward them.

  Perfectly arched black eyebrows rose above night-dark eyes as cold as chips of obsidian. Her mouth was generous, but her smite was not. She studied Josh as introductions were made
, her glance bold and hungry while those black eyes swept from his crown to his boots and back, slowing ever so slightly at his crotch. This was not a woman with whom he'd like to trifle, in any way, even though she was a beauty.

  Nevertheless, he bowed gallantly over her hand. “My greatest pleasure, ma'am.”

  “Not yet, my lord, not yet,” she murmured in heavily accented English. Then she dismissed him and murmured something in French to her brother, too softly for Josh to make out.

  The two moved quickly to a small table in a dark corner of the room while her retainers watched the crowd as if expecting a hoard of Cossacks to come galloping through the door brandishing sabers. A waiter, who obviously knew the lady's preferences, brought her a tall, slender crystal glass filled to the brim with vodka. She threw back her head and polished it off in one long swallow.

  Yep, no female to mess with at all. Josh felt a cold shiver run down his spine as brother and sister put their heads together in earnest conversation. He'd give a good-sized herd of his best Santa Gertrudis cattle to know what they were talking about.

  “She come here often?” he asked Alexi, giving his best imitation of a drunken leer. Not such a great stretch on the woozy part, considering how much vodka and chaw he'd consumed.

  Alexi was faring even more poorly as he replied, “Only when her brother's here. Usually af'er her p-performances on T-Tues'ay nights.”

  Interesting. Josh studied the dark corner where they conferred, wondering how he might find a way to eavesdrop. Of course, if they spoke Russian, it wouldn't do him any good, but if they continued in French...

  “I...I think it's time to go h-home,” Alexi said as he toppled against Josh, nearly knocking the Texan from his chair.

  Their companions around the table burst into raucous laughter. Resigned to playing the good sport, Josh hefted the heavier man to his feet and slung one arm over his shoulder. By now Alexi was looking quite green around the gills. As they made their way from the establishment to the cheering approval of the crowd, Josh could feel the cold black eyes of Natasha Samsonov boring into his back.