by Laurie Grant
“Well, there you are, then. But...you could have accepted my invitation to take supper with us. I invited William’s sister—” She knew she had said the wrong thing even before his eyes blazed green fire at her.
“Oh, you thought since I was right about you and me, you’d throw me a bone in the form of Helen Wharton, was that it?”
“No, you misunderstand,” she lied, guiltily aware that he had seen right through her pretense.
“Well, don’t do me any more favors, okay, Duchess? Helen Wharton’s a pretty lady and all, but if I want a woman, I’ll go buy one, you understand?”
“Perfectly.” Her face flaming, she turned to go inside.
“Just a minute, Duchess. I don’t suppose there’s any point in tellin’ you I think it’s loco to be plannin’ to go to a big public event like a play when somebody’s been tryin’ to kill you?”
“None at all. And surely there’s safety in numbers in such surroundings.”
“It didn’t turn out that way for President Lincoln, did it?” he retorted, his face bleak.
Sarah felt her heart lurch. Even in England they had been shocked at hearing of an American president murdered in his box at the theater.
“I’m not taking your concerns lightly, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, taking refuge in formality. “I believe you heard me ask Mr. Wharton this evening to take me to the play in the other theater, just in case anyone had heard he had been planning to take me to the Apollo?”
“Yes, I did, and so did everyone in your household,” he noted.
She stared at him, dumbstruck for a moment. “Mr. Calhoun, you can’t be suspicious of my uncle, can you, after getting to know him? Or maybe you think it’s one of my servants?”
“Duchess, I’ve stayed alive this long because I’m suspicious of everyone,” he retorted.
She threw her hands in the air in exasperation, recrossed the threshold into the suite and fled to her own room. There was no getting through to Morgan Calhoun—or getting close to him. He was a lone wolf—wary, cynical, ever on his guard. He might come close to the fire, but he’d never rest easy near it if there were others around. Even a lone wolf needed a mate, she thought, but Morgan hadn’t realized it yet.
She and Morgan might as well exist on two separate planets, so different were their lives. Thank God she had not given in fully to passion with such a man when there was no possibility of a future.
She would be happy with Thierry. While an exiled French comte was not her precise social equal, certainly he understood the obligations and mores of their world. But why did the idea of their secret engagement progressing to marriage no longer fill her with unalloyed joy?
Was it just the months of separation that had turned Thierry into a stranger? She had been away from him for too long, and as it was too difficult to predict her exact arrival dates in certain cities in advance, it was impossible to get letters from him. Perhaps they should have eloped, and spent their honeymoon on this journey! Surely all would be well when Thierry joined her in Santa Fe; she would take one look into his expressive blue eyes and remember why she had fallen in love.
Until then, though, what was she to do about her growing attraction to Morgan Calhoun? Even the hurt she felt at his cross words and cold eyes moments ago couldn’t diminish what she felt for him. However unsuitable it was, she could no longer deny to herself that there was a magnetism between them. When he was in the room, she wanted to fill her eyes with Morgan and no one else; it was his drawling, Southern-accented voice, so different from the familiar accents of her fellow Britons, that she wanted to hear, his smile she longed to elicit.
It was merely the attraction of opposites, she told herself, the charm of forbidden fruit. She’d heard of other noblewomen conceiving passions for their footmen or other unsuitable men—even conceiving love children with them—and had felt pity and a mild disgust for how they had disgraced themselves.
Now she understood a little better, she thought. Her attraction to Morgan Calhoun was the thrill of the unfamiliar, her intoxication with his aura of danger and the added factor that he was only a temporary figure in her life. It was not as if she would marry him, and then have to face the humiliation of seeing him fumble at a bow to the queen, after all....
Chapter Twelve
The policeman waiting at the side door of the theater nodded to Morgan. “It’s all clear, Mr. Calhoun,” he said. “I’ve got one man stationed in the duchess’s box, another in the stairwell and I’ll be out here. Bring them on in.”
Morgan smiled inwardly at the man’s professional cordiality, knowing he’d have gotten another reception altogether if the officer had known that Morgan was a wanted outlaw. He strode over and rapped on the landau window. “Everything looks okay, your grace,” he called out in a low voice. He’d be a lot happier when this night was over.
“I’m sorry it’s only an American play, your grace,” William Wharton murmured in his nasal Yankee voice as he helped Sarah Challoner alight from the landau at the side of the Denver Theater. “It’s called Cross of Gold, or, The Maid of Croisay. Richard III is at the Apollo, but—”
“Oh, but I cut my teeth on the Shakespeare plays, Mr. Wharton!” Sarah said, gracefully picking up her train. She favored her escort with a smile that made the anxious, apologetic expression on the mining magnate’s face relax at once. “Seeing something new, something typically American, is much more excitingl And I appreciate your being willing to change our plans as late as last night.”
Sarah was dazzling in a gown of some satiny gold material whose stylishly low neckline was only emphasized by the necklace of diamonds and gold topaz that she wore. Glimpsing the shadowy hint of cleavage—and knowing Wharton was able to see it, too—made Morgan want to go howl at the moon that now hung over Denver like a great silver disk.
Wharton, preening, ignored Morgan as he strode past him into the side stairway with the duchess on his arm. “It’s William, remember? Oh, but I understand about changing theaters,” he said. “I wouldn’t want your enjoyment of the evening to be marred by any worries, even though I feel sure this lunatic has given up by now, anyway. But if these precautions help you feel safer...”
Didn’t the duchess realize how patronizing Wharton’s reassurance sounded? And if Wharton wanted to live to a ripe old age, he’d damned well better take his hand off Sarah’s arm. Morgan felt his hand itch to draw the pistol he had tucked out of sight in his waistband, and ground his teeth because he had no right to object to what the man said or did.
“Actually, another of the threatening notes was delivered with my breakfast this very morning,” Sarah admitted. “The hotel management was very regretful, and said they had no knowledge of how it got there, of course. But I’m simply not going to worry. Mr. Calhoun is here, and you can see he’s arranged for extra constables, so...” She shrugged elegantly and settled herself in the velvet-upholstered chair in the dimly lit box, arranging her skirts about her. “We’re here safe and sound, and I intend to thoroughly enjoy my last evening in Denver, Mr. Whar—William. It’s just too bad my uncle didn’t join us. I know he would have enjoyed it.”
“That’s the spirit, your grace,” Wharton said approvingly, then added, “Perhaps he didn’t want to be horning in, eh?” He leaned out and indicated the crowd settling into their seats below. “A big crowd tonight, eh?”
He made it sound as if he had personally summoned them all, Morgan thought sourly.
“Yes, quite.”
Morgan was amused at her answer, for he knew that the buzzing throng below was all just a colorful blur to his employer without her spectacles—and she was far too vain to consider being seen in them, either by Wharton or the faceless crowd. She wouldn’t be able to see the actors on stage much better, either. She’d have to content herself with listening to them spouting their lines.
“Ah, they’ve spotted you, your grace,” Wharton said with smug satisfaction when the patrons started to point at the inhabitants of the box and whisper behind
fans and cupped hands to those they’d come with. “No doubt this will make the society notices in the newspaper.”
You damned little banty rooster, if that’s all you want, I hope you’re happy, Morgan thought contemptuously as he took up his seat closest to the entrance to the box, with Wharton sitting between him and the duchess. He went back to scanning the crowd, alert for any furtive expressions or movements, but he could see nothing but avid curiosity in the faces turned upward to stare at the English duchess.
Yet why did he feel this prickling along his spine, the same sensation that had always preceded danger in the past? Was the man who was trying to kill Sarah in the crowd? Had the policemen let the assassin slip right by them?
In a moment the lights would dim and the play would begin, and he wouldn’t be able to see anything. Hellfire, why had he ever let Sarah come here? It was just plumb crazy!
Later, Morgan could not have told anyone what the play had been about if his life had depended on it. He’d been too tense to sit still. Initially he’d taken turns pacing the back of the box and opening the door a crack to assure himself that there was still a guard outside the box. Then, when his fidgeting had earned him an annoyed glare from Wharton and a whispered “Do be still, Mr. Calhoun,” from Sarah, he’d contented himself with leaning against the side wall and trying to see through the darkness that surrounded the other boxes and the rows of seats below. Once or twice he’d allowed himself quick glances at Sarah, who had sat enthralled with the melodrama unfolding on the stage.
At the intermission the duchess and Wharton had arisen and announced their intention of seeking refreshment. Morgan had shaken his head and told Wharton he could go fetch the refreshment if he liked, but Morgan didn’t want the duchess mingling with the milling throng below.
The mining magnate’s face had clouded over. Evidently he didn’t like being told to fetch as if he were a dog, but before he could begin arguing with Morgan, Sarah had spoken up, her cheeks pink. “But Mr. Calhoun, I’m afraid that won’t do. I need to—ahem!—stretch my legs, you see.” She’d looked him straight in the eye, and Morgan had suddenly realized that even duchesses needed to answer calls of nature once in a while.
Gritting his teeth and praying an assassin wouldn’t pick this time to make his move, he had accompanied Sarah to the door of the ladies’ retiring room while Wharton went down to obtain refreshments. Morgan suspected the mine owner would have preferred to parade about the lobby with the duchess on his arm for all to see, but too bad.
Wharton had got a revenge of sorts when he’d returned to the box, for he’d been accompanied by a stream of acquaintances clamoring to meet the duchess. But Morgan had insisted on patting each one of the gentlemen down before letting them in.
Now, however, the play and the short farce that had followed were over, and everyone was rising to leave.
“Why don’t we go backstage before we leave, your grace? The theater owner told me the actors wanted to meet—”
Morgan cut him off at the pass. “Forget it,” he said quickly, ignoring the other man’s sputter of indignation. “I want to get the duchess out of here before most of that crowd gets out the door.” He didn’t mention the fact that he could feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing straight up now. He wanted Sarah safely back at the hotel, and the sooner the better.
“Perhaps that would be best,” the duchess murmured, but her eyes revealed her annoyance with her bodyguard for being so abrupt. “In any case, the hotel has a fine late supper waiting for us.”
Wharton gave in gracefully and pronounced himself eager to dine with her.
Morgan checked the stairway, found the policemen still at their posts, and shepherded the duchess and Wharton down the stairs.
Ben had the carriage right in the narrow alleyway between the Denver Theater and its neighbor to the north, just as he’d been mstructed to, and was already perched on the high driver’s seat, ready to go.
Morgan had a brief glimpse of Ben’s hand raised in greeting before Wharton stepped in front of him, his arm outstretched as if he intended to open the carriage door.
Damned meddling—
Morgan hadn’t even completed the thought when the alleyway exploded with two thunderous reports in quick succession. Wharton collapsed at Sarah’s feet, suddenly as boneless as a rag doll, his ginger hair drenched with blood. The policeman who’d been holding the side door open fell over backward, an ugly hole between his eyes. Sarah’s scream mingled with the echoing gunshots.
From the landau Ben shouted, “Duchess, get in—” and then another crack sounded, and the groom’s body sagged on the driver’s seat.
The terrified horses reared and bolted, neighing frantically as they plunged down the alleyway, throwing Ben’s body off the landau.
The shots had come from above, Morgan realized, even as he thrust Sarah behind him and yanked the Colt from his waistband. The neighboring building had no window—where was the assassin? He fired three shots in rapid succession toward the roof, then grabbed Sarah’s hand. He thought for a heartbeat about seeking refuge in the building—
A bullet hit the wall behind them, just to the right of their heads, spattering them with shards of brick. That made Morgan’s decision. He wasn’t about to go in there with her—it could be a trap.
“Run, Duchess!” he yelled, pulling her in the direction the horses bad galloped. Another shot was fired, and Morgan felt it whistle past his neck.
“But...Ben...Wharton...the constable—” she protested, even as she grabbed up her skirts and obeyed.
“They’re dead!” he told her as they ran. “We can’t help ’em now! Gotta get you...outa this!”
Behind them, pandemonium had erupted. Morgan heard shouts as the policeman who’d been guarding the inside stairway reached the street and found the bodies, and then more shouts and screams as the exiting playgoers reached the side alleyway and saw the corpses. There were no more shots, but was the assassin coming after them? A glance over his shoulder showed no one in pursuit yet.
Coming to a narrow passage between two buildings, he pushed Sarah into it. “Keep running!” he commanded. “I’m right behind you!”
They ran to the next street, then rounded the corner and found another alley. The duchess was surprisingly fleet for a woman running in kid slippers and holding her skirts up with her free hand, but she wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace long, Morgan realized. And they were terribly vulnerable as long as they were fleeing through the darkness in an unfamiliar town. He had to find a place for her to hide, and then he’d see about summoning help and going out to hunt down the assassin....
An assassin who’d been hired by Sarah’s uncle, if it wasn’t Frederick himself. There was no other explanation. Damn, but he’d been a fool to let Sarah’s faith in her uncle lull him into trusting Lord Halston!
“Can’t...run...much farther,” panted Sarah beside him. “Must...stop...a minute...rest...”
“Not yet,” he told her. “We don’t rest till we get you off the street.” But he stopped nonetheless and listened, straining to hear over his own and the duchess’s ragged breathing.
There were still no sounds of pursuit, just the distant sounds of confusion back at the theater. But there... Up in the next street Morgan could hear the faint tinkling sounds of a piano. “Come on,” he whispered, and pulled her after him, and they ran in the direction of the music.
As they drew closer, the lights blazing through the sheer lace curtains illuminated the discreet sign proclaiming the place Madame Hortense’s Parlor House. The windows were all open, for it was a warm night.
Morgan pulled Sarah up onto the steps. “Stay behind me and let me do the talking,” he warned her, then knocked
A ripe-looking madam with an ostrich plume draped over her fading red hair and wearing a gown of spangled red satin answered the door.
“We need a room,” Morgan informed the woman, his nod including Sarah.
Madame Hortense blinked at Sarah. �
�Usually we provide the woman, mister. And where’d all that blood come from?” she added, her eyes narrowing as she extended a beringed finger to touch Morgan’s shirtfront.
Morgan looked down, and in the light spilling out from the door he saw the crimson spatters that desecrated the whiteness of the starched shirt. Wharton’s blood? The policeman’s?
“Morgan? Are you hurt?” Sarah cried, dashing around him and staring at the blood, her blue eyes enormous in a face as pale as his shirt had been. She was in shock and had been running on pure nerve, and now she looked as if she might swoon.
“Naw, honey, that’s ol’ Eddie’s blood,” he said, seizing a name from the air and praying she would play along. “A jealous rival,” he told the madam with what he hoped was a smug grin, then he winked at her with all the charm he was capable of mustering. “I’m afraid I bloodied his nose when I knocked him out. But he’s gonna be plumb hateful when he comes to, and I want to get the little lady out of his way until he cools off, okay?”
Madame Hortense took her hand off her hip and extended it, palm up. “Let’s see the color of your money—and I don’t take gold dust, mister.”
Lord, now they were stuck. The agreement had been that he’d be paid at the end of the trip, and with the duchess providing him with his food and the roof over his head, he’d had no need for money of his own ever since hiring on with her. He knew Sarah didn’t carry money—it was always Lord Halston’s job to tip the waiters and such.
“Will this buy us a room?” the duchess inquired, and Morgan saw her coolly pulling off the topaz-and-diamond earbobs that matched the magnificent necklace.
Madame Hortense held them up to the light and smiled. “Honey, if you want to throw in the necklace, you can hide out here for the whole month! No? Well, come on in and I’ll go roust Natasha outa her room. She won’t like it much, but I don’t give a damn.”
They entered and found themselves in a large, grandly decorated room that obviously served as the reception area for the gentlemen who patronized the house, for half a dozen women in scanty, low-cut dresses in garish hues lounged on the sofas that lined the walls. The piano player, whose tinny plunking had lured them here, stopped playing and swiveled around to join the whores in staring at Morgan and Sarah.