“Have you gone daft?” Nick sputtered. “That rope cost half a month’s wages.”
“And those boots cost another month’s worth, I’ll wager!” She scowled at the footwear in question. “Look where they’ve got you — in jail one week and in trouble with the mistress the next. You’ll be lucky if she don’t sack you!”
“I don’t intend to sack anyone.” Cecily had trouble hiding her amusement. Apparently, Alice thought she’d been taking the rope away from Nick. “I’ve asked Nick to teach me how to rope cattle, Alice.”
The maid paled. “You’ve done what, m’lady?”
Cecily tried her hand at twirling the circlet of rope that dangled from her fingers. “I want to learn to rope and ride and be a proper ranch wife.”
“But a lady doesn’t do such things!” Alice couldn’t keep back her outrage. “Surely you’re more than proper enough for any man’s wife!”
“Things are different here in Texas,” Cecily said gently. “A man needs more in a wife than a pretty ornament for the drawing room. He needs someone who can help him in his work.”
“I think any man would be right pleased with a woman who’d take such an interest in his work.” Nick cast a telling look in Alice’s direction. “Whether she’s a lady or not.”
Alice worried her lower lip between her teeth. “It sounds dangerous to me,” she said. “You could be hurt.”
“I wouldn’t let any harm come to Lady Cecily.” Nick threw back his shoulders. “Besides, any woman who’s brave enough to sail all the way across the ocean by herself isn’t afraid of a few cows and horses.”
“I never said m’lady was a coward!” Alice stepped up beside Cecily and crossed her arms over her chest. “And I’m not either. If you’re going to teach Lady Cecily, then you’ll have to teach me, too.”
Nick slumped. “Teach you?” He looked at Cecily. “Send her back to the house, m’lady. She doesn’t have any use for this stuff and she’ll only be in the way.”
“My place is with Lady Cecily.” Alice looked smug. “Besides, it might be that I aim to be a rancher’s wife one day myself!”
Nick flushed. “We’ll just see about that.” He stalked to the end of the stall and plucked another coil of rope from a nail. Cecily couldn’t make out all he mumbled under his breath, but she thought it was something about ‘crazy English women’ who ‘ought to be tied up’ before they ‘drove a bloke batty.’
No doubt Charles would agree. For some reason, she found the thought quite satisfying.
* * *
The usual Saturday crowd had gathered at Perkins’s Store when Gordon and Charles stopped by to collect the mail. Charles had scarcely crossed the threshold when all attention focused on him. “Worthington! Let me be the first to congratulate you!” Joseph Dillon grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.
Charles deftly extricated himself from the rancher’s crushing grip. “Why thank you, Dillon, but I’m not sure I–”
“Charlie, you sly old dog!” Bill Thackery clapped him on the shoulder. He grinned. “Decided to hang up your spurs like the rest of us, huh?”
“I must say, she sounds like a prize.” Alan Mitchell stepped up to shake hands also. “Here’s to a long and happy life together, Charles.”
Somehow, he made it through the press of well-wishers and reached the front counter. “What are they carrying on about?” he mumbled to Gordon.
“I’m not sure, m’lord, but I would hazard they are referring to Lady Thorndale. She is the only woman in your life at the moment, is she not?”
“Why do you sound as if you’re not so sure about that?” Charles grumbled. Smile fixed in place, he addressed the storekeeper. “Good morning, Perkins. Any mail for me?”
“Yes sir. Another letter all the way from England.” Perkins fished the thin envelope from its slot and handed it to him. “And may I add my congratulations and wishes for much future happiness,” he said. “I guess this means you’ll be staying on with us for a while, then?”
“Staying? What are you talking about, man?”
But Mrs. Perkins chose that moment to drop a half-dozen eggs on the floor and Perkins rushed to help her clean them up.
Seeing the formidable Mrs. Dillon descending upon them, Charles shoved the letter into his coat pocket and headed for the door. He wasn’t in the mood to play the charming gent at the moment. Outside on the sidewalk, he withdrew the envelope from his coat and stared at it. “Should I open it, Gordon?” he asked. “Or just assume that it’s bad news and put it away?”
“I always find the motto ‘forewarned is forearmed’ to be true, m’lord.” Gordon’s expression was as mild as ever, but Charles knew the valet was as curious as he was about the letter, which was once again written in Lord Brighton’s own handwriting.
Taking out a penknife, Charles slit the envelope and shook out the single sheet within. “Charles,” the letter began abruptly. “The syndicate has voted unanimously to expand our holdings in Texas. You are to locate suitable properties for purchase and make a report in person to us no later than sixth March. Reply immediately to indicate your return date. Otherwise, I will be forced to take drastic action.”
“Drastic action, is it?” Did his father intend to have him kidnapped and shipped home in chains? He refolded the letter and returned it to his coat pocket. “Keep a sharp eye out, Gordon. I may need you as bodyguard before this is over.”
“Certainly, m’lord.” Gordon’s eyes glinted with amusement. “And will you be interested in looking at property for sale, m’lord?”
“I suppose I ought to at least investigate some possibilities and make a report to the syndicate. A written report.”
“It is my understanding that the Ace of Clubs ranch is experiencing some financial trouble,” Gordon said. “I believe the bank holds a note which may be for sale.”
Charles gave the valet a sharp look. “How is it you know so much about everything that goes on, Gordon?”
Gordon assumed a modest expression. “I am a good listener, m’lord. And I have always had a keen interest in matters of finance.”
Charles nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced down the walk, toward the Fairweather Sentinel office. “As long as we’re here, let’s stop by the newspaper and see if Adkins has anything interesting listed for sale.”
“Congratulations, Worthington!” Mason March hailed him from across the street.
“Heard your good news!” George Garcia offered.
As usual, the latest issue of the Fairweather Sentinel was posted in the front window of the office. Charles stopped before it and scanned the crowded pages. Halfway down the inside sheet he found what he was looking for. British Beauty Dazzles Locals the headline proclaimed in bold letters.
Lady Cecily Thorndale, only offspring of England’s Earl of Marbridge, tells us she is enjoying her stay in Texas. Those locals fortunate enough to have made her acquaintance are enjoying Lady Thorndale as well. A stately blond with the famed ‘English roses’ complexion, Lady Thorndale and her two servants are guests of another well-known expatriate from the British Isles, Charles Worthington, known more formerly as Lord Silsbee. Though it has not been widely advertised as yet, Lady Thorndale made known to this reporter that she and the lucky Worthington are engaged, with a wedding planned for late spring or early summer.
“I did not realize you had set a date for the wedding, m’lord,” Gordon said.
“Neither had I.” Charles felt as if someone had tied a knot in his stomach. He had counted on breaking off his engagement to Cecily quietly, with a minimum of damage to her reputation. “Now I’ll never be able to call off the wedding without a scandal.”
Gordon cleared his throat. Charles flushed. He hadn’t meant to speak out loud. “I can’t marry her, man, don’t you see? I tie the knot with her and the next thing you know I’m in some counting house or court chamber, up to my ears in writs and ledgers, ordering pasty-faced clerks to fetch this and write that and growing as portly and gray as
my father.”
“Perhaps if Lady Thorndale knew your feelings –”
“She’d be crushed. I may be a cad to reject her, Gordon, but I won’t see her hurt if I can help it.” The thought of pretty, sweet, Cecily reduced to tears because of him made his jaw ache.
“I was going to say, sir, that perhaps you could convince her ladyship to cancel the engagement herself. If it’s her choice, there’s less likely to be a fuss.”
“Of course I’ve thought of that, but nothing I’ve tried seems to be working.”
“Worthington! Or should I say Lord Silsbee?” Adkins appeared in the doorway of the paper. “What do you think of my stories about you and Lady Thorndale?”
“Haven’t you got better things to write about, Adkins?” Charles assumed a bland expression. “I’d hardly call that sort of fluff news.”
“I think more than a few men would argue that the arrival of a beautiful, titled lady in town is news enough for them.” Adkins laughed. “But you can’t say the other story isn’t news. The opening of the Fairweather Academy is the biggest thing to happen here since the new courthouse was built.”
“The Academy?” Charles frowned, puzzled. “What about it?”
“You mean you didn’t see?” Adkins came to stand beside him and stabbed a finger at the front page of the paper.
Charles blinked. Worthington slated to preside over Academy. “What the devil?” He read rapidly, scanning the words. “Harold Simms announced. . . Charles Worthington to fill post as first president. . . Academy. . . I never said I’d take the job!” he roared.
Adkins stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I was only reporting what Simms told me. If you have a problem with the information, you need to take it up with him.”
“I intend to do just that.” Adkins had to jump out of the way to avoid being plowed down as Charles headed for the Fairweather Merchant’s Bank. “I came here to avoid being pressed into politics or business,” he muttered. “Not to sink right down in that mire two thousand miles away from home.”
“Perhaps people see in you a natural aptitude, m’lord,” Gordon said.
“People see what they want to see, Gordon.” He pushed open the door to the bank and headed for the president’s office. “Simms, I have a bone to pick with you,” he said as he pushed open the door.
A startled Hattie Simms looked up from her seat in the big leather chair behind her father’s desk. “M. . . my father isn’t. . . he isn’t here now,” she stammered, fumbling for a handkerchief.
Charles’s momentum took him to the edge of the desk, where he froze as if he’d run into a wall. He stared down at Hattie’s flushed face and reddened eyes, taking in the sodden handkerchief and the open copy of the Sentinel. His eyes fell on the British Beauty headline, the words beneath blurred by drops of water that had fallen on the paper – tears?
He’d caused those tears, as surely as he was standing here. At that moment, if someone had come along and offered to shoot him, he would have gladly gone with them. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he said softly, knowing no apology would ever be adequate for the hurt he’d caused this innocent woman with his not-entirely innocent flirtation.
“You’ve n. . . nothing to apologize a. . .about.” She sniffed and tried vainly to find some dry corner on the handkerchief.
“Allow me, miss.” Gordon stepped up and offered a square of snowy linen from his own pocket.
“Thank you.” Hattie looked up, seemingly seeing him for the first time. “Thank you, Mr.?”
“Gordon.” He bowed. “Lord Silsbee’s valet.”
The name drew her gaze back to Charles. As their eyes met, he hastened to stave off a fresh flood of tears. “Hattie, please believe me when I say I never meant to encourage your feelings for me.”
She raised her head, chin high. “What makes you think I have feelings for you?”
It was a question which could not be diplomatically answered. Well-schooled in diplomacy, Charles chose to ignore it. “I’m afraid I have developed a habit of flirting with lovely women. People who know me well have come to expect it, and it seemed harmless enough.” He leaned closer, entreating her understanding. “It pains me to think my thoughtlessness has caused you hurt.”
She sniffed again and dabbed at her eyes. “I must remember that your ways are foreign to us. And I was brought up to have a more serious nature than some.” Her gaze dropped once more to the newspaper story. “Congratulations to you and to Lady Cecily. I. . . I genuinely like her, and I hope she doesn’t think ill of me for any. . . any misleading messages I may have given.”
“I assure you, Lady Cecily thinks very highly of you.”
Hattie nodded. “She struck me as a very forgiving person.”
Would Cecily be so forgiving if she could see Hattie now, reduced to tears by Charles’s thoughtless games? “Again, I apologize.”
“And I told you, I accept.” She refolded the handkerchief and offered it to Gordon.
“Oh no, miss. You keep it.” A slight smile relaxed his normally stolid features. “Perhaps I may return for it at a later date.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “I think you had both better go now.”
They made their way silently back to their horses. Charles automatically returned the greetings of all they passed, but did not stop for conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. From long experience, Gordon did not intrude.
When they arrived home and he’d seen to his horse, he went in search of Cecily. Maybe Gordon was right. Maybe the time had come to offer the truth in black and white and ask her to relieve him of the obligation to marry. The idea of dealing with two crying women in one afternoon made his stomach clench and his head pound, but best not to delay any longer.
The parlor was empty, as was Cecily’s room. He called for Alice, but received no answer. Perhaps they were on the back porch. On the way downstairs again, he met Madame LeFleur. “Have you seen Cecily?” he asked.
“I believe she is riding with Alice and young Bainbridge.” He nodded and started to walk past, but her hand on his arm stopped him. “I know you will be pleased to hear that my girls and I will be leaving you next week. Our new house is finished and we will be moving in as soon as we are able.” She smiled, an expression that gave a hint of the beauty she must have been in her younger days. “We are most grateful for all your hospitality.”
“No need to thank me, Madam. I was glad to be of assistance.” The words were a formality, but no less true. If nothing else, Madame and the others’ stay with him had been a great annoyance to Sheriff Grady, and thus a source of satisfaction for Charles. “If you like, I can have a couple of my men help you with the move.”
“That would be most kind. And much appreciated.”
“I’ll ask Gordon to find some to help you.” He doubted he’d have any trouble lining up volunteers to move the women into the new whorehouse.
He decided to ask someone at the barn if they knew what time Cecily and the others had left, and perhaps what time they intended to return. But before he was halfway across the yard, a commotion by the corral distracted him. With much whooping and hollering, a half-dozen men had gathered around what at first appeared to be a rolling cloud of dust. As Charles raced toward the scene, he could make out a horse and rider. Closer still, he could see a half-grown cow stumbling along behind on the end of a lead. The dust cloud was explained by the balky way the cow held back.
“Did you see it, m’lord? Can you believe she caught it by herself?”
The dust cloud parted to reveal Nick Bainbridge astride a second horse. Charles glanced back at the first rider and the flash of recognition shook him. “Cecily, what are you doing?” he bellowed over the clamor of the cowboys.
Face dusty, hair tumbling from its pins, she looked up at him, grinning like a street urchin. “It’s a maverick, Charles. That’s what they tell me they call a cow that hasn’t yet been branded.”
“I can see that.” He pushe
d his way through the crowd until he was standing beside her. The velvet of her riding habit was streaked with dirt, the hem torn, yet she sat as regally as if she’d merely enjoyed a Sunday ride through Hyde Park. “What are you doing with it in the first place?”
“I lassoed it.” A cheer went up from the cowboys at this announcement and Cecily’s grin broadened. “I intend to keep it and start my own herd.”
She looked so pleased, Charles didn’t know whether to scold or laugh. He thought he knew her well enough to realize neither response would be appreciated. “What use do you have for a herd of cattle?” he asked instead.
Her smile dissolved, and her expression turned to one of disdain. “Your trouble, Charles, is that you don’t believe I have the fortitude necessary to be a rancher’s wife. Well, you’re wrong, and this cow proves it.”
Some of the men chuckled. Their laughter irked. “How does this overgrown calf prove anything?” he demanded.
“You think the only things I’m capable of doing are pouring tea and planning parties.” She raised her head, regal even with unbound hair and dirty face. “I’m capable of so much more, Charles. I want you to see that.”
“You tell him, ma’am!” someone shouted, and others murmured agreement.
Charles scowled at them. He and Cecily should be having this conversation in a parlor, not out here in front of God and everyone. “Don’t you men have work to do?” he asked.
Some of them grumbled, but eventually they drifted away. “Nick, take this calf and put it in one of the sick pens,” he ordered. “Alice, go to the house and draw Lady Cecily’s bath.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Cecily asked when Nick tried to take the rope that held the calf.
“Once you’ve picked out a brand, we’ll mark it and record it.” Charles tried to sound more patient than he felt. In all probability, he’d talk Cecily out of this idea altogether and they’d brand the calf with the Double Crown. But time enough to deal with that later.
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