Read The Duchess and Desperado Online

Authors: Laurie Grant

Tags: #Romance, #Historical Romance, #Nineteenth Century, #American West, #Protector

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BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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“Actually, Mr. Edwards, I find I cannot eat another bite, especially of something so rich looking. You would be doing me quite a service if you ate it for me,” she said appealingly, with a meaningful glance at Harper's back.
Edwards chuckled. “I could be your knight in shining armor, huh? No sooner said than done.” He winked, and scooped her
éclair à la Martinique
onto his plate, leaving just a bite so it would appear that she had eaten most of it. “Scrumptious,” he muttered, jabbing his fork into what he'd taken and eating it with gusto.
Amused, Sarah turned back to the mayor, who, fortunately, had missed this little byplay. “It was so kind of you to have this dinner party in my honor, Mr. Harper. I don't know if you ever plan to visit Britain, but you must visit Malvern Hall if you ever—”
A high-pitched cry from the left cut into her words. It was Edwards, she saw as she whirled around. He was clutching his neck, his face purpling above the tight starched collar. His eyes bulged in terror as he turned them on her, as if imploring her to save him.
“P-p-p...” he managed to sputter, his voice squeaky as if it was forced past spasming vocal cords. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell backward, tipping the chair with a mighty crash.
Chapter Nine
 
 
M
ayor Harper's new French chef, “Pierre,” smiled to himself in the kitchen when he heard the muffled
thud
and the first screams, imagining the sight of Sarah Challoner's limp, lifeless body, still clad in its fancy gown and jewels, collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her uncle would doubtless be slapping the face that was rapidly turning a dusky blue, trying in vain to bring the dead duchess to her senses. Pandemonium would soon break out as they realized she was beyond help.
“Lord Gawd, whuss happenin' out there?” cried the cook as one of the waiters ran into the kitchen.
“One of the guests just keeled over dead, that's what!” shouted the man, his eyes wide with horror. “It was the old man sitting next to the duchess—you should see him, Maisie! His face is purple as a grape!”
“Pierre” jumped to his feet, ignoring the chair he'd just kicked over. “But how is this possible?” he demanded. He'd specifically told this very waiter to place the first serving of his éclair at the duchess's place, not in front of the old sot beside her!
“He ate his, then hers, too—the duchess gave it to him, said she couldn't eat it. It was awful—I was watchin' him when he took sick! He'd eaten about half of it when all at once his eyes got all bulgy an' he just clutched his neck and tried to say somethun', and then fell over backward, dead as a six-card poker hand! Now everyone's all runnin' every which way, and the guests is leavin', and the mayor's apologizin' to them Britishers for Ellis dyin' like that an' spoilin' the party....”
“Merde!”
growled “Pierre,” but there was no one to hear him, because the cook had followed the waiter out to the dining room to gape at the spectacle. He had thought his idea of a poisoned pastry was foolproof!
Frantic to salvage victory from this debacle, he ran unnoticed up to the attic where the servants had their quarters and grabbed his rifle from its place of concealment under his bed. He shoved open the window through which he had gazed upon the arriving Sarah Challoner and her bodyguard, refusing to worry about how he would escape after the deed, just praying that he would get a second chance to kill her this evening.
 
“The poor man,” Sarah was saying as Morgan hustled her and Lord Halston out of the mayor's house, not through the front door, but via the French doors that led from the dining room into Mrs. Harper's rose garden at the side of the house. From there they made their way to the carriage turnaround at the back, where Ben waited with the landau. “To be taken like that so suddenly... I wonder what he was trying to say?”
“Unfortunately, we'll never know...but I'm certain it was an apoplexy,” her uncle said in soothing tones. “Not unexpected in a man of his age. It's just terrible that you had to be a witness to it, niece.”
Morgan allowed himself a snort of disgust as they reached the carriage. “Apoplexy, my foot,” he said, scrutinizing their surroundings as he assisted the duchess into the carriage. “The man was poisoned—only he wasn't meant to get that dessert, the duchess was!”
He saw Sarah's jaw drop, heard Lord Halston
tut-tutting.
“Really, my good man, I know she's received threats, and there was that gunshot, but—
poison?
That's too much like a bad stage melodrama, Calhoun!”
He expected no better from Halston, but Morgan was astonished to see a smile of amusement lurking on the duchess's lips as she settled her skirts on the padded cushions. “Really, Mr. Calhoun! I think the Borgias and their ilk have been dead for centuries It's sad that Mr. Edwards is dead, but I cannot imagine it could be anything but natural causes.”
“I don't know who the Borgias are, but you don't think it's suspicious that Harper just happened to hire some foreigner who claims he can cook?”
“Good God, man, you don't mean to accuse Harper—” began Lord Halston.
“No, of course not,” Morgan answered without looking at him. “I'm talking about the foreigner.”
He saw Sarah begin to chew on her lower lip and uncertainty cloud her eyes.
Morgan shifted his gaze to Lord Halston, but the duchess's uncle's face just looked skeptical. Try as he might, Morgan could see no trace of guilt there, but the man might just be a hell of an actor, as he'd thought before. Damn it, he stood to gain too much if his niece died.
“We'd better get going,” Morgan announced, shutting the carriage door and ending the conversation. He wanted to get the duchess safely back to the hotel, and then, by God, he was going to come back and question every one of the mayor's staff.
If none of them acted guilty, then Lord Halston had to be behind the threatening notes and assassination attempts on his own niece. Sure, he'd cooperated, and encouraged the duchess to do so, too, but what better way to look innocent than to go along with the bodyguard?
Hours later, Morgan rode back from the mayor's house to find a lamp left dimly burning in the main room. The duchess and her entourage had obviously gone to bed. Just as Morgan had suspected when he'd gone back to question the mayor's staff, the new French chef was inexplicably missing, along with all of his belongings.
Morgan had then asked if he could see the remains of the pastry Edwards had been devouring, only to be told it had been thrown out. On a hunch, he'd gone to the trash heap beyond the barn where the cook said they dumped scraps. There he found an already stiffening carcass of a pig who'd been out scavenging, confirmation of his suspicion that the pastry had been poisoned.
 
It seemed he'd been asleep only moments when he woke to feel someone shaking him awake.
He had his hand on the gun he always left by his right hand and was cocking it even before he managed to get his eyes open. Then, as he was struggling to focus his gaze on whoever was bent over him, his nose identified the scent of roses.
“Lord, Duchess,” he muttered, now recognizing the woman who knelt by his bed. “You don't know how close I came to shooting you.” He was angry at himself for falling so deeply asleep.
“Sh, Morgan,” she whispered, her breath whisper soft on his face. “I don't want to wake the others.”
“What's up?” he said, instantly alert. Had she found some proof that her uncle was indeed the man behind the threats? Was she looking to escape?
But no, she was smiling, and even in the dim light of the lamp she'd lit and left with its wick barely showing, he could see the mischief dancing in her blue eyes. She was wearing a dark-colored riding habit, and her golden hair was coiled under one of those charming but useless bits of fabric she called a hat.
“We're going riding, and I don't want the others—especially my uncle, who can be a bit of a worrier, you know—to know till we've gone,” she added with a wink. “They'll just come up with all sorts of reasons why we shouldn't go, or why we should wait until my uncle and half a dozen others can join us, and I've no wish for a large party. I just want to go for a gallop on my mare. I've nothing scheduled today, so it won't matter if we're gone for hours! We'll leave a note, of course,” she said as Morgan frowned and opened his mouth.
“But Duchess—”
“But nothing. You promised me yesterday, remember? I very much
need
to get out into the fresh air—especially after what happened last night Besides, the horses are all ready—I told Ben what we'd be doing. And I managed to leave a note yesterday for the kitchen staff without any of my people seeing it, requesting a picnic lunch for two be ready in the stable at dawn. So you see,” she said as she sat back on her heels, grinning, “it's all arranged. All you have to do is get dressed.”
Morgan started to protest that he hadn't promised her they would go for a ride, he'd said he wanted to
think
about it, but he could see it was about as much use as arguing with a Texas twister. Besides, if he got the duchess off by herself, it would be easier to tell her about the poisoned hog and the French cook's disappearance. And once he got her attention with those facts, maybe he could even persuade the headstrong lady that her uncle was the most logical person behind the threats, and that she needed to get away from him. Lord, he hoped that groom of hers wasn't in on the plot, since she'd taken him into her confidence about the ride. Just to be on the safe side, he'd lie to the crusty old groom about where they were going.
Morgan sat up, rubbing a hand ruefully through his bedrumpled hair and over his beard-roughened cheeks, all too aware that he was wearing only a union suit beneath the sheet. “I need a shave.”
“No, you don't,” she insisted. “The horses won't care, and if you start clattering about with your shaving mug and getting water and everything, the others will wake. Besides,” she said, running a hand playfully over his chin and pretending to wince when she encountered his bristliness, “you look like a desperado. Surely no one we meet would dream of molesting me with a tough hombre like you along.”
If you only knew just what a desperado you're talking to.
“You've been readin' too many of those silly novels, Duchess,” he said, turning his back to her as he stood so she wouldn't see how her nearness, her touch and the scent of roses that clung to her had affected him physically. “Now, go on back into your room for a few minutes so I can get dressed.”
 
They rode steadily westward out of Denver, away from the rising sun. He'd let the duchess and her bay mare with that ridiculously fancy name have their gallop for a few minutes, keeping pace on Rio until the kinks and the deviltry had been run out of the horses. He didn't know how any woman managed to stay on a galloping horse when riding sidesaddle, but he had to admit Sarah Challoner was an excellent horsewoman. She managed the spirited mare with ease, even when Trafalgar had tried to unseat her mistress with some unexpected crowhops.
Clearly Rio found the leggy thoroughbred mare as entrancing as Morgan secretly found Sarah Challoner, but when the pinto stallion got too friendly, Trafalgar made it clear with a few kicks in his direction that she was not interested. Rio seemed to take his rejection in stride, however, and soon the horses were walking amicably along together, tails swishing in unison.
Though Morgan had said it would be hard to protect her out in the open, he'd felt his anxiety about the duchess's safety lessening more and more as they got farther away from Denver and any signs of human habitation. Here there was nothing but buffalo grass and the occasional cottonwood tree. They saw rabbits and a couple of groundhogs, and once, a skunk went ambling away from them through the tall grass.
Then, as they reached the beginning of the foothills, the inclining, rock-strewn path into the pines narrowed, and they had to ride single file. Morgan led the way, constantly scrutinizing their surroundings in all directions. He heard the duchess humming, and while he didn't recognize the tune, the melody was in perfect harmony with the sunshine and crisp air.
Finally, when the sun was high in the sky, they reined in their mounts on a level rise, and decided to eat their picnic there. It was a good open spot, where anyone or anything approaching them could be seen a mile away Dismounting, Morgan could see the town nestled on the plain below, with the silvery ribbon that was the South Platte River winding through the middle of it.
“It looks like a toy village, doesn't it?” he commented, pointing, after the duchess had dismounted. “Hard to imagine anyone down there could want to harm anyone.”
She made some noncommittal remark, staring blankly in the direction his finger indicated. For a moment he thought the second thing he'd said had upset her by reminding her of the danger she faced, but then he realized what the problem was. “You can't see what I'm seein', can you, Duchess?”
Slowly she shook her head in chagrin. “No, I'm afraid not It's just a soft blur.”
“Then why don't you put on your spectacles?” he asked, mystified.
She looked away. “Vanity is such a stupid sin, is it not?”
“Duchess, do you mean to tell me you care more about how you look than seeing where you're going? Does this mean you couldn't see all the pretty scenery we passed all the way up here?”
She shook her head at that last question. “Not exactly. Actually, I can see things fairly well if they're within oh, say, six feet or so, like that tall evergreen over there. So I have enjoyed the beauty around me—”
“Did you even bring your spectacles with you?”
She nodded, her face wary, but made no move to bring them out.
He made an exasperated sound. “Duchess, don't you even want to know if that fine mare of yours is about to put her hoof in a gopher hole?”
She paled at that. “Oh! You're right, of course,” she said. “From now on I shall wear them when riding.” She reached into the breast pocket of her riding habit and put them on, coloring a little as she did so. For a moment she stared silently at the scene below, then she turned to him, the glass slightly accentuating blue eyes that looked suspiciously moist. “I know you don't understand this, Morgan—I know I must seem a vain and silly creature to you, but... just feel like such a bluestocking, so awkward and ugly when I'm wearing these things!”
BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
2.2Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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