Laurie Grant - The Duchess And The Desperado

“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.