And what had Colt accomplished anyway, when everyone watching her—and everyone on the whole street was watching her—could see who she was watching, who she had intended to speak to? It sure wasn’t Billy, for after Colt rode off, the elegant redhead turned about and, after a few words to one of her escorts, got back in her coach and continued down the street.
Chapter Eight
Vanessa opened the door of their suite in the Grand Hotel to find Babette giggling in the hall with Mr. Sidney, one of the two footmen constantly vying for her attention. “Well, come along, girl,” Vanessa said impatiently, giving Sidney a look of stern disapproval that had him quickly leaving. “I managed to get her to lie down with a cold compress, but she won’t relax until she hears what Alonzo has to report. You do have his report?”
“But of course.” Babette grinned, her artfully arranged blond ringlets bouncing as she hurried into the room. “Alonzo, he finds where the ’Merican goes, but how long he stays there…” The French maid shrugged.
“Well, as long as he stays put for whatever it is she intends, though I can’t imagine what that is. She did say he refused employment.” Vanessa frowned then, staring at the closed door of Jocelyn’s bedroom. “On second thought, maybe it would be better if she didn’t see him again. I haven’t seen her burst into tears like that since those first months after the duke passed on.”
“Is no wonder, after everything that is happen today—”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Vanessa replied, still amazed that none of their people had been seriously hurt during the ambush. Though two men had been wounded and put to bed under a doctor’s supervision, they could travel again if the need arose. “But that’s not why she cried. The nerve of that rogue, to snub her like that.”
“Maybe he did not see her, yes?”
“Maybe.”
But Vanessa didn’t believe that for a minute. And although she was surprised at how keen Jocelyn’s interest was in this man, she wasn’t sure it was wise for her to pursue that interest, not after all she had told Vanessa about her encounter with him. He sounded much too…unusual.
“Did Alonzo also find out what a half-breed is?”
Babette’s pale blue eyes rounded, remembering that part of the report. “Oh, yes, but you will not like it, I think.”
“I didn’t suppose I would,” Vanessa remarked dryly. “Come along, then.”
The countess knocked softly before the two women entered the darkened bedroom. The sun had just set, though there was still a lavender sky visible through the open windows, with just enough light to show that Jocelyn was not sleeping; was, in fact, sitting up and looking expectantly at her young maid.
Vanessa motioned Babette to turn on the lamps before saying, “I took the liberty of ordering a light repast that should be delivered shortly. I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t feel up to changing for dinner tonight.”
Jocelyn frowned at her dear friend. “You should have been the one to lie down, Vana, especially after that terrible headache you suffered this morning. There’s certainly nothing wrong with me—”
“—that a little food and rest won’t see to,” Vanessa finished, her tone brooking no argument.
Jocelyn sighed. It was easier to give in to the countess when she got into one of her mothering moods, which she had been in ever since Jocelyn had succumbed to that silly burst of emotion just after they were shown to their suite. She looked at Babette again, who was still flitting from lamp to lamp. There were six of them in this room alone.
The accommodations were very adequate, considering what they had been led to expect: that most Western towns were small, their hotels even smaller. This being the first Western town they encountered, its large size was a welcome surprise, as was the selection of hotels they had had to choose from. The Grand was not on a par with the luxurious hotels on the East Coast, but it certainly tried to be. And they had been able to rent the entire second floor here, which was ideal for security purposes.
“Enough, Babette,” Jocelyn ordered with impatience. “How much light does Alonzo’s report warrant?”
The French girl grinned cheekily now that her stalling ploy was seen through. “Is not so bad. At least Alonzo, he say is only a matter of prejudice. The half-breed, he is considered the same as the Indian, and the Indian, he is treated with contempt and loathing.”
“Contempt?”
“To hide the fear, you understand. The Indian, he is still greatly feared in this place. He still raids and kills and—”
“Which Indian—ah, Indians?”
“Apaches. We hear of them in Mexico, no?”
“So we did, but I don’t recall hearing they were still so hostile.”
“Is only Geronimo. Alonzo say he is a renegade with only a small number of followers who hide out in Mexico, but they raid this side of the border too.”
“Very well, but Colt Thunder is not an Apache half-breed, he’s Cheyenne,” Jocelyn pointed out. “What did Alonzo learn of the Cheyenne Indians?”
“They are not known in this area.”
“Then why would Mr. Thunder think I should be leery of him?”
“I believe you have missed the point, my dear,” Vanessa interjected. “Prejudice is not particular. It sounds like all half-breeds are treated the same in these Western territories, no matter which Indian tribe they are associated with.”
“But that’s preposterous,” Jocelyn insisted. “Not to mention unfair. Besides, there wasn’t the least little thing contemptible about Colt Thunder. I found him very polite—well, mostly polite. And he was exceedingly helpful. Good Lord, in less than an hour’s span the man twice saved my life.” He was also impatient, short-tempered, argumentative, and stubbornly opposed to having anything more to do with her, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.
“Jocelyn, dear, we are all grateful to this fellow for his timely assistance. Indeed we are. But his feelings in the matter couldn’t have been more plain this afternoon. He won’t even talk to you.”
“I understand that now. He behaved the same way this morning, as if I were committing some grave faux pas just by being in the same vicinity with him. It’s so silly.”
“He obviously doesn’t think so.”
“I know, and he thought he was protecting me by avoiding me in town, which is very commendable, but hardly necessary. I’m not about to let someone else’s prejudices influence me. Nor do I give a fig for public opinion. If I want to associate with the man, I will. No one will tell me that I can’t.”
Vanessa raised a golden brow as Jocelyn’s chin went up stubbornly. The duke had told her once, during their initial interview, that his duchess was of the sweetest nature, biddable, and flexible. Vanessa was in a position to know differently.
“Just what sort of association did you have in mind?” Vanessa asked reluctantly, afraid she already knew.
Jocelyn shrugged, though there was a definite sparkle in her lime-green eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps what we were discussing early this morning.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
Chapter Nine
“I’ll get it,” Billy called and bounded off the bed, where he had been stretched out watching Colt shave off the few errant whiskers that he was in too much of a hurry to pluck out, as was his custom.
But before Billy’s hand touched the doorknob, he heard the distinctive sound of the hammer being pulled back on Colt’s revolver and knew he had blundered once again. You just didn’t open your door in a town where trouble was anticipated, not without finding out who was knocking first, or as Colt had done behind him, being prepared for any possibility. And Billy Clanton hadn’t left town yet. Though it was unlikely he had tracked Billy down to this lodging house, it wasn’t impossible.
He thought Colt would lash into him again as he had last night when Billy forgot to lock the door of the room they shared, but he was obviously in a better mood this morning. “Go ahead,” was all he said after Billy hesitated at the d
oor. “Just stay out of the line of fire.”
Billy swallowed once at that advice before unlocking the door and swinging it open wide, keeping himself behind it. When he had been on his own, he hadn’t worried about such things, hadn’t looked for danger around every corner. To do so was a lesson Jessie had taught him, but one he had conveniently forgotten this trip west. It was a wonder he had survived to get this far.
But this was one time caution was apparently unnecessary. There were two men out in the hall, neither of them young Clanton, and both immobilized by the clear view they had of Colt across the room with a gun trained on them, wearing nothing but his pants and his knee-high moccasins. That Colt immediately turned to slip the gun back in the holster hooked over the washstand made Billy wonder, until he too recognized those red jackets. The men still hadn’t spoken, however, even though they were no longer looking down the barrel of a Colt .45, but that was understandable. The gun might have startled them, but a glimpse of Colt’s back when he turned to put it away had rendered them speechless.
It wouldn’t do for Colt to know that, though. If anything could make him spitting mad, it was having his scars looked at with horror. Jessie said it had a lot to do with pride in that he didn’t want anyone knowing about the kind of pain he had to have suffered to have a back that looked like his did. Whatever it was, Billy knew how defensive-mean he could get if he detected even the slightest empathy coming his way. He’d rather be hated than pitied.
Billy stepped out from behind the door, forcing the two men to look at him instead of Colt. Dredging up his manners, he asked pleasantly, “Can we help you with something, gentlemen?”
The taller of the two was Billy’s height but looked more Colt’s age, with chestnut hair cropped short and eyes about the same shade. He was still disconcerted by what he’d seen when he answered with the question, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to be Colt Thunder, would you?”
It was asked so hopefully Billy couldn’t help grinning. “Afraid not.”
The two redcoats glanced at each other, their discomfort palpable, but then the taller man said, “Didn’t think so, but—well, never mind, then.” He leaned to the side to get another glance at Colt before straightening and saying with more force, “We’ve a message for your mate, if he’s Mr. Thunder.”
Billy’s grin widened. He couldn’t resist repeating the way he knew Colt hated being addressed. “Mr. Thunder, they’re here for you.”
“I heard, but I’m not interested.”
Billy swung around, no longer amused, to see Colt shrugging into his shirt. Colt might not be interested, but Billy was damn curious, knowing full well who the message had to be from.
“Ah, come on, Colt, it’s just a message. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least hear it.”
Colt came forward, his expression inscrutable, though Billy recognized the subtle signs of impatience when he saw them. Colt hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, just tucking it into his pants. That both pants and shirt were black might account for the two Englishmen taking a wary step back when Colt filled the doorway, but it probably had more to do with his intimidating height and size.
“Let’s hear it,” he demanded curtly.
The taller fellow cleared his throat, still apparently the spokesman for the two. “Her Grace, the Duchess Dowager of Eaton, requests the honor of your—”
“The what?” Colt interrupted at the same time Billy swore, “Christ, an English duchess!”
Colt gave Billy a sharp look. “What the hell’s a duchess?”
“You mean you don’t…no, of course you wouldn’t…how could you—?”
“Just spit it out, kid, before you choke on it.”
Billy flushed, but he was too excited to be subdued. “A duchess is a member of the English nobility, the wife of a duke. The nobility of England have different degrees of importance—barons, earls, and such. A comparison would be your minor chiefs and war leaders. But you can’t get any more important than a duke or duchess, unless you’re a member of the royal family.”
Colt frowned, but directed the expression at the two messengers. “That right, what he says?”
“Close enough,” the spokesman replied, deciding estate size and degree of influence weren’t worth mentioning when all he wanted was to get out of there. “But as I was saying, Mr. Thunder, Her Grace requests the honor of your presence this noontime at the Mais—Maisy—”
“Maison Dorée,” his nondescript companion supplied in a whisper.
“Right you are, the Maison Dorée Restaurant.”
When the man finished, he smiled. Colt looked at Billy, who was grinning widely again. “She wants to meet you for lunch,” he explained.
“No,” Colt said simply and started to turn away.
“Wait, Mr. Thunder! In the event you declined the first invitation, I was instructed to extend another. Her Grace would be pleased to receive you in her suite at the Grand Hotel, at your convenience, of course.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not meeting the woman anywhere, at any time. Is that clear enough for you?”
Both men appeared shocked, but not by his refusal, as he found out when the spokesman said, “There are proper modes of address for a duchess, sir. You may refer to her as Her Grace, or Her Ladyship, or even Lady Fleming, but she is never referred to as ‘the woman.’ It just isn’t done, sir.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” Colt mumbled and did turn away this time. “Get rid of them, Billy.”
Billy didn’t know whom he was more disappointed in, Colt for his indifference to a genuine duchess—a gorgeous genuine duchess—or her man for his snobbery. “That wasn’t too smart, Mister…”
“Sir Dudley Leland, sir,” the redcoat supplied importantly. “Second son of the Earl of—”
“Christ, man, you’ve missed the point, haven’t you? You’re in America now, and if you’ll recall, we fought a war with your ancestors about a hundred years ago to get rid of class distinctions. Your titles might impress the society matrons back East, but they don’t mean a thing to a Cheyenne warrior.”
“Ah, right you are, sir. Apologies tended. But I’ve still one more message for your friend there.”
Billy glanced back to see Colt standing at the single window the room offered, looking down at the vacant lot next to Fly’s Lodging House. There was nothing but an assay office beyond, no view to hold anyone’s interest, so he knew Colt had heard Sir Dudley. He just wasn’t going to acknowledge it.
“Maybe you better give me the message and I’ll pass it on,” Billy suggested.
Sir Dudley could see well enough that Colt had divorced himself from the conversation and so nodded. He was also aware that Colt could hear him quite well, but he still addressed the message to Billy.
“Her Grace anticipated both invitations might be declined. That being the case, my final instructions are to inform Mr. Thunder that Her Grace has asked, as he suggested, and has received a full report on the prejudices associated with his bloodlines. She wishes him to know that those prejudices are not hers and mean nothing to her. She hopes Mr. Thunder will take that into account and reconsider one of her invitations.”
That Colt didn’t turn around after that mouthful was proof that he wasn’t going to reconsider anything. Billy noted, however, that he was now gripping the windowsill, that his whole body had gone taut.
“I think you have your answer, gentlemen,” he said in a lowered tone. “You may inform the duchess—”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, kid,” came from behind Billy in a near snarl. “There’s no reply. Now shut the damn door!”
Billy shrugged at the messengers, as if to imply Colt’s lack of manners was not his own. But he did shut the door in their faces. And he calmly and silently started counting numbers, trying for fifty but getting no farther than ten before exploding, “That was the rudest, lowest, most outrageous behavior I’ve ever been sorry to witness. And deliberate too, I’ll wager. But w
hy, for Christ’s sake? You know they’re going to report back to her, and…and that’s it, isn’t it?”
“You talk too much,” Colt said as he turned and reached for his gun belt.
Billy shook his head. “You know, I didn’t understand it yesterday, and I sure as hell don’t now. I got a good look at the lady and I felt like I’d been dropped through the boardwalk. She’s beautiful—”
“And white,” Colt cut in. He finished buckling the belt on and moved for his saddlebags at the foot of the bed.
Billy had gone very still, Colt’s behavior suddenly making perfect sense. And he hated it. He had never been able to deal well with Colt’s feelings of bitterness, feelings that went back to that painful time when he had almost died. Billy loved his brother, thought there was no man finer, more courageous, more loyal, and so it cut him to the quick when Colt belittled himself, taking the attitude of those ignorant, prejudiced whites who put him on a par with the scum of the earth.
“Did I miss something? I could have sworn I heard that the lady doesn’t give a damn what kind of blood flows in your veins.”
“She’s feeling beholden, Billy,” Colt replied in an even tone. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Is it? That’s why you were so mean-tempered rude to her lackeys? You just don’t want her gratitude? And that’s why she’s so eager to meet you again, just to express that gratitude? Be serious, Colt—”
“I am. I’m letting you keep your teeth. Now take yourself down to the O.K. Livery and collect our horses. I’ll meet you out on the street in fifteen minutes. If we ride fast enough, we can make Benson for a late lunch.”
Yeah, and kill our horses, Billy grouched to himself. Since it was almost noon already, and Benson was a good twenty miles north, that was probably just what they’d do. No, he was being unfair. Colt would never take a bad mood out on his horse. But he was damn determined to quit Tombstone and fast. Before the duchess came up with some other way to see him?