Lady X's Cowboy (29 page)

Yet the butler would not be swayed.  “Alas, madam, I am unable to assist you in this matter, but I can assure you—”

Will, who had been steadily growing more and more restless during the course of this excruciatingly polite conversation, had reached his limit.  “Step aside, son,” he said, shouldering past the butler.  Will’s size and muscle easily overpowered the smaller man.  “I’ve got important business inside.” 

Olivia quickly followed him to find them standing in the middle of an immense foyer, two stories high, with a huge chandelier glimmering above their heads.  Once again, she was assailed by a powerful feeling of having been here before.

The butler’s calm demeanor gave way to heated indignation  “See here, sir, this is absolutely outrageous!”  A few footmen rapidly appeared, much younger and broader than the butler.  “Either remove yourselves at once, or I will be compelled to use force.”

Olivia realized that Will had been keeping his natural rowdiness in check for a long time and was eager to let it loose.  With a ferocious grin, he raised his fists in preparation of a fight.  The footmen, sensing that they had a formidable combatant on their hands, braced themselves.

“Let’s get to it, gents,” Will said.

“Wait!”  Olivia stepped between Will and the footmen.  She turned to the butler.  “We would never disturb the occupants of this house if we did not think the matter was of the utmost urgency.  We don’t want to fight,” she added with a glare for Will, then looked again at the butler.  “Please tell your master and mistress that Lady Olivia Xavier begs just a moment of their time.  I assume all responsibility for any disruption this may cause.”

The butler still appeared doubtful, but she gave him a look that would not be argued with.  He glanced quickly between the imperious lady and the bellicose cowboy, and, deciding that he would rather face the wrath of his employers than these peculiar strangers, led them to a small retiring room off the foyer with instructions to wait.  Clearly, they were not deemed worthy of the drawing room.

Olivia sat in a ladies’ chair while Will paced.  The room was stuffed with elaborately carved furniture and ceramics, a touch too ornate for her taste, but she made no comment about it to Will.  A Gothic Renaissance clock ticked loudly, and between his boots going back and forth across the floor and this noise, she felt as taut as a bowstring.  Her heart ached for him, what he must be going through at that moment, and when he glanced her way she offered him an encouraging smile, despite her own trepidation.

He took in the room and made a face.  “Not sure if I care for my kinfolk’s spread.  Little too stuffy for my likin’.”

He did look out of place in the extravagant, cramped space, a rangy cowboy amidst the ferns and folderol.  “Perhaps you can convince them to put spittoons on the floor and mount longhorns on the wall.”     

“And have everyone come to dinner by ringin’ the bell, and yellin’ ‘Come and get it,’” he added.

“You could have Pug-roping contests,” she suggested.  They were both growing giddy from tension.

“And crumpet quick-draws.”

Before they could carry their hysteria any further, the door to the drawing room opened and a man and woman in full evening dress entered, looking exceptionally confused and a bit annoyed.  Olivia got to her feet, frowning.  They looked much too young to have a grandchild Will’s age.

“Lady Xavier?” the man asked.  “What exactly is this about?”

Her memory returned in an instant.  She
had
been in this house before, back when David had been alive, for a ball.  She dropped into a curtsey.  “Lord and Lady Donleveigh, I apologize for the intrusion.  May I introduce my friend, Mr. Will Coffin?”

Lord Donleveigh shook hands with Will, frowning.  “That American we’ve been hearing about?”

“Yessir,” Will answered, but then he looked as puzzled as the earl.  “Ain’t your name Ben Bradshaw?”

“Goodness, no,” Lady Donleveigh exclaimed.  “His name is Rupert.”

A cold worry began to gnaw in Olivia’s stomach.  “Do either of you perhaps have a relative by the name of Benjamin Bradshaw?” she asked.  “A cousin, or uncle?”

The earl and countess exchanged concerned glances.  “Not to my recollection,” Donleveigh said cautiously.  “Though my family is extensive, and so is Wilhemina’s.  What is this all about?  You have interrupted our dinner and terrified my servants.”

“I’m lookin’ for my kin,” Will explained, “and I was told that I’m related to someone by the name of Bradshaw who lives here.”  He looked at Olivia.  “Maybe Lawford was wrong.”

“I doubt it,” she said.  “With all the resources at his disposal, Graham Lawford seldom errs.”  Turning back to the earl, she asked, “Perhaps the last owners of this house were named Bradshaw?”

But he shook his head.  “This house has been in my family for three generations.  And no one has ever had that name.  Now, please, leave my home immediately.”

Olivia felt herself sag with defeat.  She couldn’t believe that Graham had been wrong, and worse, that she and Will had been so excited and confident about what the future held for them now that he was connected to Mayfair for nothing.  She did not want to risk looking at Will, fearing that she might begin to weep if she saw what she was feeling reflected in his face.

“Just a moment,” the countess said, interrupting her thoughts.  “That name does sound awfully familiar.”  Without another word, she left the room.

Hope surged inside her, and Olivia gave Will another encouraging smile, which he didn’t return.  Instead, he stared at the open door, his expression unreadable.  But Olivia knew there were numerous well-connected guests gathered in the dining room.  It was very likely that one of them might be named Bradshaw, or know who that person might be.  She clasped her hands tightly.

“Been hearing quite a bit about you as of late, Lady Xavier,” Lord Donleveigh said disapprovingly.  “And I must say, it isn’t the done thing.”

“Trust me, my lord,” Olivia answered, “everything will be worth it in the end.”  She barely felt his censure, wrapped up as she was in anticipation of meeting Will’s family.     

The earl had nothing to say in response to this, but he turned with the others to watch the door.  Finally, his wife reappeared.  She had a very peculiar look on her face, a look Olivia could not fully decipher. 

“I have found the man you are looking for,” the countess said.  Olivia’s heart lodged in her throat.  Lady Donleveigh turned to a person hidden from view by the door and motioned them forward.

An older man, quite fit and hale for his years, stepped into view.  He was wearing simple, well-made clothes, and tall work boots.  He glanced around the room warily, holding his cap in his hand, uncertain what was transpiring, until his eyes fell on Will.

“Luke!” the man said.  He stared at Will with undisguised joy.  “You’re alive!”

“This is Benjamin Bradshaw,” Lady Donleveigh said.  “Our coachman.”

Somehow, they got shuffled into another room downstairs, where the servants lived and worked.  They passed many footmen and maids, all staring at Will with curiosity and then Olivia with plain distrust.  But none of this reached Will—he wasn’t paying attention to much besides Ben Bradshaw, his
grandpa
, and Olivia.  She was silent, but old Ben had plenty to say.

In a little space Ben called a pantry, they sat down at a table and Will finally learned the names of his parents.

“Luke, he were my boy, married Hetty Overbury.  She were the cook’s assistant at the Saltney’s place,” Ben explained.  He kept touching Will’s sleeve to make sure he was real, and sometimes stopped to wipe his eyes, which would fill.  After learning that Will wasn’t his lost son, but his grandson, and that poor Luke was long dead, Ben had started to cry.  The mister and missus of the house looked embarrassed, and hurried away as soon as they could, but not before suggesting that their coachman take his visitors somewhere more appropriate.  Then they ran back to supper like horses fleeing a burning barn.

Even as Will was stunned by everything happening, he still noticed that the well-heeled Lord and Lady Whoever They Were wanted their servants out of view and away from their dinner guests.

“Were my folks married long?” Will asked.  He looked at Ben’s face and saw some of his own there.  Peculiar.

“Just a few months,” Ben said.  “Luke worked with me in the stables and one day he said he were tired of bein’ another man’s servant, he wanted to be his own man.  ‘We’ll go to America, Hetty an’ me, an’ start over.’”  Ben’s eyes grew watery again.  “Guess he didn’t get that wish.”

Will was used to his parents being dead, but he wasn’t used to someone else mourning for them.  He glanced over at Olivia, who was staring at Ben as though not really seeing.  Her face was strangely blank.

“But tell me about yourself, lad,” Ben said, collecting himself and smiling broadly.  Will felt cool water dance down his spine, watching his own grin on another man’s face. 

Will told him about Jake, and his life in Colorado and on the trail, trying to think what his granddad would want to hear.  Ben listened, all eyes, saying things like “Coo,” and “Blimey.”

“So you’re really one of them blokes ridin’ horses and shootin’ guns?” he asked, amazed.

“Somethin’ like that,” Will said.  He figured maybe later he’d set Ben straight about what cowboying was really about, but for now, it didn’t matter.

“You don’t hold up banks, or trains, like that Jesse James?” Ben asked sternly.  “I won’t abide my grandson bein’ a criminal.”

Will smiled a little.  “Ol’ Jesse was killed last year, and I don’t plan on takin’ his place.”

Looking relieved, Ben nodded.  “That’s good.  But I’m glad to hear that you inherited the Bradshaw way with horses.  We been coachmen and stablemasters for generations.  Horses run in our blood.”

Will had always felt more comfortable on the back of a horse than standing on the ground, and every trail boss was agog at the way he could manage the remuda of spare horses on the drive.  “Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”  Ben slapped his hand on the table.  “You’re a Bradshaw.”

“Will Bradshaw,” he murmured, testing the words.  It didn’t feel proper; not yet, anyway.  Coffin was the name Jake had given him, and he wasn’t ready to cast it aside.

He and Ben both stood as Olivia rose to her feet, skirts rustling.  She still looked far away.  “I’m sure you two have quite a bit of catching up to do,” she said quietly, moving towards the door.  “And I don’t want to intrude on private family business.  It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bradshaw.”  Then she was gone.

Still standing, Ben and Will stared at each other across the table.  Ben looked at a loss, which was no better than Will felt.  “Hang on,” Will said, and bolted after her.

He found her walking aimlessly up and down Half Moon Street, past the row of carriages waiting, even her own, and past the other elegant houses that lined the blocks. 

“You look poorly,” he said, coming up to walk beside her.

She shook her head, but stiff, like a puppet.  “I’m perfectly well.  But don’t let me keep you.  I’m sure you must be very happy to finally meet your grandfather.  I can send the carriage back for you.”

“Liv.”  He took her arms and turned her to face him.  The blankness of her expression spooked him.  “You walked right past your own coach.  What the hell is goin’ on?”

Olivia blinked and gazed at the streetlamp behind him.  “Mr. Bradshaw seems like a lovely man.  And you look so much alike.  I don’t think there can be any doubt...”

Understanding hit him like a bullet, and with that awareness, the last remains of hope died.  “I ain’t rich,” he said flatly.

Olivia regained some of her alertness, but just enough to smile sadly at him.  “I thought everything would be all right once you claimed your birthright.  That somehow you could be the prince in exile, like a fairy tale.  Foolish, I know, but when it comes to you, I have been quite foolish.”

“We both have.”  He’d forgotten, but now he saw.  Truth was, he wasn’t good enough for her, he couldn’t have her, and there would be no miraculous change to make things different.  The English had a special word for people like him: common.  Will Coffin—or Bradshaw—was plain common, and even though Olivia’s title had been paid for, she was still as high above him as the tallest peak in the Rockies.  She wouldn’t say so, but it was true.

He couldn’t be a part of her world, and he knew he couldn’t ask her to come with him and join his.  True, her house wasn’t as grand as the one on Half Moon Street, but it was so much finer than anything he could give her.  Even with Jake’s money, the best Will had to offer wasn’t close to what she deserved.  She was no rancher’s wife, killing chickens and chasing dust, showing off an upright piano from Philadelphia to the other ranchers’ wives.  She was a lady, and a lady ought to have better than a hardscrabble life.

She was staring over his shoulder, towards the house, and he turned to follow her gaze.  Outlined in the first-floor windows were several people staring at them.  Lord and Lady Fancy Pants’ dinner guests, gawking at him and Olivia like some kind of dog-and-pony show.  That’s the way things were in this country—everybody watching, everyone minding each other’s business.  He wanted to tell them all to go chase themselves, but it would only make things worse for Olivia.

“You go on home, Liv,” he said.  He blocked her from view with his own body.  The figures in the window slowly drifted away.  “I’ll come by later to pick up my gear.”

Her eyes widened.  “No—”

“Don’t worry.  I’ll still help with Pryce.”

“That’s not what I meant.  I don’t want you to leave.”

“But I have to.  Maybe Ben’ll let me stay with him for a spell, ’til—”

“Until what?”

“I go home.”

Olivia put her palms against his chest and bent her head so it touched the back of her hands.  “Oh, Will,” she said, her voice muffled, “this was not how I envisioned our story ending.  In all those silly books I read, the hero and the heroine ride off into the sunset together.”

“I know, darlin’.”  He couldn’t help it—he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, trying to memorize the feel of her there to keep him company for the long, solitary years ahead.  “But this ain’t a book, this is real life, and sometimes, life kicks us right in the seat of our britches.”