Lady X's Cowboy (31 page)

The crowd gasped.

“Amigo,” Will said with a widening grin, “you just turned this day around.”  And then he let fly.

Ben found him in the stables the next morning.  Will sat in a clean stall, his legs stretched out in front of him, staring out the open door into the courtyard.

“Doesn’t the sun ever shine in this goddamned country?” Will muttered when Ben stepped into the stall.  But his granddad didn’t answer this question.

“Great God!” Ben cried, then lowered his voice when Will winced.  “What in the saints’ names happened to you?”

Will looked up at him, one eye swollen shut, dried blood in the corner of his mouth.  “Just lettin’ loose a bit,” he said.

Ben looked both annoyed and strangely proud.  “I sure hope you won that fight.”

He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, then gazed at the blood on his hand as if it was someone else’s.  He tried to smile, but couldn’t.  “I did.”  Then, softer, he added, “I lost, too.”

“My lad,” Ben said, crouching down next to Will and placing a hand on his shoulder, “there’s one thing a man needs to learn, else he’ll wind up smashed to jelly long before he reaches my age.”

“What’s that?”

With a sad smile, the older man said, “There’s no way to beat a woman out of you.”

Between the Donleveigh’s cook’s application of beefsteak to his swollen face and a few hours of dreamless oblivion, Will looked almost presentable.  He dressed for the gala in Ben’s room, slipping on the expensive evening clothes that, after tonight, he doubted he would need any more.

“Aren’t you a fancy gent?” Ben asked, sitting on the bed and watching Will finish his bowtie.

Will made a face at his granddad in the mirror.  “Like a barnyard rooster in peacock feathers.”  He scowled at his uneven bowtie, then tugged it loose to try again.  One thing he hadn’t mastered was the art of men’s neckties.  Knotting a bandana was the only thing he knew about finishing an outfit, and reminded himself that he liked it that way.

“Here,” Ben said, standing, “let me.”

Will turned and raised his chin so his granddad could work his craggy fingers at the tie.  It warmed him a little, even as he felt so damned cold inside, thinking that this was exactly what granddads and grandsons were supposed to do.  Maybe, if Luke had lived, he would have shown his son about neckties and shaving and how to woo a girl.

But would his dad have known what to do now?  Tonight, Will was going to make sure that Olivia’s plans for Pryce went off smoothly, and to keep his hired gun Maddox from causing her any hurt.  Will almost hoped that there’d be trouble—despite the brawl at McNeil’s last night, he still had more fight in him.  Even though the thing he wanted to take down couldn’t be fought with fists or guns. 

When everything was said and done, Will would have to tip his hat and say goodbye to Olivia.  He wasn’t planning on staying in England much longer after that.  Knowing she was so close by but unreachable—that was the worst kind of hurt a man could stand. 

“I’m not paining you, am I?” Ben asked as Will winced under his attention.

“Naw,” Will answered.  “Just thinkin’ about somethin’.”

“That woman from the other night,” Ben guessed, “when you first came to see me.”

Will didn’t answer, but stepped back and looked in the mirror once the necktie was finished.  It looked a fine sight better than his attempts.  But he couldn’t wipe the melancholy look from his face.  He slid his arms into his long-cut coat. 

“She’s gentry, isn’t she?” Ben asked behind him.  “I remember seeing her at one of the master’s parties, with her husband.”

“Husband’s dead.”  Will pulled out his bag from under the cot and got his gunbelt.  It wasn’t exactly the latest in Paris style, looked a bit strange with his fancy suit, but he didn’t care if he offended anyone’s fashion sensibility.  Tonight was about protecting Olivia at all costs. 

Seeing the Colt, Ben’s eyes widened.  He shook his head.  “You should never get mixed up with the blue bloods.  Their kind only means strife for us.”

“Olivia ain’t one of that
kind
,” Will said, squaring his sore jaw.  He buckled the belt.

But Ben continued to look unhappy.  “She’s not like us; she’s one of them.  The upstairs.  Every time one of us belowstairs tangles with them, we’re the ones who wind up paying for it.  We’re the ones who get hurt.”

Will took out his gun and carefully checked the bullets before reholstering it.  He put extra ammunition in his coat pockets, then slipped his knife into his boot.  He needed to get his mind ready for everything that was going to happen tonight, and his granddad’s small-mindedness wasn’t helping.  So he kept his council.

“Listen, Will,” Ben said, more urgently.  “The upper crust, they’re not normal folk.  They’ve got their own rules, they live in their own world, sheltered, caring for no one but themselves.  I’ve seen it time and again.  That widow of yours is no different.”

“Olivia’s special,” Will exploded.  Ben stepped back from the violence of Will’s temper, which filled the narrow room.  “She’s the best woman I’ve ever known, and I ain’t going to stand here and listen to you tear her down.  God
damn
this country.  Everyone hidin’ away from each other, drawin’ lines and screamin’ about it if a body crosses ’em.  Well, ya’ll can kiss my damned spurs.”  He started for the door, but Ben’s voice stopped him.

“If she’s so different, why are you staying here with me and not with her?”

Will’s laugh was hollow.  “’Cause I can lead a thousand head of cattle through rough Indian territory, and not bat an eye, but I’m still a goddamned coward when it comes to breakin’ that woman’s heart.”

He left, without closing the door behind him.

Surveying his appearance in his mirror, George Pryce smiled at himself.  Oh, he looked absolutely cunning.  He had to credit Roddam & Sons—their work was impeccable.  The beautifully severe black wool of his evening clothes was so appropriate for an execution.

“Wonderful work, Crawcook,” he beamed at his valet. 

“Thank you, sir.”  The poor man was so unused to compliments, he nearly blushed.  Pryce liked it that way.  Kept the man in his place and on his toes.

“That will be all.”

With a grateful bow, Crawcook scurried out of the room.  No doubt to go running to the other servants and regale them with tales of his master’s resplendent appearance. 
Well
, Pryce thought magnanimously,
let the little people have their fun
.

Checking his jewel-encrusted pocket watch, Pryce saw that it was nearing eight o’clock.  Lady Xavier’s little gala would be starting in an hour, which would leave him ample opportunity to grab supper at his club and leisurely make his way over to Bayswater. 

“Are you sure you won’t join us at the opera tonight?” his mother asked, coming into his room.  She wore ropes of pearls over her Worth gown, and had even tucked feathers in her graying hair.  She was, Pryce thought approvingly, the image of a countess.

“Mother, you look lovely,” he said, pressing a kiss to her dry cheek.

She only sniffed.  “Your father will be quite disappointed if you don’t accompany us.”

“Both of you go on without me,” he said blithely.  “I have my own entertainment scheduled for tonight.”

“I declare, George,” his mother sighed, “you are becoming more peculiar every day.”  With an artful, practiced shrug, she sailed out of his room.

He turned back to his mirror and gloated over his flawless, refined appearance.  There was something so delicious in keeping secrets, he realized, particularly from people so close by.  Once this whole business with Lady Olivia Xavier was settled, he decided he would investigate some other interesting opportunities Maddox had told him about.  Wonderfully nefarious schemes involving smuggling and double-dealing, made all the more gratifying because they would happen right under his parents’ noses.  And he would still be written about in the newspapers in the highest of terms. 
Why
, he thought with a grin,
the possibilities are endless
.

The notion had him whistling all the way to his club.

“You’re looking quite lovely this evening, madam,” Olivia’s maid said as she finished dressing her hair.  “But perhaps you ought to wear just a touch of rouge.  Your cheeks are so pale.”

Though she wasn’t much interested in cosmetics, Olivia understood that if she wanted to present George Pryce with the illusion that all was well in her world, she needed to amend her appearance.  So she dabbed on the smallest amount of red to her ashen cheeks.  Satisfied, at least, with this small feature, she put on her sapphire and diamond earrings, which accented the dark indigo of her bare-shouldered gown.  She thought that she might have worn one of her more celebratory dresses, something in a lively color, but it seemed the height of duplicity to dress festively when she felt funereal.

As Olivia stood, Sarah straightened her train and nodded approvingly. 

“Good luck tonight, madam,” she offered.

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Is...Mr. Coffin going to be here, tonight?”

Ice flooded Olivia’s veins.  “I believe so.”

Sarah looked relieved.  “That’s good.  We all feel so much safer when he’s around.”

“I know how you feel,” Olivia said to herself as she made her way to the ballroom.  She watched as the footmen put the last touches on the room.  It wasn’t by any means a large space—there were far grander houses with ballrooms to rival Versailles—but she only wanted enough space to accommodate her guests, who would number around fifty. 

Everything was in order.   A special bar had been assembled where glasses of Greywell’s would be offered to the guests, and the orchestra was setting up in the far corner.  Her cook had also prepared a variety of small bites that would taste pleasing with beer.  It looked like a very elegant but entertaining little party.

Graham had played his part quite well, ensuring that George Pryce would be in attendance.  She was betting that Pryce would not be able to resist watching what he hoped would be a spectacular disaster.  And if anything should go wrong—if Pryce should bring his mercenary—Will had agreed to stand by.

To distract herself, she made herself examine the kegs of beer.  Seeing him tonight would be the most difficult part.  In a ballroom, surrounded by the people who judged her and had the ability to make her life either endurable or miserable, she could not show how much being apart from him devastated her.  He had come to mean so much to her, and then, to tell her that he loved her...

She blinked furiously to clear her eyes.  It had taken all the strength she possessed to pick herself up from the floor of Will’s bedroom and drag herself to Greywell’s yesterday.  Somehow, she had managed it, and managed to sleepwalk through the important preparations for this evening.  Soon, she would reap the benefits.

Yet as she watched her servants finish readying the room and adjusting their own spotless uniforms, Olivia wondered what she was fighting for. 

Will stepped into the ballroom, so handsome and lethal in his evening clothes it made her eyes burn.  She saw his gun immediately, and she realized just how dangerous tonight would really be.  If her guests commented on the fact that Will was dressed for a ball but armed for a showdown, she could explain it as Western custom, and they would shrug it off as American eccentricity.  But Olivia’s attention quickly made its way back to Will’s face.  His right eye was slightly swollen and bruised.  It looked like he had been in a fight.

Alarmed, she quickly approached him, her heeled slippers rapping on the polished floors.  His face was impassive, chiseled and sharp in the glow of the chandeliers.  His eyes flicked over her without really seeing, a quick survey that betrayed no emotion. 

“What happened?” she asked, reaching up to gently touch his face with her satin gloved hand.  Her heart sank as he pulled back sharply from her.  “Did Pryce’s man do that to you?”

He shook his head, still cool.  “Little fun I had last night.”

“I wonder at your definition of fun,” she murmured.  He could defend himself; she had seen it several times in the past.  He was an excellent fighter, but it still disturbed her to think of him being hurt.  “Thank you for coming back.”

His gaze was sharp and piercing.  “You think I wouldn’t show?”

“Of course not.  I just...”  Her shoulders rose and fell in a gesture of complete loss.  “You have more honor than any other man I know, and I’m glad.”

“Honor,” he snorted.  “Yeah, I got that in spades.”  He looked around the room, taking everything in but her.

His detachment chilled her, but he was wiser than she.  Things would hurt less if they already began distancing themselves from each other.  Standing beside Will in her elegant ballroom, ready to greet the privileged citizens of London for an elaborate and risky charade, Olivia felt a gulf as wide as the Atlantic and as tall as the Rockies open between them.  It was a distance that could never be breached.

Chapter Eighteen

The ballroom was full of some of the most influential and well-regarded people in London.  Several members of Parliament, a handful of titled nobles, the editor of the London
Times
, and high ranking government officials, along with their wives.  Charlotte and Frederick were in attendance.  Graham stood in the corner, dark eyes glittering like obsidian as he scanned the room.  She ought to feel reassured by his presence, but the one man she wanted close to her wasn’t in the room.

Even though Will was dressed for the gala, he had insisted that he keep watch outside. 

“Pryce ain’t a fool,” he’d said just before the guests had started to arrive.  “He won’t try anything inside.  But I’ll bet my saddle that Maddox’ll be around, and I aim to clean his plow.”

“But Maddox’s work is done,” Olivia had protested.

Will shook his head.  “He’s like Pryce, wantin’ to see how it all plays out.  When he does show, I’ll be sure to make him welcome.”