The Duchess and Desperado (26 page)

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Authors: Laurie Grant

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

BOOK: The Duchess and Desperado
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“Yes... Oh, Thierry, so much has happened, there is so much I must tell you...” she began. Should she tell him first about her uncle's attempts to have her killed, which would lead into how and why her feelings for
him
had changed?
“Yes, my sweet, but first, first there is something I must show you, and tell
you,”
he said, stepping away from her and striding around a carved oak secretary until it stood between them.
“All right,” she said, relieved that he was no longer in physical contact with her, and because she wouldn't have to dim the pleased excitement in his handsome face just yet.
Reaching down, he pulled open a drawer and handed her a sheet of folded paper.
“This was written by your sister,” he murmured.
“Kat sent a letter for me? How wonderful!” she said, taking it. The letter must not contain bad news, Sarah thought, for he was smiling as he handed it across the desk to her. “Oh, I've missed her! What with my traveling around, there was no way I could hope to receive mail from home, but I've been writing her regularly....” She hesitated. “But I can read it later, Thierry. You said you wanted to tell me something?”
“Read Kathryn's letter, Sarah. It will explain much.”
He was still smiling, but something wasn't right. She looked at him, hoping for some clue, but he only nodded toward the paper, until at last she bent her head to read it.
“My very sweetest darling Thierry,” the letter began in her sister's familiar slanting script.
“But this is your letter!” Sarah said, handing it back to him even as she wondered why Kathryn was addressing Thierry in such a fashion. “You must have made a mistake and given me the wrong letter. There must be another in there for me.”
“I did not make a mistake, Sarah. That is the letter I want you to see,” Thierry told her, still smiling as he returned the sheet of paper to her. “Keep reading,
ma chère.
In fact, why not read it aloud?”
Sarah stared at him for a moment, sure she had misheard him, but he nodded toward the paper. She unfolded the paper.
“‘My very sweetest darling Thierry,'” she began again, aloud this time, “‘I wish I were there to kiss your lips, and tell you how much I love you, but I am sending this letter along to be of encouragement as you undertake the difficult task of telling my sister that it is
me
you love, and wish to wed, and not her. I am sure it will be painful for you, for my Thierry is not a cruel person, but upon your return I will be yours, body and soul. We shall live in wedded bliss, for you will have done the just and honorable thing by breaking the betrothal with Sarah, whom you do not love, to marry me...”'
At this point Sarah's voice faltered, and she could read no more. “Oh, Thierry,” she began in dismay, not looking up at him yet.
How
had her sister gotten the muddleheaded notion that the French count loved
her,
a miss barely out of the schoolroom? Kathryn had always had a vivid imagination, fueled by the Gothic novels she read, but this was too absurd! Thierry had been smiling because he was amused, but she must make him see that learning the truth would be very painful for her younger sister. “Whatever are we going to do about Kat? Poor lamb, she has conceived such a
tendre
for you—”
She heard a click just as she looked up from the paper, and saw that Thierry was holding a gun, and it was aimed directly at her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
 
 
S
arah had been gone for perhaps three minutes when the door opened again. Morgan, hoping that Sarah had found a reason to return, propped himself up on his elbow to have a look, but he saw that it was only Benning, the telegraph operator, coming in from the street and handing Jackson Stoner a piece of paper.
“This just came, Sheriff, Marshal,” he said, “and I thought I'd better bring it right over. It's addressed to you, Sheriff, but it's about that duchess lady,” he added in apologetic explanation as he handed it to Marshal Stoner.
His words brought Morgan up off his cot like a shot. “What is it?” Morgan demanded, clutching the bars with both hands. “What's it say about the duchess? Who's it from?”
Stoner paused in the act of holding the paper up to his eyes and looked at Morgan with amusement. “Hold your horses, Calhoun, it ain't likely to concern you.” Nevertheless, he read it out loud.
“‘To sheriff of Santa Fe from Frederick, Lord Halston, Marquess of Kennington,”' he read, then added, as if to himself, “Lord, these foreigners have fancy big names, don't they?
“‘Trust you received telegram,”' he continued reading, “‘saying niece, Duchess of Malvern, arriving Santa Fe,
stop.
Duchess's secretary Alconbury confessed part of assassination plot,
stop.
Thierry, Count of Chatellerault, engaged to marry duchess, to be apprehended immediately, very dangerous,
stop.
Coming to Santa Fe posthaste,
stop.
Signed, Frederick, Lord Halston,' et cetera.” He raised his head from the paper and blinked at McElroy. “Now, what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means
he's
the one who's been trying to murder the duchess!” cried Morgan, still clutching the bars of his cell. “Marshal, you've gotta let me outa here! It was that Frenchman who was tryin' to kill her all along, and she's goin' to him right now!”
Now both McElroy and Stoner were staring at him, dumbstruck.
Morgan threw himself against the bars now. “Marshal, listen to me! I thought it was the uncle, but I was wrong! It was the
Frenchman
I was tellin' you about last evenin', the one who was shootin' at us in Denver. For the love of God, Stoner, let me out of here! I swear I'll come right back just as soon as I blow that Frenchman to hell!”
Now Stoner had stood, and was approaching the cell “Now, hold on, old son. Not so fast. Why on earth should I turn you loose because of a damn telegram? I have no way of knowing if this is the truth,” he said, shaking the telegram in Morgan's face. “Just sit tight, and I'll check it out.”
Morgan felt a red mist of rage flooding his brain, but he forced himself to be calm. “Marshal, the duchess is on her way to meet that de Châtellerault fella at the Exchange Hotel right this very minute. It ain't far from here to there, so every second counts. Who knows how long before he'll try to murder her, once they're together? It ain't gonna look very good for either of you fellas if it comes out that you had a warnin', but you dallied and the duchess got killed anyway.”
The marshal and the sheriff exchanged looks.
“Even if all that's true, Calhoun, why should we let
you
out?” Jackson asked with maddening slowness.
“Because I reckon I can run faster than either of you and shoot better,” Morgan said evenly, “and because I love the lady we're talking about. And because if she dies 'cause you were too slow, I'll find a way to kill both of you. Let me out, and I'll come back to the cell, word of a Southern gentleman.
Now open the damn cell door, one of you!”
Stoner seemed to make up his mind all at once. Nodding to McElroy, he said, “Let him out—and give him his gun back until we see that the duchess is safe. I'm going ahead—you boys catch up.” And then he was running to the door, past the bemused telegraph operator.
 
Dropping the sheet of parchment, Sarah stared into the barrel of the gun, sure she was hallucinating despite the crystal-clear vision afforded by her spectacles. Then she raised her eyes to de Chatellerault.
“Thierry, what are you doing?” she whispered. Her blood had become ice water in her veins.
His face bore a smile, the smile of a predator who has trapped his prey. “Why, Sarah, I am eliminating the barrier to my marriage with your sister.”
He
wanted
to marry Kathryn? She couldn't allow such a monster near her sister ever again, but first she had to save her own life.
“But Thierry, you needn't kill me to free yourself,” she said, trying to sound calm and logical. “If that's what you want, I'll give you your freedom quite willingly. In fact—”
She had been about to tell him that she was in love with another man when he cut her off. “Ah, but if you're still alive, my sweet, your dear sister Kathryn does not become the Duchess of Malvern. And I had so counted on marrying a duchess,” he purred.
“Then why not me?” she inquired curiously, glad he had interrupted her before she could tell him of her feelings for Morgan. “Why not keep to your original plan to marry me? Why would you want to marry a young miss barely out of the schoolroom, when I am nearer your age, have had some experience of the world and know my own mind? Why, Kat's a comparative child!”
“Oh, but my dear Sarah, it is your sophistication that's precisely the problem, don't you see?” he continued in his perfect, French-accented English. “You know your own mind a trifle too well to suit me. You always know what you want to do, for how long and when. You would not have changed when we were man and wife, this I know, and what man wants a wife who will not acknowledge him as her lord, her master? Your sister Kathryn, on the other hand, is willing to be guided by
me,
the man, as is the proper way of things.”
He was insane, she could see that now. Tears stung her eyes, tears of fury mixed with fear.
“But why did you pretend to love me? Why not pick some more biddable gentlewoman?”
He shrugged. “I did not see your stubbornness at first, Sarah. But when I did.. I was not willing to give up the fortune that the Challoner family possessed.
Eh bien,
if I could not be master with one sister, I could be with the other. Kathryn is young enough to think every word from my lips is the Gospel. She will not mind being duchess, either.”
His chuckle only fueled her rage.
“Are you trying to make me believe envy would motivate Kat to go along with
murder-of her own sister?”
she demanded.
“Sarah, Sarah...I had not realized you were so beautiful when you are angry. It almost makes me regret the necessity of shooting you,” he said. “But no, I do not entrust a simple
girl
with my plans. Kathryn will never know I was the one who killed you, though I rather thought you would die back in Denver rather than here.”
And suddenly she understood what had been nagging at the back of her brain ever since he'd shown her the letter.
“It was
you
all the time who was trying to kill me, and
not
Uncle Frederick?”
“But of course,” he said, tut-tutting at her as if she were a silly child. The pistol was lowered slightly. “I was amused that you thought it was your stuffy uncle, Sarah. Lord Halston has always been sure he should have been the duke, rather than you the duchess, but he is one of those stiffly proper Englishmen who would never do anything so hot-blooded as murder to secure a title!” He had lowered the gun to his side, though she could see his finger was still on the trigger.
Oh, Uncle Frederick,
Sarah thought.
How we wronged you, Morgan and I.
Even if she was going to die, she'd gained a certain measure of peace, knowing it had not been her own uncle who'd wanted her dead. She wished she could somehow at least tell Morgan Uncle Frederick was innocent. Then a new thought struck her. “Then I
did
see you, on the street in Denver!”
He nodded as if amused. “I had to be quick to elude you that time. But I succeeded, and you probably convinced yourself your eyes were playing tricks on you, didn't you?”
She nodded, horror-struck. “Then
you
were the one shooting at me at the railroad? At the theater?
You
killed Ben, my groom, Wharton and that policeman? You—you
monster!”
she cried, and would have launched herself at him, hands curved into claws, except for the pistol being brought up once again so that it was aimed right at her heart.
“Have a care, Sarah! I should hate to have to kill you before you have satisfied your inquisitive little soul about what has been happening! After all, you will have an eternity to ponder your mistakes that led to your death!” He seemed to think it a great joke, and laughed hilariously, though he was careful to keep his eyes on her.
“Actually, however,” he said, growing serious again, “I regret the necessity of those deaths, and I'm more than a little chagrined at missing my intended targets—you and your bodyguard.”
“Necessity?”
she gasped. “But...who was sending me the threatening notes?”
“Notes?” he said, looking uncertain now. “I sent a pair of notes, only. I delivered them with the help of your secretary, Alconbury.”
“Are you saying
Donald
was your accomplice? No, I cannot believe it!” Each new fact he told her compounded a scheme so diabolical she could hardly comprehend all its ramifications.
“Yes, he was promised a share of my expectations as the master of the Challoner wealth in exchange for delivering the note I wrote in the style of an American—how do they say it?—yokel. I thought you would panic and leave Denver by the next train east, and I would follow you to the station and kill you. However, you did not panic, but dug in your heels and stayed. You see, Sarah, what I mean about your stubbornness? But you say you received other such notes?”
Sarah nodded. “Several of them, and I'm afraid I don't understand why you continued to warn me, so that I became more cautious I would think it would have been much more advantageous to lull me into thinking the threat had disappeared,” she observed He seemed eager to discuss all the details of the plot, and as long as he was talking, he wasn't pulling the trigger. She was still trying to think of a way she could wrest the gun from him, or get to the derringer Morgan had insisted on giving her yesterday, which even now weighed down her reticule.
He looked thoughtful, and then angry. “Alconbury must have sent them, secretly hoping you could still be persuaded to take flight out of my reach. I suspected from the first he had not the stomach for this plan.”
“But why didn't he just come right out and tell me the truth?” Sarah wondered aloud.
“He knew I would kill him for betraying me,” Thierry said, so casually that Sarah was chilled all over again.
“You followed us all the way to Santa Fe?” she said, still temporizing. Now she knew why she had had that sense of a shadow haunting her. “But how is it that you didn't catch up to us? It had to be easier for one man traveling alone to ride faster than we could with a thoroughbred and a packhorse to consider,” she taunted daringly, hoping to make him angry so that the hand holding the pistol would shake.
His dark eyes narrowed, showing her jab had struck home. His shrug was nevertheless philosophical. “It should have been easy,
bien sûr,
but thanks to some intentional misdirection from that black trader, I lost valuable time. After that, I seemed always to be just behind you—until I lost you in those Apache-ridden mountains. I decided to come ahead to Santa Fe, knowing you would seek me out here, sooner or later. But I could have killed you yesterday, after Calhoun was arrested and you were alone.”
“Why didn't you?” she asked. “It would have been easy.”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “I decided I would enjoy this one last meeting.” His grip had never relaxed on the pistol aimed at her. He walked around the desk, coming closer to her. “Sarah, even if I did not have to kill you so that Kathryn could be Duchess of Malvern, I would have to kill you for what you have done,” he informed her.
“What
I
have done? What on earth are you talking about, Thierry?”
His grin bared his teeth now. “As I indicated when we spoke of Donald Alconbury, I do not take betrayal lightly.
And you have betrayed me, have you not?”
“Thierry...”
“Oh, yes, you betrayed me!” he said, his voice sounding strained. A crazed red light shone in his eyes now. His grip on the pistol had tightened until the hand clutching it looked bloodless. “You spread your legs for that crude Texan, did you not? You whored for him, didn't you? You were a virgin, and I knew it. I had not besmirched your honor, though I could have many times.”

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