Wildblossom (33 page)

Or, the
children.
What sort of children might they produce?

Of course, the English aristocracy routinely married for convenience, then carried on separate lives. If he were lucky, he might not have to spend more than a few days a year in her company.

Geoff walked to the mantel and poured himself another brandy, all too conscious of Clementine watching him.

"We'll manage somehow, you know," she said at length.

"I suppose so." He bit the inside of his lip in a way that made him, unknowingly, look even more appealing; then he sent her a flickering smile.

Emboldened by the liquor, she took a silver-backed comb from the bureau and walked up to Geoff. Summoning all her womanly arts, Clementine pressed lightly against him, reaching up to comb his damp hair into place. "I've loved your hair since we were children."

Deciding that he might as well give it a try, Geoff slid his hands around her waist. When he drew her into his embrace, yearning for Shelby nearly overcame him, all the more acute because Clementine felt nothing like Shelby, smelled nothing like Shelby, and, when he kissed her, tasted nothing like Shelby. Her arms were around his shoulders. Her breathing changed; she was returning his kiss, parting her lips slightly, but for Geoff it was a moment completely without inspiration. He felt sick inside, more at himself than anything.

Clementine slipped a hand inside his shirt, eagerly caressing the contours of his chest and the base of his throat. She kissed him there and it was clearly a signal.

Deliverance took the form of a knock at the door. His heart jumped with relief as he went to answer it. There stood Charles, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. "Come out into the hallway for a moment, all right?"

"What is it?" A strong sense of unreality permeated the entire scene.

"I'm sorry to tell you, old chap." Charles put a hand on his shoulder, where Clementine had just been clinging with such unlikely fervor. "I've spoken to my mother—"

"Yes?" Geoff prodded.

"Your father—His Grace died peacefully early this afternoon." Charles's voice seemed to come from a distance. "Your mother didn't know where to find you at first. I think they have sent someone from London to tell you. Dear old friend, you are now the Duke of Aylesbury...."

Chapter 16

"Used to be that it was enough to be able to shoot a cork from a bottle, especially if you happened to be female," Buffalo Bill remarked to his newest protégée. They were standing in the middle of the showgrounds at Earl's Court, where Shelby and Ben practiced for hours each day. "But now there are so many fancy shooters that the audience demands a moving target. Missie had to outdo herself every year...."

Shelby knew that "Missie" was his nickname for Annie Oakley, who seemed to be hovering over her shoulder, at least in spirit. As the winter wore on and her own March debut with the Wild West Show neared, it was hard not to compare her own skills with those of her predecessor, an international star.

"Annie Oakley sent me some of her favorite Schultze gunpowder," Shelby told Colonel Cody now as she paused to reload. "And she wrote me a very nice note, wishing me luck. I am so sorry for her injury."

The Wild West Show wasn't doing as well this London season as it had in the past, and sometimes Cody looked as if he had a heavy weight on his shoulders. "We seem to be plagued with bad luck, ever since beginning of the new century, and Missie's train crash was a big blow. I still think maybe it's time for me to retire and concentrate on my projects in Wyoming. I'm too old for this punishing life."

Ben patted him on the shoulder and smiled. "You'll know when it's time to pack it in, Colonel. I still see that sparkle in your eyes when the show starts and you ride into the ring!"

"I imagine you're right... although even that's changed now that I've lost Old Pop, my faithful horse. This replacement just isn't the same." He sighed, drew off his hat, and ran a hand through his long, snowy locks. "You know, I'd like to cut my hair, but I'm not sure if it would hurt business. Do you suppose the public would stand for it?"

Shelby sensed what he really wanted to hear. "I believe, sir, that it's reassuring to people to see you looking the same, year in and year out. You're a living legend." She looked to her uncle. "Don't you think, Ben?"

"Yeah, I do. Listen, I'm ready for some lunch. What do you say we take an hour's break, then meet back here to keep working on the mirror trick?"

"Missie was shooting while looking into a mirror years ago," Cody informed them.

"I can only hope that the audience will allow for the fact that I'm new, and younger, and not expect as much of me," Shelby said honestly.

"You're prettier, too, little girl. And you're saucy. Missie liked to play to the audience and make them laugh. If you can do that, it won't matter if you miss a shot or two, or leave out some of the harder tricks." He gave her a smile so charming that it nearly restored her spirits, then tipped his hat to them and went off to confer with a group of blanket-clad Indians waiting at the edge of the field.

The weather was frigid and dank, causing Shelby to turn up the collar on her coat. "Perhaps I'll take Gadabout for a ride around the ring while it's quiet here. I feel badly that we brought the horses over and haven't more time with them."

"I still say you oughta give Charlie back to Geoff," Ben said. "You want me to do it?"

"No!" Her cheeks flamed. "No. If he had wanted Charlie, he would have said so when he left Wyoming."

"Did you see the newspaper I put in your tent this morning? Viv said she'd give it to you."

"I didn't have time to loll around reading the
Times.
I was out here before you were! And what on earth does the newspaper have to do with Geoff's horse?"

"Not the horse—
Geoff."
Sensing that this wasn't a subject to make light of, he softened his tone. "Did you ever see anything printed about his father's death?" When Shelby didn't reply, but continued to wait with a wary expression, Ben continued, "Well, today's article said that he died the day after Christmas. Geoff's the Duke of something-or-other now, and him and some Lady Whoosit are gettin' married in a few weeks. They had a small reception last night just to announce the wedding date, and the new king and queen showed up to congratulate them."

"Oh." Shelby heard herself speak; felt her head nod. "I see."

Ben's heart went out to her, but he could tell she didn't want to be hugged, which was just as well because he wasn't any good at that. "Who can figure out men? I'm one myself, and even I get confused. We all know how Geoff felt about you, Shel, but I guess that over here
duty
is more important than just about anything else. It seems like it doesn't count that he was happy on the Sunshine Ranch, with you and Charlie and the rest of us."

"I'm hungry," Shelby said abruptly. "I'll see you after lunch." She gathered up the shotgun, revolver, and converted rifle she'd been practicing with, and trudged back to the camp village.

Vivian was emerging from their tent just as Shelby arrived. She wore her best clothes: a dove-gray skirt with a white, lace-trimmed blouse that Shelby had purchased for her in New York City as a surprise. Viv's protection from the elements was a three-quarter-length blue wool coat that had belonged to Madeleine Matthews, and she wore a matching feather-trimmed hat that made her hold herself a little straighter.

"Oh, Shelby—I'm surprised to see you!"

"Why, Viv, you look as if you're rushing off to an assignation!"

"No! I'm... just going out for a bit. I've just grown tired of the same surroundings."

"Good for you. I wish I could go along!" Shelby saw the flicker of panic in her friend's eyes, but was too preoccupied to wonder what it meant. "I'm just going to get a bite of lunch, then go back to practice some more. And by the way, Uncle Ben said that he gave you the
London Times
this morning. Is it inside?"

Her cheeks turned even pinker. "Let me check." Viv rushed back into the tent and rifled through the wire wastebasket, plucking out the newspaper just as Shelby came in herself. "There's really not much worth reading—"

"I've already heard about Geoff, if that's what you're intent on keeping from me."

"I can see that you'd rather I let you alone." She handed over the
Times
and gave her friend a long look. "I'll see you later."

Alone in the tent, which was quite cozy now, with a Persian rug on the floor, books and china and pieces of furniture, and the stove going constantly to keep the girls warm, Shelby took the newspaper and sat down with it on the edge of her cot. Dry-eyed, she read the article through about Geoffrey Weston, Duke of Aylesbury, who was such a great support to his mother, the dowager duchess, in the wake of the old duke's sudden death.

"Friends of the family have remarked on the impeccable behavior exhibited by not only the new duke, but also his betrothed, Lady Clementine Beech. She has been a tremendous support to one and all." The writer, having long since abandoned any pretense of impartiality, went on to predict that "the wedding, on April the fourth, of the Duke of Aylesbury and Lady Clementine Beech, will be the crowning event of the spring of 1903. These young nobles are shining examples of the newly begun Edwardian Age, already marked by the welcome return of royalty to London."

Shelby hurt terribly. Why had she ever come to London at all? Looking back, she felt foolish to have imagined for one moment that there was a possibility that Geoff would have second thoughts and choose her over the life to which he had been born. There did not seem to have been even a hint of indecision when the time came for him to leave the Sunshine Ranch. Shelby had been told all her life that she must learn to take no for an answer, and now, for the first time, she was prepared to accept that advice. She wished she were back home in her own bed, tucked in, with her mother smoothing the hair back from her brow with cool fingers.

Tears splashed onto the newspaper. Shelby wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then reached around under the front of her cot and drew out a violet-papered hatbox. Inside were little reminders of Geoff: the horsetail mustache she'd worn as Coyote Matt, a box from the Mexican Headache Cure he'd mocked so charmingly, the slim volume of Tennyson that he'd left behind, a blue bandanna that she'd borrowed from him, the recording of "In the Good Old Summertime," the soft-ribbed vest she'd worn that night in bed, the goodbye letter he'd written her, and the pillowcase from his bed.

So many things, like the bicycle and the gramophone and Geoff's smile and his touch and the sound of his voice, wouldn't fit in the box, but it comforted her to have even a few mementoes of the most truly happy time of her life.

Everything that happened to her from now on would be measured against those few achingly sweet months.

As tears slipped down her cheeks, Shelby opened the volume of Tennyson and looked at the poem Geoff had read aloud to her that night of their first kiss.
"How dull it is to pause, to make an end/ To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use... 'tis not too late to seek a newer world... To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield..."

Deep in Shelby's soul, she felt a faint quiver of hope. If she wanted it, life would go on.

* * *

The last time Vivian had gone for a walk alone, she'd run back to Earl's Court after ten minutes because she'd caught a glimpse of a man looking out at her from a closed carriage—a man with burning eyes who seemed to look exactly like Bart Croll. Vivian told herself it was impossible; no one could have survived the amount of rat poison she'd put in his potatoes. He'd writhed so much that she couldn't watch, couldn't bear the cursing and accusations that marked his death throes, so she'd said she was going for the doctor and had never come back.

Everyone might agree that he was a horrible person and deserved to die, but what did God say? Even Shelby had been shocked that she had really
killed
another human being, no matter what he might have done to her first. Had Bart's ghost come to haunt her, to get her to confess her terrible crime to the police, to accept the punishment?

Today, when Vivian was tempted to glance back to see if Bart was watching her, she tried instead to concentrate on the importance of her errand. It was nearly noon when she reached the Strand, emerged from a hansom cab, and hurried down a cobbled alleyway that led to a great house built of white stone. One side faced the River Thames, affording its occupants a magnificent view of all manner of activity on the water.