Nobody's Darling

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Esmerelda had everything she’d ever wanted. A grandfather who adored her. All the food her belly could hold. A home that no bank or creditor could ever take away from her.

In his quest to grant her every wish, her grandfather had even hired a genuine Pinkerton detective who’d managed to locate Bartholomew in South America. He’d also grudgingly promised to act as the boy’s patron, sending him a generous allowance for each chapter of his novel he completed.

She had no cares, no debts, no obligations. She wore Worth gowns and diamond pinkie rings. She slept in her mother’s bedroom with its walls hung in pale blue damask bordered by tiny rosebuds. She slept in her mothers bed with its silk sheets and coverlet of tufted satin. She powdered her face and watched her lady’s maid pin up her hair in the mirror of her mother’s dressing table. Her grandfather probably would have dressed her in her mother’s clothes if the layers of ruffles and voluminous crinolines hadn’t been twenty-five years out of fashion.

For the first time in her life, Esmerelda understood just how much her mother had sacrificed for love. For the first time, she understood why.

She drifted through the cavernous halls of Wyndham Manor like Lisbeth’s ghost, losing her way so many times that she started to wonder if she ought not leave a trail of biscuit crumbs or unwind a ball of yarn wherever she went. She would wander from library to music room, pausing to flip through a book or idly run her fingers over the keys of a piano so grand it made her mother’s cherished old upright seem fit only for a saloon.

Her grandfather loved to hear her play, but there seemed little point to it when there was no one to learn from her flawless fingering and rippling arpeggios. She strayed into the music room one warm October afternoon to find one of the little parlormaids dusting the ivory keys with a feather duster.

“Would you like to learn to play?” Esmerelda eagerly asked.

The child clutched her apron and bobbed a terrified curtsey, her mobcap slipping down over one eye. “Oh, no, miss, I mustn’t touch anything so fine with my grubby hands.”

Airily dismissing the girl’s objections, Esmerelda sat her down on the bench and began to teach her the major scales. When Potter, her grandfather’s cadaverous butler, strolled into the room to find the child banging cheerily on the instrument, he nearly fainted dead away.

He immediately ordered the maid back to the servants‘

kitchen, leaving Esmerelda sitting at the piano, alone and forlorn.

She just didn’t seem to be suited for the life of the idle rich. When she offered to help her aunt balance the household books one afternoon, Anne shooed her away, telling her she should enjoy her leisure while she could because she’d have her own household to look after soon enough.

Stung by her aunt’s gentle rejection, Esmerelda grabbed her rich woolen cloak and fled the house, seeking solace from a brisk walk in the crisp autumn air. When she imagined being mistress of her own household, she didn’t see an elegant sandstone mansion like Wyndham Manor with its high mansard roof and formal gardens. She saw a humble frame house with a cozy corner where a father might teach his son to read by kerosene lamp. She saw a grizzled old basset hound snoring in front of the fire and a calico cat napping in a rocking chair. She saw a towheaded little boy with a wild streak and a smile that could melt hearts at twenty paces.

Esmerelda cupped a hand over her belly, her throat tightening with bitter longing. There would be no such child for her. Billy had made sure of that. She’d spent the journey to England praying that he’d failed, even knowing it would make her a social pariah in her grandfather’s world. But his effort to make sure there would be no tie left to bind them had been successful, leaving her womb as barren as her heart.

A curious commotion startled her out of her brooding. She peeped around the corner of the house to find her grandfather leading a parade of tittering servants. Her aunt trailed after them, looking even more exasperated than usual.

Her grandfather beamed at her. “Good afternoon, Esmerelda. I’ve brought you a gift.”

The servants shuffled apart to reveal a speckled horse that barely came to Esmerelda’s waist. She clapped a hand over her mouth, gasping in horrified amusement. “I’m twenty-five years old, Grandpapa. If I sit on that poor creature, I’ll break its legs.”

His square face crumpled like a punctured pudding. “I suppose I wasn’t thinking. I just always dreamed of buying my granddaughter a pony.”

Feeling guilty for dampening his childlike enthusiasm, Esmerelda stood on tiptoe to give his shiny pate a fond kiss and took the lead from his hand. “And a fine pony it is. I shall name it ‘Duke’ in your honor.” She stroked the beast’s silky little face. “He looks a bit like the pony who bucked me off his back at the county fair when I was six.”

Anne, a skilled horsewoman, rolled her eyes. The bolder servants cheered and applauded as Esmerelda began to march around the cobblestone drive with the pony trotting merrily along behind her.

Her grandfather delighted in lavishing gifts upon her. She would return to her bedroom to find a parasol of the finest Chantilly lace draped over a frame of heliotrope silk or a set of tortoiseshell combs for her hair. One night, she unfolded her supper napkin only to have the silver locket that had once belonged to her mother tumble into her lap. Although somewhat embarrassed by her grandfather’s extravagance, Esmerelda could not bear to disappoint him by refusing any of his offerings. She supposed it was his way of atoning for his years of neglect.

Each night after supper, they would retire to the music room, where Esmerelda was expected to give an impromptu piano recital while Anne embroidered and her grandfather enjoyed a glass of port and smoked a fat cigar. Esmerelda soon grew to dread these occasions. To her ears, all the songs seemed to be played in a minor key, and the ripe aroma of her grandfather’s cigar evoked a yearning so sharp she would end up struggling to read the notes through a fog of tears.

On Christmas Eve, her grandfather all but gobbled his way through seven courses of supper, his ears pink with poorly suppressed excitement. Esmerelda barely had time to dip her spoon into her steaming fig pudding when he clapped his hands and insisted they adjourn to the music room. She and her aunt exchanged a perplexed look, but dutifully rose to follow him.

The spacious white room had been draped with evergreen boughs. Their crisp fragrance scented the air. A fire crackled on the hearth and candles glowed softly in the recessed French windows, keeping the darkness of the winter night at bay.

Propped against the gilt music stand was a violin with a bright red ribbon tied around its graceful neck. Esmerelda’s hand trembled as she loosed the ribbon and stroked her fingers across its taut strings.

“A Stradivarius?” she whispered, giving her grandfather a helpless look. “For me?”

He poured himself a glass of port and lifted it, his eyes shining with pride and pleasure. “To my granddaughter, who brought music back into this house and into my heart.”

He sipped his port while she took up the bow and tucked the instrument under her chin. It nestled there, responding to her tuning as if to a lover’s touch.

Seduced by its flawless pitch, Esmerelda closed her eyes and drew the bow across the strings, expecting to hear the bright, brittle notes of Mozart or Vivaldi. She was as stunned as her grandfather and aunt when the plaintive strains of “Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier” filled the room.

Her melancholy touch turned the folk song into a lament, making the strings sob with a passion she had felt only in Billy’s arms and would never feel again. When her eyes drifted open at the end of the piece, they were wet with tears.

Unable to bear her grandfather’s shaken expression or the wry sympathy in her aunt’s eyes, Esmerelda mumbled an apology and fled the room, still clutching the violin.

When Esmerelda had gone, her grandfather sank into a brocaded armchair, looking his age for the first time since bringing his granddaughter home.

Anne paced back and forth in front of the hearth, the swish of her skirts echoing her frustration. “What in God’s name were you thinking, Reginald? You can’t keep hoping to buy the girl happiness.”

He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “And why not?”

“Because she has a broken heart, not a skinned knee! It won’t be mended by shiny baubles or a pony or even a priceless instrument.”

His temper subsided, but the calculating look that spread over his face unnerved Anne more than his despair. “You’re absolutely right,” he said softly. “There’s only one cure for a broken heart.”

He bounded up from his chair and started for his study, so agitated he forgot his cane. Anne followed, wondering what mischief he was up to now.

“Perhaps the child is simply lonely,” he ventured, limping over to his mahogany desk. “After all, I have been very selfish these past few months, wanting to keep her all to myself.” Sinking into his brass-studded chair, he shuffled through the thick stack of cards and crumpled sheets of stationery on his leather blotter. “Why, just look at all the invitations I’ve turned down on her behalf. Ah!” he exclaimed, plucking an ivory card edged in gilt from the pile. “Here’s one from the earl of St. Cyr requesting a theater engagement after the first of the year.” Dipping the nearest available pen into a bottle of ink, he began to scribble a reply on the back of the card. “I shall accept posthaste and you, my dear, will act as her chaperone.”

“St. Cyr?” Anne echoed, torn between horror and amusement. “You can’t be serious. He’s twice Esmerelda’s age and a notorious lech.”

Reginald waved away her objections. “That’s because he’s been nursing a broken heart for twenty-six years. The poor fellow never married after Lisbeth abandoned him at the altar, you know. And he’s been very eager to meet her daughter. I’m sure he’ll find the resemblance as striking as I do.”

Anne narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to play matchmaker again, Reggie? You drove Lisbeth away with your efforts. I should hope you wouldn’t make the same mistake with her daughter.”

Reggie blinked up at her, looking as innocent as a bald cherub. “I simply want to introduce my granddaughter to society and find her a suitable husband. Surely you can’t object to that?”

Knowing it would be useless to try, Anne left her brother to his machinations and started up the stairs. She paused outside the door of Esmerelda’s chamber, her hand poised to knock. Perhaps if she’d heard broken sobs coming from inside the room, she would have dared to intrude upon her niece’s privacy. But she found it impossible to shatter the fragile silence.

When she arrived at her own sitting room, she went straight to her delicate rosewood writing desk and drew forth a sheet of stationery. She sat gazing into space for a long time, nibbling thoughtfully on the feather of her quill pen. She had accused Reggie of being a shameless matchmaker, yet the scheme she was contemplating was more audacious than his. And more dangerous. It might even put her own well-guarded heart in jeopardy.

Unsettled by the girlish thumping of that organ, she took a steadying breath before dipping her pen in the ink and committing both her salutation and her niece’s fate to paper.

Dear Sir…

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Some called him one bad hombre. Some called him a loco gringo. But no one dared to call him by his name. It was almost as if they believed uttering it, even in a whisper, would invoke the demon sleeping in his eyes—eyes that to them appeared the steely gray of the sky at dawn without even a trace of green.

The men feared him. The whores wanted him. The men cut a broad swath around him while the whores cast him longing looks with their sultry dark eyes, their expressions smoldering with lust and resentment. They weren’t accustomed to being pushed out of any man’s lap, especially not when they were offering their precious wares for free.

He materialized in the Mexican cantina every day around noon, the nubby wool of his poncho swaying as he made his way to the table no one else dared claim. He would sit for hours, listening to the indolent strumming of the guitarist, a glass of whiskey dangling from his lean fingers. As darkness fell, deepening the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, he would trade the glass for a bottle.

In the beginning, men approached him. Mexican men. American men. European men. Powerful men whose meaty fingers flashed diamonds and rubies while their tongues spilled promises and lies. He sent them all away, cursing beneath their fetid breath because he could not be bought for any amount of greenbacks or pesos or gold. His gun was no longer for hire. For the first time since he was thirteen years old, it belonged to him alone.

He always sat facing the door. The men whispered that it was to guard his back. That someday a man with a bigger gun than his would come swaggering through that door and blow him away. The whores whispered that he expected death, perhaps even desired it, the way a man desires a beautiful woman he knows will prove his ruin.

One sultry Saturday night, Billy sat with his back to the wall—drinking, smoking, and dreaming, as he always did, that Esmerelda would come walking through that door just like she had in Calamity. Hell, this time he would beg her to shoot him, if only to plug the hole in his heart with lead so his blood would stop seeping out one drop at a time. It was taking him too damn long to die that way.

One of the whores, a black-haired beauty with lush red lips and a reputation for using them in ways that could make a grown man beg, sashayed through the drunken crowd. She leaned over and planted her palms on Billy’s table, practically begging him to look down her loose-fitting blouse at her naked breasts. Not wanting to be impolite, he obliged her.

“There’s a man at the bar,” she said. “A gringo. Looking for you.”

Billy didn’t even bother to glance at the bar. He simply shifted his cigar to the corner of his mouth. “Tell him I’m not here. And if I was, I wouldn’t want to see him.”

She nodded, having known that would be his answer. “Another bottle?” she offered, touching her fingertip to the mouth of the empty one still gripped in his hand.

He slanted her a wry glance. She knew the answer to that question, too. She was only asking it as an excuse to linger. Her fall of raven hair tickled his nose as she reached across him to take the bottle from his hand.

“The whiskey can’t make you forget her,” she purred, her tongue flicking out to trace his ear, “but I could.” Beneath the table, her other hand began to creep up his thigh.

Billy caught it a fingers-breadth from his crotch, surveying her with dark amusement. “Muchas gracias, senorita, but I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.”

Tossing back her hair, she went flouncing back to the bar, her lips puckered in a full-fledged pout.

Billy went back to nursing his cigar. He could hardly blame her for her mistake. It was a common enough assumption. But he wasn’t drinking to forget. The whiskey could do little more than take the edge off his longing—a longing so keen that when he rolled off his cot every morning, recoiling from the merciless blaze of sunshine, he could only drop his throbbing head into his hands and pray for darkness.

He had the rest of his life to forget. To forget the sweet generosity of Esmerelda’s body opening to enfold him. To forget her fearless bravado the night she’d stood down his mother on his behalf. To forget the stricken look in her eyes when he had so callously declined to marry her.

He had the rest of his life to remember. To remember the tender smile that had softened her prim lips the day she’d thrown open that hotel room door in Eulalie. To remember the taste of her mouth and the feel of her flesh beneath his hands. To remember how she had felt in his arms and to imagine how she would feel in the arms of another man.

The whiskey bottle appeared in front of him. Billy groped for it without lifting his eyes, tossing a bill across the table. It came floating back at him through the smoky air, drifting like a leaf on the wind.

“Keep your money, lad. Tonight, I’m buying.” Startled out of his shell of indifference for the first time in months, Billy looked up to find Sheriff Andrew McGuire standing over his table.

“Good God, William, you look like hell,” Drew said, sliding into the chair opposite him. Despite the heat, he looked as crisp as a newly minted two-dollar greenback in his double-breasted waistcoat, shiny knee boots, and broad-brimmed white Stetson.

Billy stroked his unshaven jaw, eyeing his friend warily. “Did you come all the way to Mexico just to insult me?”

“If you must know, I came to make you a proposition.”

“Sorry, Drew. I haven’t been without a woman that long.”

Billy reached for the fresh bottle of whiskey only to discover that a plate of steaming food had appeared in its place—pinto beans and something with a savory aroma wrapped in a corn tortilla. Its mysterious arrival confounded him nearly as much as the startling awareness that he was hungry. Maybe even ravenous, he admitted, shoveling a spoonful of beans into his mouth.

Drew watched him eat with the amused tolerance of a king presiding over a beggar’s feast, holding his tongue until the plate had been scraped clean.

Billy darted him a suspicious look. “I thought you were going to buy me a drink.”

“So I was,” Drew admitted, snapping his fingers in the direction of the bar.

The raven-haired whore swaggered over, smug now as she swished her hips in Billy’s face and thumped an earthenware flask down on the table. Billy took a long, thirsty gulp, then spat the bulk of it on the cantina floor, shooting Drew an accusing glare. “It’s water!”

“Aye, it is. If you want anything stronger, you’ll have to crawl over to the bar on your belly and get it yourself.”

Billy surged to his feet, despising Drew for pitying him when no other man would have dared, despising himself for deserving it. His pride was the only thing that prevented him from staggering. “Go to hell. I don’t need your charity.”

“Sit down, William,” Drew said mildly.

“And if I don’t,” he snarled, “what are you going to do, sheriff? Arrest me?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that unenviable task to someone else. I am no longer acting as sheriff of Calamity. I have officially resigned my post.”

His precarious balance unable to withstand the blow, Billy sank back into the chair. He gestured to the tin star twinkling merrily on Drew’s vest. “Then why are you still wearing your badge?”

“Because I have abdicated the job, but absconded with the title.” He leaned back in his chair, twirling the silky tip of his right mustache. “As you well know, it has long been a dream of mine to leave behind the dangerous vocation of law enforcement. Hence was born the notion of”—he paused for dramatic effect, his eloquent hands painting a banner in the air over the table—‘“Sheriff Andrew McGuire’s Wild West Extravaganza.”“

Billy leaned across the table and sniffed his breath. “Maybe you should have switched to water a little sooner.”

Drew sighed. “I should like to claim credit for the idea, but its genesis came out of a recent conversation I had with a Mr. William Cody, who was starring in a theatrical melodrama penned by Ned Buntline.”

Billy was familiar with Buntline. He’d written most of the dime novels that still sat on the bookshelves in Miss Mellie’s attic. Remembering how much he’d enjoyed those books, he felt a pang of regret for leaving them behind.

“According to Mr. Cody,” Drew continued, “all you would need to launch such an endeavor are some horses, guns, cowboys and settlers, wild Indians—”

“You don’t know any wild Indians,” Billy pointed out.

“Of course I do. There’s Crazy Joe Cloudminder right there in Calamity.”

“Joe’s a barber!”

“Then I’m sure he can wield a tomahawk just as skillfully as he can a razor.” Drew leaned his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying Billy with an intensity that made him itch to bolt. “All I lack now is a sharpshooter. Oh, say, someone who could hit a dime in midair or shoot a playing card in half at a hundred and twenty feet.”

Billy shoved his chair back from the table again, lunging to his feet. “Oh, no, you don’t! In case you haven’t heard, I’ve hung up my guns for good. I’m not for hire. Not even by you.” He wheeled around and started for the door, determined to walk out of the cantina while he still could.

“I’ve already booked our first engagement.”

Drew’s casual announcement stopped Billy in his tracks. His nape prickled with dread. Worse than the dread was the emotion that tripped along at its heels. He’d grown comfortable with despair, but hope might just kill him.

“Where?” he whispered.

“London.”

Billy turned around and returned to the table, sliding into the chair as gingerly as if his bones were made of glass. Jesus, he needed a drink, he thought bitterly, locking his hands together to hide their trembling. He doubted he could even hold a gun without dropping it.

Forcing himself to look up and meet Drew’s kind blue eyes was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. It took him three tries just to swallow. “I know why you’re doing this.”

Drew beamed at him. “I thought you would. A man of your discerning palate must surely appreciate the charms of my Anne.”

Billy continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And I thank you most kindly for your concern, but—” He stopped, scowling in bewilderment as Drew’s words sank in. “Anne? Anne Hastings? That dried-up old persimmon of a—”

“Watch your tongue, lad.” Drew held up a restraining hand. “I hasten to remind you that you are speaking of my future bride. She is no persimmon, but a ripe, luscious pomegranate, trembling with eagerness to fall into my waiting hand.”

Billy snorted. “The last time I saw her with you, she was trembling with rage, not eagerness.”

“Despite our past differences, she’s agreed to finance my little endeavor. I prefer to think of it as a sort of dowry. Although it may not have been readily apparent,” Drew assured him, “we have an understanding.”

“Oh, I understood perfectly. She despised you and wished you would die.”

“Be that as it may,” Drew admitted with an injured sniff, “I can assure you that she has been very tender toward me in our recent correspondence.”

Billy responded to that revelation with stony silence. If Drew thought he was going to beg him for any pathetic scrap of news about Esmerelda, then he was wrong. Dead wrong.

Drew sat back in his chair, eyeing him shrewdly. “Anne made brief mention of her niece in her letter. If I’m not mistaken, there was talk of a suitor. An earl, I believe.”

Billy’s fingers began to drum on the table, losing their tremble.

Drew leaned forward as if to impart a particularly delicious snippet of gossip. “It seems the man once courted Esmerelda’s mother. Since the mother left him languishing at the altar over twenty-five years ago, he’s set his sights on the daughter. You might think a fifty-year-old man would be in his dotage, but Anne assures me he’s a handsome, virile fellow of quite notorious appetites, perfectly capable of satisfying his young bride and providing himself with an heir to—”

Billy lunged across the table, jerking Drew out of his chair by his flawlessly folded necktie. The guitar fell silent. The occupants of the cantina ceased their smoking, chattering, and dancing to gape in fascination. They’d never seen any sign of emotion from him more intense than a bored flicker of his eyelids.

If they were astonished by his violence, they were even more dumbfounded when, after holding the stranger’s gaze for a tense eternity, he gently lowered the man back into his chair, smoothed his necktie, and drawled, “So, when do we leave?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Billy found out who Drew had recruited to portray the notorious outlaw gang in his Wild West Extravaganza, he almost wished he’d gone ahead and choked him to death with his own necktie right there in that cantina.

“We even got Ma’s blessing, little brother,” Virgil told him, grinning from ear to ear as they boarded the iron-hulled steamer in New York. “She said we cain’t be outlaws no more, but she don’t mind us playin‘ at it like we did when we was boys.” He lowered his voice to a mere shout as he leaned down and confided, “She told us to look after you, too. Said you ain’t got good sense when it comes to womenfolk.”

Billy rubbed his ringing ear. “I guess Ma’s right on that count. If I did, I wouldn’t be about to cross an ocean to win one I was fool enough to let get away in the first place.”

Billy almost forgave Drew for hiring his brothers when he saw the beautiful female who would be sharing his cabin for the next week and a half.

Sadie greeted him with a deep-throated “Woof,” her entire lower half jiggling with excitement as she bounded across the cabin.

“There’s my girl!” He squatted to ruffle her gray-flecked coat, laughing and groaning as his efforts to dodge her long, sloppy tongue proved to be in vain.

Billy doubted he could expect as enthusiastic a greeting from Esmerelda, especially not after he’d led her to believe she’d been nothing more to him than a lusty tumble between the sheets. But he would do whatever he had to do to convince her otherwise, even if it took him the rest of his life.

As the voyage got under way, the other passengers tended to give them a wide berth. Billy supposed he couldn’t blame them, what with Virgil’s bellowing, Jasper’s shameless flirting with every woman under the age of seventy-five, and Enos spending all night groaning in his bunk and all day hanging over the rail, his sallow complexion bleached to seafoam green. Drew had hired a dozen or so out-of-work cowboys, including Dauber and Seal, to portray settlers in his extravaganza. Their nightly poker games had an alarming tendency to degenerate into shouted bouts of name-calling and drunken fistfights.

Billy might even have been guilty of contributing to the other passengers’ alarm by spending hours standing at the stern of the ship and firing at nickel slugs Drew tossed high into the air. He made it a point to miss one every now and then, just to put their minds at ease. They still shied away, wives clutching their husbands and mothers clutching their daughters, when Drew tried to press his freshly printed fliers into their shaking hands, urging them to come visit his exhibition while they were in London.

One morning Billy came whistling his way up one of the narrow gangways. Since it was so cold he could see every note hanging in the air on a breath of fog, he didn’t think anything peculiar when a figure approached, swaddled in a topcoat and scarf. The man was muffled all the way up to his eyes, which he quickly averted when Billy accidentally bumped into him.

“Sorry, partner,” Billy drawled, tipping his hat.

Still whistling, he continued up the gangway for a few more steps, then halted, caught off guard by the sudden tingling of his nape. He swung around, but the other passenger had vanished. He shook his head and rubbed away the uneasy prickle, attributing it to fancy. He was probably safer on this boat than he’d ever been in Calamity with a price on his head.

Billy emerged into the winter sunshine to find the troupe’s sole wild Indian already on deck. Crazy Joe was so enamored of the Savage Red Man costume Drew had commissioned for him that he insisted on wearing it day and night, despite the frigid temperatures. He might have looked more menacing in his war paint and loincloth if he hadn’t also been sporting a dapper bowler and giving Samuel a haircut.

Sam perched on a wooden barrel. He kept his hand clamped over his good ear and visibly cringed at each decisive snip of the scissors.

Recalling the time his brother had poured sorghum in his hair while he was sleeping, Billy exchanged a wink with Joe, then leaned over and whispered, “I’d hold still if I were you. He’s more likely to take your scalp than your ear.”

Leaving his brother squirming worse than before, Billy started for the bow of the ship. He soon passed a pallid, hollow-eyed Enos, returning from yet another visit to the rail.

Recalling the time Enos had held him down and forced him to eat a June bug, Billy jerked a thumb toward the hold. “They’ve got quite a fine spread down there this morning. Eggs and bacon and biscuits and flapjacks and…”

Shooting him a black look, Enos gripped his stomach and went stumbling back toward the rail.

Billy grinned. Virgil might complain about the boredom and Jasper about the deplorable lack of whores, but he found everything about the journey invigorating;—the rhythmic chug of the ship’s engine, the pitching of the boat when they hit restless seas, the icy spray striking his face when he stood at the bow as he did now.

He had to admit his jubilation might have less to do with the journey than with the woman waiting for him at the end of it. He caught his hat before a blast of icy wind could tear it away. The cold couldn’t touch him, not with the thrill of the hunt warming his blood.

This time his prey wasn’t some bootlegger or horse thief, but a woman’s heart—sweet and stubborn and dear. The only bounty he desired was to be found in her loving arms. Billy gripped the rail and leaned forward, almost as if he could urge the steamer to chug harder and cut faster through the vast plain of sea that separated them.

Esmerelda stood in front of the cheval glass in her bedroom, admiring the stranger in the mirror. She wore a pink-coral skirt trimmed with three flounces. An overskirt of Brussels lace had been gathered in the back and tied with grosgrain ribbons. A basque corsage secured by a mother-of-pearl brooch bared the creamy slope of her shoulders. A string of pearls twined through her hair, which had been looped and coiled by her lady’s maid into a tremendously flattering cascade of curls.

She wore Lisbeth’s locket around her neck. The delicate chain weighed upon her skin as if it had been forged from iron.

She was finally the beauty she’d always secretly yearned to be, but the elegant creature gazing back at her from the cheval glass bore no resemblance to the strong-willed, tart-tongued girl who had crossed half a continent to seek justice for her brother. Nor even a passing likeness to the passionate woman who had given herself freely and without regret to the man she loved—the man who had invited her to share his life as well as his bed, then betrayed her.

No longer able to stand the sight of her reflection, Esmerelda went to her dressing table and groped for a bottle of eau de cologne. She brought the smooth glass stopper to her throat, closing her eyes as Billy whispered, Did I ever tell you what my favorite kind of pie is?

Just the memory of his smoky drawl was enough to send a shiver of desire through her. Sickened by the cloying floral scent of the perfume, Esmerelda set it aside and reached for the homely brown bottle of peach extract wedged behind a fat beadwork pincushion.

She was putting a defiant dab behind each ear when a knock sounded on the door. She bit back a groan. She was growing incredibly weary of the frantic round of social engagements her grandfather had pressed upon her in the two months since Christmas. Even more grueling than the engagements were the suitable companions he’d chosen for her, all simpering young ladies of eligible age from noble families. She supposed she should be thankful they were at least old enough to be let out of the nursery without their nannies. If her grandfather truly had his way, he’d probably be pushing her around the walks of Hyde Park in a giant pram.

She’d privately christened her new acquaintances “the Belles,” since they all seemed to be named Isabelle, Annabel, or in one timid creature’s case, simply Belle.

Although they smiled and simpered whenever she was in their company, Esmerelda knew that they regarded her with a mixture of pity and horror, holding her up as an example of the terrible fate that could befall any one of them who failed to make a suitable match before her twentieth birthday.

She could only imagine their delighted shock if they discovered their chaste new companion had been compromised by a scoundrel like Billy Darling.

With a wicked smile still playing around her lips, she swung open the door. “So what’s it to be tonight?” she asked her waiting aunt. “An opera? A supper party? A musicale hosted by one of the Belles?”

Anne brushed past her, her color higher than usual. “I believe you’ll find tonight’s diversion quite unique.”

She gave her aunt a pleading look. “Couldn’t I just feign a nasty headache and stay home in bed reading one of those deliciously wicked romantic novels? After all, I only have a few more days to rest up for the masquerade ball Grandpapa is giving in my honor.”

When Anne behaved as if she hadn’t spoken, Esmerelda frowned. No, she hadn’t been mistaken. Her aunt, a woman without a bone of vanity in her trim, spare body, was actually craning her neck to steal a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass. As Esmerelda watched, she even dared to twine a spit curl around her little finger. The iron-gray ringlet escaped with an impertinent bounce.

Esmerelda cleared her throat.

Anne jumped, her nerves of iron crumbling to rust before her niece’s amused eyes. “Come, dear,” she said, plucking a mantle of braided cashmere out of the wardrobe and draping it over Esmerelda’s shoulders. “The earl’s carriage is already downstairs waiting for us.”

“Oh, no! Not the earl again. I’d rather be boiled in porridge than spend another moment in his company.” Esmerelda dragged her slippered feet like a recalcitrant child. “Can’t you tell him I have amnesia? That I forgot we had an engagement?”

Her aunt continued to tug her toward the door. “If you’ll just come with me, my dear, I believe I can promise you an evening you will never forget.”

Esmerelda no longer had any need to feign a nasty headache. Her head had began to pound in earnest almost as soon as they’d entered the crowded theater on Drury Lane. Although the electric arc lamps were a vast improvement over the smelly, smoky gas and oil lamps they’d replaced, the mingled perfumes of the elegantly dressed theatergoers jammed elbow to elbow into the tiered benches made her hunger for a breath of fresh air.

Aunt Anne sat on her left while the earl pressed close on the right, taking up most of his seat and part of hers. Esmerelda couldn’t have said which was more intolerable— St. Cyr’s fawning attentions or the inane chatter of the Belles, who surrounded them above and below in a smothering cloud of organdy and lace. She winced as one of their shrill giggles seemed to drive a splinter of ice into her skull.

“Care for a boiled peanut, m’dear?” the earl inquired for the fourth time, proffering a canvas sack.

“No, thank you,” she coolly replied, having watched him spit several of the shells back into the sack after he’d divested them of their peanuts with his sharp yellow teeth.

Her aunt had refused to tell her what manner of production they were attending, insisting with uncharacteristic coyness that it remain a surprise. From the bales of hay that had been scattered around the circular arena, Esmerelda gathered that it must be a circus of some sort. Spotting a playbill in the gloved hands of a woman seated three rows down, she lifted her opera glasses in an impolite attempt to read over the woman’s shoulder.

Anne snatched the glasses away from her and pressed them to her own eyes. “Oh, look, isn’t that the Prince of Wales coming in?”

Esmerelda squinted in the same direction. “Not unless he’s taken to wearing a bustle and feathers in his hair.”

Unnerved by her aunt’s increasingly peculiar behavior, Esmerelda sighed and settled back on the bench. The arc lamps began to dim. The buzz of conversation dwindled to an eager murmur.

Esmerelda gasped and jumped just as high as the rest of the crowd when a stagecoach drawn by four black horses came rocking across the arena. A man in a tan shirt, trousers, hat, and red bandanna drove the team, a shotgun laid across his lap. As a near-naked Indian riding a sleek pinto thundered after him, tomahawk raised high, the Belles threw their arms around each other and let out an ear-piercing shriek.

The shotgun exploded with a mighty blast. The Indian leapt from pinto to stagecoach, wresting the reins from the driver’s hands. After a brief but violent struggle, he hurled the driver to the ground and pounced upon him. The stagecoach went lurching back into the darkness as the Indian unsheathed a gleaming blade and drew it downward in a slicing motion. The driver slumped into a lifeless heap.

The savage sprang to his feet, his dazzling white teeth bared in a bloodthirsty grimace, and held up a trophy that looked suspiciously like a rat pelt. Several woman screamed, and one of the Belles groped for her smelling salts.

Before the scandalized gasps and horrified cries could die out, the driver bounded to his feet and took a bow, revealing that he’d been bald as an egg the entire time. The crowd erupted in hearty laughter and thunderous applause.

A man garbed in an elegant top hat, frock coat, and shiny black boots strode to the center of the arena with a megaphone and intoned in a cultured English accent, “Welcome to the show, ladies and gentlemen! Brought to you straight from the untamed wilderness of America— the very first Wild West Extravaganza to tour England!”

As the applause soared again, Esmerelda slowly swiveled around to glare at her aunt, rigid with fury. “If this is your idea of a jest,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “you have a very sick sense of humor.”

Her aunt simply stared straight ahead as if she hadn’t spoken. Determined to endure no more of this nonsense, Esmerelda attempted to rise.

“Oh, do sit down! We can’t see!” the Belles twittered as a chorus, all aflutter with excitement.

“Down in front!” boomed a masculine voice.

Esmerelda drove an elbow into the earl’s side, attempting to nudge him out of her way, but earned nothing but a distracted grunt for her trouble. He was already mesmerized by the sight of the covered wagon that came rolling across the hay-strewn floor of the arena.

Defeated for the time being, she sank back down on the bench, sulking like a child.

The same Indian on the same pinto began to race circles around the wagon, howling a fierce war cry. The plight of the family of settlers might have been more heartrending if one of the women hadn’t boasted sideburns and a sandy beard. “Her” falsetto cries for mercy as the Indian jumped on the wagon and began to tear at her homespun dress soon had the audience rolling with laughter. Plagued by a nagging sense of familiarity, Esmerelda leaned forward, but the glare of the lights obscured the man’s facial features.

The next sketch consisted of a mock cabin, more screaming settlers, and the same Indian leaping into one window, then running out the back door of the cabin, around to the front, and leaping into another, pretending to be a different Indian. By now, the poor fellow was clutching his side and gasping for breath.

Muttering their displeasure, several men and women rose and began to drift toward the exits. As one of the benches below them cleared, Esmerelda breathed a sigh of relief. Her prayers for deliverance had been answered. She didn’t think she could bear another minute of this travesty. The west she’d known was wilder than any of them could imagine, she thought, remembering Billy’s unbridled passion with a pang of loss and yearning.

She was already poised to make a mad dash for freedom when some unseen stagehands unfurled a painted backdrop of a street in a western town. Esmerelda was squinting at it, thinking that it looked strangely familiar, when the lights dimmed again. As a single spotlight brightened the darkness, the trickle toward the exits slowed to a halt. The mutterings ceased; the murmurs faded. Even the Belles lapsed into an expectant silence.

A lone man stepped into the circle of light.

The sinister black of his trousers and vest was relieved only by the startling whiteness of his shirt. The broad brim of his hat shadowed his eyes. The ruthless beam of the arc lamp cast a shimmering halo around him.

Esmerelda’s heart began to pound even harder than her head.

She was so riveted by the cougarlike grace of his swagger that she never even felt her aunt reach over to clutch her icy hand. She never heard the Belles titter and whisper to one another behind their cupped hands that they would surely swoon were they to be accosted by such a handsome and virile villain. She never saw the second man appear at the opposite end of the arena, dressed all in white with an oversized tin star gleaming on his lapel.

“Throw down your gun, outlaw,” he barked in a rolling Scottish burr. “I’m the law in this town and we don’t take to your kind here.”

“Haven’t you heard, sheriff?” the man replied in a drawl as sweet and thick as sun-warmed molasses. “I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.”

Jasper, Esmerelda thought frantically. Dear God, it had to be Jasper. She dragged her hand out of her aunt’s and groped blindly for the opera glasses. She lifted them to her eyes, struggling to focus through the fog of panic that had descended over her vision.

The men faced off, their hands poised over the sleek leather sheaths cradling their pistols. They both drew in one quicksilver motion. A shot rang out.

Esmerelda flinched as if she’d been hit. For a taut eternity, it was impossible to tell which man was hit. Then the man dressed all in black began to stagger. His knees buckled and he slowly crumpled to the ground, a crimson stain spreading over his heart. As he sprawled on his back, Esmerelda got her first clear look at his face.

Forgetting that the shells were blanks, forgetting that the blood was probably nothing more than strawberry syrup, forgetting that she hated Billy almost as much as she still loved him and had wished him dead a thousand times since they’d parted, Esmerelda leapt to her feet and let out a piercing scream.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Esmerelda’s scream fell into a silence so suffocating she wasn’t sure she would ever breathe again.

Billy slowly climbed to his feet, his gaze riveted on her as if they were the only two people in the arena. He swept his hat off the floor, dusting bits of straw from its crown, before sketching her a gallant bow.

The audience erupted in a frenzied wave of applause, hoots, and approving whistles. The men stamped their feet in unison, making the tiers of benches shudder.

Esmerelda continued to stand, frozen into place by her own mortification as she realized what an utter buffoon she’d just made of herself. She looked frantically around only to find the Belles gaping at her, their little pink mouths circles of scandalized delight. The earl appeared to be choking on a peanut, while her aunt pretended to study a playbill, her face a portrait of artless innocence.

Against her will, Esmerelda’s gaze was drawn back to the man who stood in that shimmering arc of light. As she met his wary gaze, her every sense came tingling to life, just as they had in that dusty saloon a lifetime ago. Unable to bear the exquisite pain of such an awakening, she turned to the left, then to the right, driven by a single primal urge.

Escape.

Ignoring the earl’s muttered “I should say!” and “Well, I never,” Esmerelda shoved past him, trodding ruthlessly on his feet. Although she continued to push and elbow her way toward the aisle, no one dared complain. They were too enchanted by the drama taking place practically in their laps. When her cashmere shawl snagged on the clawed grip of a man’s cane, she simply left it behind, although her bared shoulders made her feel even more exposed. The spotlight swung around to follow her, highlighting every lurch and stumble of her agonizing journey.

She reached the aisle only to discover she had nowhere to go but down. Holding her head high, she started down the carpeted stairs, praying she wouldn’t end up rolling down them in her haste.

When she finally reached the floor, her heartfelt sigh of relief drowned out the admiring gasps of the crowd. She had no way of knowing that Billy had wrested the reins of the pinto from the hapless Indian and swung himself astride until he came trotting up beside her. He looked harder and leaner than she remembered. His face was darker, his hair a brighter gold.

He slowed the horse to an amiable walk, tipping his hat as if they’d just happened to meet on a tree-shaded path. “Can I offer you a ride, ma’am?”

“I can promise you, sir,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth, “that you have absolutely nothing to offer me.”

Devilish charm melted through his voice as he leaned down and murmured, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you, honey.”

Terrified he might be right, she quickened her steps, thinking only to reach the gilded doors at the far end of the theater before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

He nudged the horse nearer. “I need to talk to you, Esmerelda. You have to hear me out.”

“I don’t care to hear anything you have to say.”

“If you don’t care, then why did you scream when you thought I’d been shot?”

Esmerelda didn’t miss a step. “Because I was afraid I’d been deprived of the pleasure of killing you myself.”

Billy responded to her retort by wheeling the pinto around and cantering back toward the center of the arena. Esmerelda hated herself for feeling a stab of regret.

Andrew McGuire’s Scottish burr flooded the theater, magnified by the yawning mouth of the megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the deadliest draw and quickest shot in all the American West…”

Warned by the thunder of hoofbeats, the relentless jingle of spurs, Esmerelda whirled around, clapping a hand over her heart.

Billy was galloping straight for her. He leaned low over the pinto’s back, determination hardening his eyes to silver.

“… the one name that strikes terror in the hearts of innocent maidens and lawmen alike…”

Esmerelda’s own traitorous heart skipped two beats for every one it hit. She stood paralyzed with helpless anticipation until Billy leaned sideways and swept her off the floor and into his lap with one powerful arm.

“… Mr. Billy Darling!”

The crowd roared their approval, no doubt believing the spectacle was all part of the show. The deserters who had been filing toward the exits went scurrying back to their seats.

Esmerelda squirmed in Billy’s arms. Being that near to him again, breathing in his rich tobacco-and-leather scent was a taste of both heaven and hell.

“Relax, Duchess,” he murmured into her hair. “You don’t have to be afraid of the horse.”

“I’m not afraid of the horse! I’m—”

Afraid I still love you.

She bit her lip before she could blurt out those damning words.

“Just hang on to me, angel, and pretend the saddle is a rocking chair.”

Blushing furiously, she twisted around to give him a long, hard look. He cocked an eyebrow, returning it with one of bland innocence.

The horse trotted toward the center of the arena, where Drew stood in the dazzling light of the spotlight, having ousted the Englishman who had introduced the show.

Even the eloquent sheriff seemed at a loss for words to describe Billy’s scandalous abduction of her. “As you can see, um, ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted through the megaphone, “the notorious gunslinger has swept this beautiful little lady off her feet.” He slanted them a dubious look as Billy slid off the horse, dragging a struggling Esmerelda after him. “Proving, once again, that no woman can resist the charms of an outlaw.”

“I can,” Esmerelda declared, landing with a deliberate crunch on Billy’s toes.

He doubled over in a bow to hide his grimace of pain, taking her captive hand with him. “You might want to play along with Drew for now,” he shouted over the roar of applause. “I’d hate to ruin your reputation.”

“You already have,” she shouted back. “Or have you forgotten?”

He gave her a smoldering look that warned her he hadn’t forgotten a single touch or kiss they’d shared during that fateful night.

As much as Esmerelda hated to admit it, he was right. She was already the laughingstock of London. Struggle or flight would only humiliate her further. When Billy drew her out of the bow, she wore a smile as dazzling as his own.

Drew tugged a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow before returning the megaphone to his lips. “Mr. Darling has traveled all the way from the wilds of America to provide you with an exhibition of crack shooting the likes of which has never before been seen in your fair country.”

The bald cowboy who had portrayed the stagecoach driver came trotting out from behind a curtain, wheeling a silver tea cart. Four men with colorful bandannas tied across their noses mounted their horses and went galloping around the arena. They distracted the impatient audience by whooping a deafening chorus of rebel yells and firing their pistols in the air.

Virgil winked at Esmerelda as he raced past, looking much more natural in his outlaw’s getup than he had in a bonnet and homespun dress.

Billy shook his head. “I sure hope they remembered to replace their shells with blanks.”

“If not,” she murmured, “several of the English stand to inherit before this night is over.”

As the tea cart drew near, Esmerelda saw that it bore a crystal cup laden with dimes, a shiny new deck of playing cards, and a sleek Colt.45. Realizing immediately that it would have to be loaded with live shells instead of blanks, she grabbed for the gun.

Billy swept it out of her reach with effortless grace, tsking beneath his breath as he slid it into his holster. She glared at him.

No doubt fearing they were about to break into fisticuffs, Sheriff McGuire hastily lifted the megaphone. “With the lady’s gracious help, Mr. Darling will now favor us all with a demonstration of his prowess.”

The image that popped into Esmerelda’s head was so unprecedented and so utterly ribald that she blushed to the roots of her hair.

Billy held out a single dime, his lazy grin warning her that he had read her thoughts. “If you would be so kind…?”

Resisting an urge to fling the coin in his smirking face, she hurled it toward the ceiling with all of her might.

The shimmering coin flipped end over end, disappearing into the glare of the spotlights. With one smooth motion, Billy drew, cocked the hammer of his pistol with the palm of his other hand, and fired. The dime shot heavenward, propelled by the impact.

The appreciative “oohs” and “aahs” of Billy’s rapt audience grew in volume each time they repeated the trick. He never once missed the impossibly elusive target, not even when he backed up to a distance of ninety feet.

Hoping to thwart him, Esmerelda grabbed an entire handful of dimes and tossed them into the air. Billy fired six shots in dizzying succession, taking down six of them before they could reach the ground.

The applause was deafening.

As he strode back to her side to take his triumphant bow, the spotlight dimmed to an unearthly glow.

Drew took advantage of the audience’s breathless anticipation. “Mr. Darling’s next trick requires absolute silence. I can only urge you to make no careless gesture, to speak no word that would disturb his concentration.” He lowered his voice to an ominous stage whisper. “The very life of the lady may depend upon it.”

Esmerelda was less than heartened by that dire prediction. Billy took up the deck of cards and held them out to her, fanning them in a gesture he could have only perfected during countless poker games. He stood so near to her that Esmerelda was mesmerized by the dark gold threads of his lashes, the wary deepening of the lines that bracketed his sensual mouth.

Drew pointed the megaphone at her ear and intoned, “As he must draw, so must she.”

Willing herself not to tremble, Esmerelda reached out and chose a card. She glanced at it, then turned it for Billy to see, unable to resist a mocking smile.

“The queen of hearts!” Drew called out. The audience shifted and murmured in subdued delight.

Billy strolled behind her. Esmerelda forced herself to remain pliant while he slid one arm around her waist and positioned her like some dressmaker’s dummy. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his touch could still make her pulse quicken and her mouth go dry with longing.

But she could do nothing to hide the ripple of goose-flesh that danced along her skin when he pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Trust me.”

“Never,” she replied, staring straight ahead.

But the hand he’d arranged to hold the card aloft didn’t waver, not even by a fraction of an inch. Until Drew wrapped a black silk blindfold around Billy’s eyes.

“Oh, no,” Esmerelda said, shaking her head violently and backing away from the both of them. “I’d rather take my chances with the knife throwers.”

She backed right into Virgil’s burly arms. “Don’t worry, honey,” he boomed in his own deafening rendition of a stage whisper. “Little Brother’s been doin‘ this trick since he was nine years old and he ain’t missed yet.”

“Then you hold the card,” she retorted, trying to force it into his hand.

He declined her invitation, choosing instead to scurry safely out of range, where Jasper, Samuel, and Enos awaited him. Esmerelda turned back only to discover that while she was preoccupied, Drew had led Billy an impressive distance away and left him there. He stood in the center of the arena with his long legs splayed, his hands poised loosely over his gunbelt. Trust me.

As that husky entreaty echoed through her mind, Esmerelda sighed, knowing she had no choice. Billy had her in his sights just as surely as he had on that moonlit night in Calamity. She couldn’t stop him from shooting at her any more than she could have stopped him from breaking her heart.

She slowly lifted the card, holding it between the very tips of her thumb and forefinger, and closed her eyes.

A shot rang out. She flinched. The crowd gasped. Daring to open only one eye, Esmerelda patted her chest, trying to determine exactly where she’d been shot.

When she failed to encounter anything more alarming than her mother’s locket, she screwed up the courage to open both eyes and count how many fingers she had left.

She was still holding the card.

Her mouth dropped open. Billy Darling had missed. But Billy Darling never missed, she thought wildly, her heart surging with treacherous tenderness. He’d simply refused to risk her life for the sake of a cheap parlor trick. Or at least that’s what she believed until she held the card up to the light and saw the smoking hole shot clean through the heart of the hapless queen.

The crowd went wild. The Darling gang vaulted back on their mounts and went galloping around the arena, mercifully distracting the audience.

Billy dragged off the blindfold and came striding toward her. Letting the card slip from her numb fingers, Esmerelda turned to flee, desperate to lose herself among the torrent of people who had began to pour out of their seats and stream toward the exits.

“Don’t run away from me, sweetheart.”

Undone by that hoarse plea from a man who never begged, Esmerelda whirled around. “I’m not your sweetheart! Or your honey. Or your angel. I’m nothing to you, Mr. Darling. You made that painfully clear on the occasion of our last parting.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t mean a damn word I said. I swear it. If I had, I wouldn’t have traveled halfway across the world to tell you different.”

“Ah, but how do I know you’re not simply trying to sweet-talk me back into your bed? After all, I know how precious your freedom is to a man like you.”

Billy flinched, realizing just how many times Esmerelda must have heard the echo of those cruel words.

The tears welling in her eyes began to spill down her cheeks. “After all, you’d never do anything so foolish as getting yourself hitched, despite the time we had in bed together.”

Helpless to stop himself, Billy reached to brush a tear from her cheek. His thumb lingered against the creamy velvet of her skin. “I only said those terrible things to scare you off. Because I believed you were too good for the likes of me.”

Esmerelda drew herself up. Her chin still quivered, but she held it high and proud. “If that’s what you believed, William Darling, then you were right. I am too good for the likes of you.”

She turned, sweeping away from him without a backward glance. Even after she’d melted into the crowd, the aroma of peaches still hung in the air, pungent and sweet.

Billy bent to pick up the card she had dropped. The queen stared back at him in mute reproach, a scorched hole marring her noble breast.

Drew clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Perfect shot, eh, lad?”

Billy nodded ruefully, massaging his own chest. “Right through the heart.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“ ‘The Cowboy and the Lady,'” Esmerelda’s grandfather read, a sneer curling his thin lips.

Esmerelda choked in an effort not to spew a mouthful of her morning chocolate all over the back page of his newspaper. The gesture would have dismayed him deeply, since Potter had just presented him with his beloved Morning Post, still warm and crisp from its obligatory ironing.

As she dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin, her grandfather lowered the paper to give her a concerned look. “Are you quite all right, dear?”

She managed a wan smile. “I’m fine, Grandpapa. The chocolate’s just a little bitter this morning.”

Not nearly as bitter as the look she gave her aunt down the length of the dining room table as soon as her grandfather raised the paper. She hadn’t spoken to Anne since last night’s debacle, choosing to ride home alone in a hansom cab rather than endure the earl’s wounded sniffs and the Belles’ tittering inquisition. In response to Esmerelda’s glower, Anne set down her own tea, her hand shaking so hard that the cup rattled violently against the saucer.

The duke snorted. “It seems some chit made quite a spectacle of herself last night in Drury Lane. Actually allowed herself to be dragged on stage. ”The Cowboy and the Lady‘ indeed! No lady would conduct herself in such a scandalous manner. She was probably some actress or prostitute masquerading as a lady.“

“Reginald!” Anne nodded in Esmerelda’s direction. “You mustn’t use such language in front of the child.”

Esmerelda pushed her plate of kippers and eggs away, losing what little appetite she had.

Her grandfather shook his shiny head. “I can’t believe anyone would plunk down good coins to see a Wild West Extravaganza. It’s a disgrace what they consider entertainment these days. If they’re going to glorify those American savages, they might as well bring back some decent English sports like bearbaiting and cockfights.” Despite his derision, his gaze eagerly leapt to the next column. “It seems they’ve christened this mysterious sharpshooter ‘the Darling of London.' What do you think inspired them to come up with such a preposterous—“

Esmerelda upset her china cup, sending a river of lukewarm chocolate streaming into her grandfather’s lap. She jumped to her feet with a piteous cry of dismay. Anne responded to her frantic cue by rushing around the table to her brother’s side. Ignoring his napkin, she snatched up the newspaper and began to mop his lap with it.

“Leave me be, woman,” he snapped, shoving Anne’s fluttering hands away from him. “You’re only making it worse.”

“Oh, Grandpapa!” Esmerelda exclaimed, struggling to blink up some contrite tears. “How could I have been so clumsy?”

As he gazed down at the sopping mess in his lap, his ears slowly darkened from pink to red. Esmerelda wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke come pouring out of them. He’d never once lost his legendary Wyndham temper with her, but when he lifted hands covered with sticky shreds of newsprint, she fully expected him to come lunging across the table to throttle her.

He managed to swallow back his rage, although his indulgent smile lacked its usual sparkle. “Not to worry, my dear. Even the most graceful of us are sometimes prone to blunders.”

He rose, took up his cane, and gingerly shuffled across the dining room. He made it all the way to the door before throwing back his head and bellowing, “Potter!”

Esmerelda and Anne nearly jumped out of their guilty skins. As the sodden thud of his cane faded, they sank back into their chairs, dizzy with relief.

“Thank you,” Esmerelda said stiffly.

Her aunt took a bracing gulp of her tea. “It was the least I could do.”

“The very least,” Esmerelda agreed, feeling less than charitable. “We may have diverted him from the society pages with their hints and innuendos, but how long is it going to be before someone tells him exactly who that lady and her cowboy were?”

Anne waved away her concerns. “Reginald is a very influential man. His circle of acquaintances have always lived in terror of his censure. No one will dare breathe a word of scandal about his beloved granddaughter in his presence.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m sure they’ll be more than delighted to whisper about her behind his back at the ball next week.” Esmerelda rose to pace around the table. “How could you do it, Aunt Anne? Wasn’t it enough that he broke my heart once? How could you bring him here to break it again?”

Anne cast her a beseeching glance. “When I wrote Sheriff McGuire and suggested he bring Mr. Darling here, I truly believed it was for the best. You were so very unhappy.”

“Well, congratulations. Now I’m miserable.”

Esmerelda sank into the chair next to her aunt and buried her head in her folded arms. Anne reached over and stroked her hair. Something about that awkward touch made Esmerelda remember Zoe Darling tying a faded ribbon in her hair. Made her remember how her own mother used to divide her unruly strands into neat braids before bedtime each night.

She lifted her head, seeing her aunt’s kind, stern face through a veil of tears.

“I saw the way he was looking at you last night, Esmerelda. If a man had ever looked at me that way…”Anne’s wistful sigh melted into a rueful laugh. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t still be here, playing nursemaid to my overgrown child of a brother.”

“He told me he never meant any of those unkind things he said. But how can I believe him? What if he’s lying?”

“What if he’s not?”

Utterly at a loss for an answer, Esmerelda rose and started for the door.

“Dear?”

She turned to find her aunt’s face lined with concern.

“Isabelle D’Arcy told me St. Cyr may very well be planning to declare for you at the ball.”

Esmerelda straightened her shoulders, using supreme effort to turn her self-pitying sniffle into a sniff of disdain.

“Perhaps I’ll accept his suit. That would show the arrogant Mr. Darling that he can’t just waltz back into my life and expect me to fall into his arms.”

Esmerelda shuddered as she watched the earl of St. Cyr help himself to a fistful of shrimp balls from a footman’s silver tray. Catching her appalled gaze from across the ballroom, he smirked and wiggled his greasy fingers at her. He took her grimace as a smile of invitation, but before he could cross the ballroom, he was mercifully distracted by the sight of another footman bearing a freshly laden tray. Licking his bulbous lips, he took off in pursuit.

Esmerelda ducked behind a marble column and adjusted her half mask, wishing the ivory silk and feather trifle provided more of a disguise. Although the masquerade ball was being given in her honor, she felt more like the hired entertainment than the hostess. The cream of London society undoubtedly found her predicament highly diverting.

As Anne had assured her, not even the most vicious gossip among them had dared to confront the duke about his granddaughter’s scandalous behavior at the Wild West Extravaganza. But that hadn’t stopped them from accenting their lavish ballgowns and elegant black evening dress with mocking reminders of her folly. In lieu of velvet and silk masks, some wore colorful bandannas in the dashing style of the Darling gang. Others wore masks of gingham and calico. One solemn fellow had even managed to scrounge up an entire Union uniform.

Her grandfather might be oblivious to their sly glances and coy asides, but Esmerelda was not. Although few of them deigned to address her directly, their discreet whispers and muffled laughter vied with the tinkling strains of the musicians.

Hoping to creep from column to column until she reached the French windows leading to the terrace, Esmerelda peeked around the pillar only to discover that a man had appropriated the next column. He stood with one ankle crossed over the other and one brawny shoulder braced against the marble column. The muted glow of the gasoliers burnished his hair to gold.

Unlike some of her wittier guests, he wore formal black evening dress and a stark black mask. His flawlessly cut trousers and the graceful flare of his tailcoat only emphasized the leanness of his hips. The dazzling white of his bow tie offset the sunhoneyed hue of his skin. A fluted glass of champagne dangled from his long fingers.

As he met her frustrated gaze, he lifted his glass in a silent toast.

Esmerelda had no desire to begin a flirtation with some randy young nobleman, no matter how unnervingly handsome. She leaned the other way just as Potter appeared in the vaulted doorway. She might have been alarmed by the butler’s unhealthy pallor if she hadn’t already suspected he slept in a coffin. Flaring his pinched nostrils, he announced another round of guests, his consumptive croak all but inaudible.

Groaning aloud, Esmerelda ducked behind the pillar. It was too late. She’d been spotted. The Belles came trotting across the parquet floor, the pitter-patter of their dainty slippers portending her doom.

“Why, Esmerelda, is that you?” trilled the boldest of them.

“No,” she replied glumly.

They surrounded her anyway, their heart-shaped faces aglow with excitement.

Annabel (or was it Isabelle?) clasped her lily-white hands beneath her pointed chin. “How incredibly brave of you to show your face in public after being so scandalously manhandled by that rogue.”

“I, for one, nearly swooned when he swept you into his arms,” chirped the shy little Belle named Belle. “We were all afraid he was going to carry you off and ravish you.”

They bobbed their heads in eager agreement, sending their elaborate clusters of curls bouncing. Esmerelda could do nothing to stop the flush that crept into her cheeks.

Slyly noting her heightened color, Isabelle (or was it Annabel?) crooned, “Surely even a woman of your advanced age and limited prospects would be tempted to surrender her virtue to such a dashing villain.”

Esmerelda couldn’t bear another second of their smug pity. Leaning down until she stood nose to nose with the impertinent little vixen, she said, “I already have.”

A chorus of gasps greeted her announcement. Leaving them aghast with shock, she gathered her skirts and marched away. Thinking only to escape to her bedroom or perhaps to the darkest reaches of Africa, she veered right to avoid her grandfather, then swerved left to evade St. Cyr.

And crashed right into the arms of the stranger who had sought refuge behind the other column, nearly knocking his glass of champagne out of his hand.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” She dabbed at the damp spot on his crisp shirtfront with her handkerchief. “I don’t know what possessed me to be so careless, sir. Please do forgive me.” Genuinely embarrassed by her clumsiness, she glanced up into the eyes framed by the narrow slits of his mask.

Gray-green eyes fringed with thick gold lashes and sparkling with devilish merriment.

“I’ll forgive you, honey,” he drawled, capturing her hand and pressing it flat over his heart. “But only if you’ll forgive me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Billy’s heart throbbed beneath her palm, much as it had that day in the jail when she’d believed him to be some demon or phantom out to steal her soul. Only it hadn’t been her soul he’d ended up stealing, but her heart. As she gazed up into his dear, familiar face, she knew he still had the power to crush it with nothing more than a careless twitch of his fingers.

His appearance shouldn’t have taken her breath away, but it did. He’d proved himself capable of such a transformation once before in Eulalie. His casual elegance made all the other men in the room look like graceless buffoons.

Painfully aware of the curious stares they were attracting, she snatched her hand out of his. “You, sir, were not invited to this ball.”

He lifted his shoulders in a laconic shrug. “We Darlings don’t get many invites to fancy shindigs such as this.

But that never stops us from making ourselves right at home.“

“Darlings?” she echoed, her horror mounting. “Darlings? Surely you didn’t dare…” A desperate glance around the ballroom proved that indeed he had.

The entire Darling gang was in attendance, all attired in elegant black masks and formal evening dress. Jasper leaned against the mantel, looking nearly as striking as Billy. Despite his jaded sneer, the Belles had already began to bat their eyelashes in his direction. Enos lurked shyly behind a bronze bust of William the Conqueror, while Sam fidgeted nervously with his hair, trying in vain to drag a lock of it over his absent ear. Virgil was nowhere in sight, but Esmerelda could hear his voice drowning out the valiant efforts of the musicians.

She might have suspected her aunt of inviting the lot of them if she hadn’t spotted Anne in the corner, arguing frantically with a man in a white mask. His flowing silver hair just brushed his shoulders, and the tips of his drooping mustache had been waxed to perfection.

Esmerelda’s panic grew when she remembered the guest in the Union uniform. She sighed with relief when she glimpsed his dark blue back retreating from the room. The last thing she needed was a war on her hands.

Another war, she amended, meeting Billy’s challenging gaze with one of her own. “You can make yourself at home if you like, Mr. Darling, but that doesn’t make you welcome.”

“I remember a time when you welcomed me, Miss Fine. Into your heart. Into your arms.” He leaned down, making sure his next words would be heard only by her. “Into your bed.”

Her skin prickled with desire at the husky reminder. Before she could recover her composure, her grandfather materialized out of the crowd. Esmerelda nearly panicked, but the duke gave Billy a look that was more cursory than curious. She’d forgotten that he was doing an impressive imitation of an aristocratic gentleman.

“There you are, my dear!” her grandfather exclaimed, blinking behind his brown velvet mask trimmed in owl feathers. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was hoping we could have our guests adjourn to the music room for a brief interlude before the dancing begins.”

Esmerelda’s hands were trembling too violently to hold a champagne glass, much less a violin bow. “Oh, no, Grandpapa. I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

“Why, I think it’s a capital idea,” Billy said, his drawl sharpening to a clipped English accent.

The duke looked him up and down. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir.”

Before Billy could point out that the pleasure had been all hers, Esmerelda grabbed her grandfather by the elbow and steered him away with such haste he nearly dropped his cane. “Nor should you right now. There will be ample time for introductions later. After I play.”

Although her sweet smile remained fixed on her lips, she cast Billy a look promising revenge over her shoulder.

At her grandfather’s urging, their guests eagerly crowded into the music room. Esmerelda supposed some of them were secretly hoping for a performance as riveting as the one she’d given on Drury Lane. The Darling gang lined the right wall. Enos, Sam, and Virgil were beaming with excitement, and even Jasper’s sneer was softened by a hint of anticipation. Andrew McGuire soon joined them, followed by a scowling Anne.

Billy leaned against the mantel of Venetian marble, his arms folded across his chest and a mocking smile playing around his lips.

Esmerelda reached for the Stradivarius propped against the music stand, but some sentimental urge compelled her to choose her mother’s violin instead. While she was tuning the instrument and searching her beleaguered brain for a piece to play, the man in the Union uniform slipped into the room.

Knowing her avid audience would strain to hear every word uttered by the duke of Wyndham’s eccentric granddaughter, Esmerelda said softly, “Since everyone seems to be buzzing with talk of the American West tonight, I’d like to honor that fair young nation and its courageous countrymen with one of their most beloved songs.”

Tucking the violin beneath her chin, she gave Billy a smile so tender it earned him several fascinated stares. Then, without further ado, she launched into a rousing rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

Billy’s grin faded. His eyes narrowed.

Jasper reached for a gun he wasn’t wearing. Virgil lunged toward her, forcing Sam and Enos to jerk themselves out of their own horrified stupors to hold him back. The man in the Union uniform stood stiffly at attention until she had played the last majestic note.

Her captive audience burst into applause, making her grandfather beam with pride. Deliberately avoiding Billy’s gaze, Esmerelda took a bow. When the cries of “Bravo!” and “More, more!” showed no signs of diminishing, she started for the grand piano.

Halfway there, she turned back. The applause faded to rapt silence. “Since you’ve been such a gracious audience, I believe I’d like to favor you with a vocal selection.”

Drew winced and Billy’s eyes widened in alarm. Clasping her hands demurely beneath her breasts, Esmerelda drew in a deep breath and began to sing “Dixie.”

Since the first few notes were so shrill as to be unrecognizable, she made it all the way to the second verse before Virgil broke free of Sam and Enos. This time it took all four of his brothers and Drew to restrain him. Billy clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his roar of outrage.

When Esmerelda finished, her last note hanging in the air like the sound a cat makes when someone steps on its tail, there was only appalled silence and a smattering of strained applause.

Her white-faced grandfather swallowed hard before producing a doting smile. “That was lovely, my dear, but perhaps I should go signal the musicians to begin the dancing.”

His hurried departure started an exodus toward the gilded doors. Leaving Virgil to his brothers, Billy strode toward Esmerelda, looking as mean and dangerous as she’d ever seen him.

Murmuring her apologies, she shoved her way through the crush, desperate to escape him. She glanced over her shoulder to find him closing on her with Drew right at his heels.

She never thought she’d be happy to see the earl of St. Cyr, but his sudden appearance sent her into an ecstasy of relief.

She latched onto his elbow, nearly dislodging the platter of hors d’oeuvres tucked in the crook of his arm. “Why, there you are, darling,” she sang out with deliberate malice. “I hope you don’t think I’ve been ignoring you.”

He mumbled something unintelligible, his mouth full.

Still clutching his arm, she swung around to face Billy and Drew. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve been remiss. Please allow me to introduce you to the earl of St. Cyr—my fiancé.”

St. Cyr choked on whatever he’d been trying to swallow, turning scarlet. His violent coughing caused one of the brass buttons on the waistcoat stretched taut over his enormous belly to pop off and bounce across the room.

Billy arched an incredulous eyebrow.“ That’s the earl of St. Cyr?”

Drew shrugged sheepishly. “I told you he was a man of notorious appetites.”

The musicians in the next room struck up a waltz. Billy grabbed Esmerelda by the hand. “Since Earl here will have the rest of his life to enjoy the pleasure of your company,” he said wryly, “I’m sure he won’t mind if I borrow you for one dance.”

“He might not mind, but I do,” Esmerelda retorted, stumbling after him.

Her protests were in vain. Billy had already swept her into the whirling throng of dancers. The music soared in a majestic counterpart to his fleet grace. His hand rested warm and low on her back, urging her nearer to him with each dizzying twirl around the parquet floor. As Esmerelda met his bold gaze, she could almost allow herself to believe that he was her cowboy and she was his lady.

To distract herself from the sheer bliss of being in his arms again, she slanted him a suspicious look. “You dance very well for a bounty hunter, Mr. Darling.”

He smiled down at her, warming her to the tips of her toes. “Every self-respecting Missouri boy knows the Tennessee waltz.”

As if to prove his point, Jasper went gliding by with one of the besotted Belles in his arms.

“We’re beginning to attract notice, you know,” she pointed out, surprised to realize that she no longer cared.

He leaned down and murmured, “Given that you’re a woman of advanced age and limited prospects, they’re probably wondering if I’m going to carry you off and ravish you.”

“Are you?” she dared to ask.

In answer, he waltzed her right out the French windows onto the terrace.

The music faded to a ghostly echo, poignant and sweet. Still holding her in his arms, Billy reached up and untied the ribbons of her mask, exposing her face to the moonlight. Unable to bear his tender scrutiny, Esmerelda turned her back on him.

She chafed her naked arms. The winter chill was a cruel contrast to the cozy heat of Billy’s body.

He dropped his coat over her shoulders, but did her the courtesy of not touching her. “I forgave you for spilling my champagne,” he said lightly. “Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me for the things I said?”

She drifted toward the terrace wall, hoping the shadows would hide the crimson staining her cheeks. “It wasn’t what you said that I can’t forgive. It’s what you did.” She softened her voice until it was barely a whisper. “Or didn’t do.”

“You’re still mad because I turned down your grandpa’s offer to marry you, aren’t you?”

She whirled around, allowing all the bitterness she’d hoarded since they’d parted to spill into her voice. “Why should you have married me when you made sure there would be no need of it? And I was too stupid to realize what you were doing. God, how pathetic you must have found me!”

Billy shook his head. “I never thought you were stupid. Or pathetic. I thought you were innocent.”

“So innocent I couldn’t tell when a man was trifling with my affections. So innocent I believed you when you said you loved me and wanted to marry me. So innocent I didn’t realize there were ways a man could enjoy a woman’s company without risking his freedom.”

“Is that what you believe?” he asked hoarsely. “That I didn’t get you with child that night because I intended all along to abandon you the next morning?”

“Since that’s exactly what you did, what else am I to believe?”

Billy paced the length of the terrace before jerking off his mask and running a hand through his hair. When he swung around, his face was an agonized mirror of her own. “I knew I could make you want me, honey. But I wasn’t sure I could make you love me. You might have wanted to spend the night with a Darling, but spending your life with one was another proposition altogether.” He spread his arms, his rumpled hair and desperate expression only making his immaculate clothes look more striking. “I can dress up in fancy clothes and talk like a gentleman, but that still doesn’t make me one.”

He moved toward her, shaking his head in helpless wonder. “And look at you, Duchess—a lady to the bone— so fine and sweet it takes my breath away.” He reached down and gently cupped her belly in his palm, his expression both fierce and tender. “Nothing would make me prouder than to watch that beautiful body of yours swell with my child.”

Billy’s frank confession and intimate touch thawed the icy lump in Esmerelda’s throat. A single tear went tumbling from her lashes, then another.

Without bothering to brush them away, she stroked his jaw with her fingertips. “You forgot to take one thing into account, Mr. Darling.” At his questioning glance, she whispered,“! already loved you.”

Her mouth melted against his in a seeking caress. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clear off her feet, squeezing her as if he would never let her go.

“I never wanted a gentleman,” she murmured, kissing his throat, his cheek, his lips. “I wanted a man. I wanted you.”

This time when Billy took her by the hand and led her deeper into the garden, Esmerelda followed without protest. They ducked into the first gazebo they found.

“Oh, excuse me,” Billy muttered, rapidly backing up.

Esmerelda peeped around his shoulder only to find another couple locked in a torrid kiss. Moonlight spilled through the latticed walls, frosting their hair with silver.

“Aunt Anne!” she breathed, both scandalized and delighted.

Her aunt immediately gave Andrew McGuire’s broad shoulders a halfhearted shove. “Unhand me, you knave! How dare you take such liberties!”

Billy chuckled. “Don’t let us disturb you, Drew. I believe the lady’s about to give you a tongue-lashing you’ll never forget.”

He beat a hasty retreat with Esmerelda trotting along behind him, still gaping over her shoulder. He didn’t pause again until a dead branch cracked behind them.

A troubled expression crossed his face.

“What is it?” Esmerelda whispered, edging nearer to him. “Is someone following us?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think so. It’s just a feeling I’ve had more than once lately.”

Shaking it off, he cupped her waist in his hands and set her atop a low stone wall opposite a towering evergreen hedge. The hedge provided privacy, while the wall provided the perfect excuse for Esmerelda to wrap both her arms and her legs around him.

He began to bunch up her skirt, determination glinting in his eyes.

“Why, Mr. Darling, whatever are you doing?”

“I’m going to get you with child. Then I’ll demand that your grandfather make you do right by me.”

Biting back a delighted grin, she said, “Surely even a scoundrel like you wouldn’t sink so low!”

“I’m a Darling, Miss Fine. I’ll sink as low as I have to.” With that wicked promise, he slid his hands beneath her skirt, cupped her rump through her thin silk drawers, and dragged her against him for a hot, delicious mingling of tongues.

They were still locked in that rather compromising embrace when her grandfather came charging through the hedge, clutching Samuel Darling by his one good ear.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Esmerelda sprang off the wall, but Billy kept his arms curved protectively around her as they turned to face her grandfather together.

The duke’s cane was nowhere in sight. Two winded footmen came stumbling through the hedge after him. Their eyes bulged as they saw their master’s beloved granddaughter in a stranger’s arms. “Turn around,” the duke barked.

Sam tried to oblige him, but only succeeded in nearly twisting off his ear.

“Not you! Them!”

The footmen did an abrupt about-face, the old-fashioned periwigs the duke insisted they wear quivering in alarm.

“You’re dismissed,” he commanded.

As they ducked back through the hedge, exchanging a relieved glance, Anne came racing down the path. Her chignon was hanging half over her eyes, and the hooks of her bodice looked curiously off-kilter.

She skidded to an abrupt halt on the gravel path. “For heaven’s sake, Reginald, what was all that commotion about?”

The duke gave Sam a spiteful shake before freeing his ear. “I saw this ruffian sneaking out the dining room window, so I lit out in pursuit. I caught him with this? He wrested the grubby sack from Sam’s hand and turned it upside down.

A shimmering stream of silverware, jewelry, and candlesticks came spilling out on the grass.

“Why, Samuel Darling,” Esmerelda exclaimed, “what would your ma say?”

Sam hung his head in shame.

“The other young scamp got away,” her grandfather informed them.

“Enos,” she whispered. Billy nodded, rolling his eyes.

He stood tall and straight in the moonlight, unmasked and exposed to her grandfather’s chilly regard.

“So we meet again, Mr. Darling. I suppose it wasn’t enough for you to rob my granddaughter of her precious virtue. You had to bring your kinfolk all the way to England to rob my home as well.”

“It was never my intention to rob your granddaughter of anything. I loved her then and I love her now.”

The duke snorted. “You loved her so well that you used her, then cast her aside like some worn-out pair of boots.”

“I let her go because I thought it would be best for her, but I won’t make the same mistake again. I may not be the sort of man you would have chosen for your granddaughter, but I can promise you that no man will ever love her like I do. I intend to have her, sir. With or without your blessing.“

Esmerelda’s heart swelled with pride. The duke went purple and began to sputter.

Billy took her by the shoulders, gazing tenderly down into her face. “I’m going to go now, sweetheart, because I don’t want your grandfather to have a stroke. Tomorrow is my last night in London. If you still want to be my wife, you know where to find me.”

He kissed her then, a kiss that was brief and hard and sweet. As he strode away down the path, Sam trailed after him, massaging his ear.

Although her grandfather hadn’t even been out of breath when he’d come charging through that hedge, he sagged against the stone wall as if barely able to stand.

Esmerelda reached for his shoulder. “Grandpapa, please…”

He shrugged off her touch, refusing to look at her. “Leave me, you faithless child. You’re no different from your mother.”

Esmerelda stood there for a long time until Anne gently put her arm around her shoulders and led her away.

Esmerelda walked the long, lonely corridors of Wyndham Manor for the last time. She’d left her lavish carriage dresses and traveling gowns hanging in her armoire, choosing instead the simple walking suit she’d been wearing on the day she climbed down from that stagecoach in Calamity.

She carried only her old battered trunk and her mother’s violin case. She regretted leaving the Stradivarius behind, not because of its worth, but because of the look on her grandfather’s face when he had toasted her for bringing music back into his home and heart. She hated the thought of it sitting silent and forlorn in the abandoned music room.

The soles of her kid boots whispered across the marble-tiled foyer. Although the hall should have been bustling with maids and footmen this late in the afternoon, there wasn’t a servant in sight.

As Esmerelda faced the towering teak doors that guarded her grandfather’s smoking room, she almost envied her mother for creeping away to join the man she loved in the dark of night.

Taking a deep breath, she eased open one of the doors. The thick velvet drapes were drawn, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the palm-shrouded gloom. Her aunt sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair, poking an embroidery needle through a linen handkerchief with exacting precision. As Esmerelda rested her trunk and violin case on the floor, Anne gave her a wan but heartening smile.

Her grandfather was huddled in front of the fire in an iron wheelchair. Despite the suffocating warmth, a woolen lap robe was draped across his knees. Although Esmerelda had never known him to smoke, he wore a Persian smoking cap and brown velvet smoking jacket. His shoulders were hunched and his hands curled loosely on his knees. He looked small and shrunken and older than she could have ever imagined him looking.

An open rosewood coffer rested on his lap. Tucked within its velvet lining was a bundle of yellowing letters, painstakingly bound in a frayed ribbon she suspected had once belonged to her mother. It took little effort for Esmerelda to recognize her own precise handwriting.

Tears stung her eyes as she felt the pity he must have wanted her to feel, but she struggled to blink them back.

Pity could not make her stay. Not when Billy was waiting for her at that theater in Drury Lane.

She moved to stand in front of her grandfather, but he continued to stare into the dancing flames, his bitter gaze unfocused.

“Last night you accused me of being no different from my mother,” she said. “And I suppose you were right. She was willing to sacrifice everything she held dear to be with the man she loved, including the approval of the father she adored.”

She drew Lisbeth’s locket over her head and pressed it into his hand. As she gently folded his liver-spotted fingers around it, she leaned down and whispered, “Mama loved you until the day she died. So will I.”

Esmerelda pressed a kiss to her aunt’s paper-soft cheek, retrieved her trunk and violin case, then slipped quietly from the room. Her spirits lifted and her steps quickened with anticipation as she crossed the foyer.

When her niece’s footsteps had faded, Anne laid aside her embroidery and stood.

She drew in a steadying breath before facing the brother who had been the only man in her life since the day she was born. “If you want to spend the rest of your life in that wheelchair nursing your shattered ego, Reggie, then you go right ahead. But I won’t be here to pamper you. I’m not content to spend my waning years collecting cobwebs in my hair and babying a boy who should have grown into a man a long time ago.”

Reginald roused himself from his lethargy to give her a shrewd look. “Wyndham Manor is the only home you’ve ever known, woman. Where do you think you’ll go?”

She lifted her chin, her eyes shining with determination.

“Wherever Sheriff Andrew McGuire goes. If he’ll have me, that is.”

“And what if he doesn’t want a sharp-tongued, peppery old wench like you?”

She pondered that question for a moment before smiling brightly. “Then I’ll just go right back to Calamity, New Mexico, and marry one of those charming young cowboys or that nice Mr. Stumpelmeyer. They have their needs, and so do I.”

Feeling younger than she had in years, Anne marched from the room, slamming the door behind her. She made it halfway across the foyer before an outraged bellow shattered the funereal silence. She hesitated, then kept walking. The bellow escalated to a howling whine, shrill and savage.

Curious faces began to peep out of doorways. The mob-capped heads of two of the parlormaids emerged through the banisters on the second-floor balcony. Old Brigit even doddered out of the dining room, although she was rumored not to have left the basement kitchen in over a decade.

Anne locked her gaze on the front door and kept walking. She was not about to let one of her brother’s tantrum; spoil what might very well be her last chance for happiness.

The howls disintegrated to a strangled gurgle. Abrupt silence followed.

Anne stopped, a scant three paces from the door. “Damn him to hell,” she muttered, meeting an underfootman’s appalled gaze without a shred of remorse.

She whirled around and marched right back across the foyer. She flung open both doors at once and stormed into the smoking room, fully prepared to show her brother what a real Wyndham tantrum looked like. Her mouth fell open.

Reginald stood in front of the wheelchair, his back straight and the ball of his cane gripped in his white-knuckled hand. His face was ruddy with good health or bad temper, or what she suspected was a combination of both. “Don’t just stand their gawking like a beached fish, woman!” he shouted, banging the brass tip of his cane on the floor. “Have the carriage brought around immediately! My granddaughter needs me!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Esmerelda leaned forward on the cracked leather seat of the hansom cab, as if she could somehow urge the horses drawing it to plod harder through the sea of mud. She checked the gold-plated watch pinned to her bodice for the sixth time. The minute hand seemed to be racing around its ivory face at an alarming pace.

She poked her head out the window, blinking against the mist of fine rain. “Can’t you go any faster, sir? I’m late for an appointment.” The most important appointment of her life.

The cockney driver swiveled around on his seat, rain dripping from the brim of his stovepipe hat. “Not unless ye want to get out and push, mum. This rain’s made a fine mess o‘ things.”

Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she ducked back into the cab, narrowly missing being drenched by a filthy stream of water that shot up from beneath the wheels of a passing ale wagon drawn by a team of Clydesdales.

Darkness had already fallen over the London streets. The newly installed electric street lamps did little to relieve the gloom. At this rate, she’d be lucky to reach the theater before Billy took his final bow.

She was heartened when they finally reached the mouth of Drury Lane, but her relief was short-lived. The cab lurched to a halt, its path blocked by the ale wagon—now overturned—that had gone rocking past them only minutes before. Broken barrels littered the street, spilling their amber wealth into the overflowing gutters. Shadowy figures materialized out of the alleys to press their greedy mouths to the split seams. Freed from their shattered shafts, the Clydesdales placidly watched their driver stomp around his fallen chariot, bellowing curses that would make a sailor blush.

The carriages soon began to pile up behind them, their drivers and footmen adding their own shouts and oaths to the fray. Not wanting Billy to suffer even a moment believing she wasn’t going to come, Esmerelda threw open the door of the cab and jumped into the street, wincing when her boots sank ankle-deep in the mud.

“‘Ey, mum! Wot about m’ fare?”

She fumbled in her reticule, finally pressing everything she had into the driver’s grubby white glove in her haste to be done with him. “Please deliver my trunk and violin case to the theater as soon as the road is cleared.”

“Aye, mum,” he said, tipping his hat to her with a reverent grin.

Then, lifting the hem of her skirts out of the goop, she began to run as if her very life depended on it.

Andrew McGuire was in love.

He slipped into his satin waistcoat, admiring its flattering fit in the backstage mirror. He’d always had a vain streak, but he’d never before had anyone to posture and preen for but the mirror.

Now he had Anne.

Anne.

He shook his head, still finding it hard to believe that such a simple name could have the ring of music about it. The emotion that warmed his heart was nothing like the feverish infatuations he’d nursed for countless saloon girls and dance-hall singers throughout the years. Their smooth white skin and plump, petulant faces were already fading in his memory. His Anne had been aged like fine wine, and that only made her all the more delicious to him.

He shrugged into his handsome white coat. Perhaps she had been the reason for his lifelong restlessness and stubborn refusal to marry. Like old Granny Shively, he’d just been waiting for the right person to come along. It was just a damn shame it had taken her fifty-nine years to do so.

But perhaps it was the waiting that had driven him to watch his back and stay alive all those years. He’d survived two wars, twenty-five years as a Texas ranger, and thirteen years as sheriff of Calamity only to finally find someone worth living for.

He buckled on his gunbelt, then pinned the gaudy tin star to his lapel, buffing it to a dazzling shine with the sleeve of his coat. He could already hear the applause of the audience soaring in anticipation of the showdown between the outlaw and the sheriff. His and Billy’s nightly shootouts had quickly become one of the highlights of the show.

He regretted that tonight was to be their last performance in London, but he’d already booked engagements in Boston and Philadelphia. A smile touched his lips. After tonight’s show, he planned to ride straight over to “Wyndham Manor to find out if a certain starchy spinster had ever considered honeymooning in Boston.

He reached for his pistol, prepared to load it with blank shells and slide it into his tooled leather holster. His hand encountered only empty air.

He frowned down at the table. That was peculiar. Love must be making him daft. He would have sworn he’d left it on the…

The butt of the pistol came crashing down on the back of his head, sending him reeling to the floor.

Esmerelda shoved her way through the throng of cowboys and settlers milling around behind the canvas backdrop of Calamity’s only street, pausing only long enough to give a squirming Sadie a pat on the head. She had to step gingerly over the show’s industrious Indian, who had collapsed from exhaustion as soon as he raced offstage.

Virgil was stomping around in boots, bonnet, and dress, bellowing orders at the top of his lungs when he spotted her.

“Howdy, honey,” he roared, sweeping her into a rib-crunching bear hug. “I sure hope you ain’t here to sing.” The twinkle in his eye assured her that he’d already forgiven her for massacring “Dixie” at the ball.

“Oh, I ain’t—” She shook her head to clear it. “I’m not here to sing. I’m here to find Billy.”

Virgil shook his head. “You’re too late, sweetheart.” For one horrible second, Esmerelda thought he meant the worst. Then he nodded toward the curtain. “He’s already out there waitin‘ to go on.”

The audience’s applause had faded to expectant silence.

Esmerelda drifted toward the curtain, drawn by the same crackling aura of anticipation that held them in thrall.

She peeped through the narrow slit cut in the canvas of the saloon’s painted door. A lone circle of light had already brightened the darkness on the right side of the arena. She shuffled sideways for a better view, only to bump into the silver tea cart Billy would be using for his sharpshooting demonstration. An impish grin curved her lips. Now wouldn’t Mr. Darling be oh-so-surprised when she was the one to come strolling out with the cart?

She thumbed rapidly through the cards until she found the queen of hearts and placed it on top of the deck. She would hold it between her teeth to prove her trust in him if need be.

Billy stepped into that halo of light. Her heart swelled with pride. He might play the bad man for the pleasure of the crowd, but she knew beneath that sinister exterior beat the heart of a man as fine and decent as any she could ever hope to love.

Just as before, she was too enchanted by the sight of him to notice the man in white who appeared at the opposite end of the mock street.

“Throw down your gun, outlaw. I’m the law in this town, and we don’t take to your kind here.”

Esmerelda whipped her head around. That clipped snarl sounded nothing like Drew’s rolling burr. The wide brim of the sheriffs hat shadowed his features.

Billy hesitated, shading his eyes against the glare of the arc lamps. “Haven’t you heard, sheriff?” he said warily. “I never draw my gun unless I plan to use it.”

The man let out a nasty bark of laughter. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Darling. I’ve heard that you betray the men who hire you. That you spend the gold they entrust you with on your pretty little whore. That you ruin the careers of decent, law-abiding men to further your own.“

A river of ice poured down Esmerelda’s spine as she realized she was about to make the acquaintance of Mr. Thaddeus Winstead, U.S. marshal.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Billy’s fingers twitched instinctively over the butt of his pistol, making Esmerelda shiver with dread. His pistol was loaded with nothing but harmless blanks, while Winstead’s could only contain live shells.

Billy took a step backward, revealing the precise moment he realized that same inescapable truth.

“Why don’t you run?” Winstead taunted. “I have no compunctions about shooting a yellow-bellied traitor in the back. I licked you white-trash southern boys once and I’ll do it again.”

“Oh, yeah,” Billy drawled. “You and what Union army?”

Esmerelda clapped a hand over her mouth, remembering the Union “soldier” at the masquerade ball. Dear God, Winstead must have been tracking Billy even then.

As Billy continued to back slowly down the street, the crowd leaned forward in their seats, believing the unfolding drama was all part of the show.

Esmerelda looked frantically around. She couldn’t just stand by and let Billy be gunned down in cold blood. Virgil and Jasper were nowhere in sight, so she snatched up the loaded Colt.45 from the tea cart. But she was no Billy Darling. Her hands were shaking so hard she doubted she could hit the side of an elephant at point-blank range.

Winstead’s hands flexed over his gunbelt. Billy took another step backward, but he was utterly defenseless—a helpless target for a vengeful madman.

Esmerelda grabbed a handful of dimes in her other hand and raced into the mock street.

Billy’s name tore from her throat in a raw scream as she cast the dimes heavenward like a fistful of shimmering prayers. Distracted by their glitter, Winstead took his eyes off of Billy for a heartbeat.

That was all the time Esmerelda needed. She tossed the loaded gun at Billy. He caught it, cocked it, and fired, all in one smooth motion.

It was a clean shot. Right through Winstead’s thigh. He collapsed, clutching his leg and howling in pain.

The audience surged to their feet, applauding wildly and screaming for an encore. Virgil and Jasper came sprinting across the arena toward Winstead. They never had been able to tolerate anybody but them bullying their little brother.

Esmerelda never stopped running. She ran right into Billy’s outstretched arms. As he swept her up in his embrace, she buried her face in his sweat-dampened throat.

“You foolish, foolish girl,” he scolded, giving her a halfhearted shake even as he devoured her face with his lips. “What would you have done if he’d have fired at you?”

“Ducked?” she ventured before pressing her mouth to his for a fierce kiss.

They were still kissing when Drew came stumbling into the spotlight, gripping his head and wearing nothing but a pair of immaculately starched drawers.

“Damn, that sun is bright,” he muttered, sinking to his knees.

Esmerelda was shocked to see Anne come flying past them. Her aunt sank down beside Drew and gently cradled his head to her bosom, crooning in dismay.

“Don’t fret, lass,” he said, blinking up at her as if she were his guardian angel. “He didn’t hit me nearly as hard as you did.”

Esmerelda didn’t even realize that it wasn’t Billy but her grandfather stroking her hair until he murmured, “What a brave girl. What a smart girl. You do an old man proud.”

She turned her head to give him a look that was both hopeful and disbelieving. “I make you proud?” She nodded toward the tiers of benches, where people were beginning to point and nod and whisper behind their cupped hands as they realized they’d been witness to a genuine drama instead of a contrived one. “Even after causing such a scandal?”

Her grandfather beamed at her, his ruddy face aglow. “Especially after causing such a scandal.”

As she pressed a kiss to his bald pate, three men detached themselves from the crowd. Two wore Stetson hats and the badges of U.S. marshals while the other rather nondescript young man sported a felt bowler.

“Elliot Courtney!” Billy exclaimed, keeping his arm looped around Esmerelda’s waist. “What in the hell are you doing in London?”

“Tracking Thaddeus Winstead,” Courtney admitted ruefully, “with the help of Scotland Yard.”

“Well, there he is,” Billy said, pointing unnecessarily to the figure writhing in the hay at the far end of the street. Virgil was in the process of applying a tourniquet to his leg. Esmerelda figured he ought to be thankful it wasn’t his neck.

“Yes, we gathered that was him,” the Scotland Yard detective said dryly. “It’s Mr. Courtney’s belief that the man may have boarded your steamer in New York under an alias.”

Billy rubbed the back of his neck. “One of these days I’m going to learn to pay more attention to that feeling.”

“It seems you’ve earned the bounty on his worthless hide yourself,” Courtney said. “We’ve also been authorized to inform you that the judge has granted you full amnesty. You’re no longer a wanted man.”

“Oh, yes, he is,” Esmerelda said, refusing to loosen her own possessive grip on Billy’s waist.

Courtney exchanged a glance with his deputy before drawing something out of the pocket of his vest. It was another badge, just as shiny and official-looking as his. “The U.S. Treasury Department has also recommended that you be offered a job as a U.S. marshal. So what do you say, Darling? You’re just the kind of man we need.”

Esmerelda held her breath. She could never deny Billy his dream, not even if she needed him more than they did.

Billy glanced at Anne and Drew, who were still gazing into each other’s eyes with starry-eyed devotion. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn down your offer, gentlemen. There’s this little town in New Mexico that I hear tell has need of a sheriff. They say it’s a good place to raise a family.” He winked at Esmerelda. “At least if I have a passel of daughters, they’ll never lack for suitors.”

Esmerelda blinked back tears of joy. “If that’s a proposal, Mr. Darling, then I accept.”

He scowled at her. “Who said anything about marrying you? I got my heart set on this pretty little cousin of mine back in Missouri. She’ll make me a fine wife once she turns thirteen next year.”

Esmerelda’s mouth flew open. She stamped her foot and pointed an accusing finger at Billy. “Grandpapa, this man compromised me! I insist that you force him to marry me. At once.”

Her grandfather drew himself up to his most regal height. “You heard the girl, Darling. You can either choose your weapon and step outside in the street with me or you can marry my granddaughter.” He leaned forward to confide, “And I should warn you, son, that I was a wicked shot in my day.”

“Well, sir,” Billy looked Esmerelda up and down, heat simmering in his eyes, “if you insist.”

Esmerelda bounded back into his arms, squealing with triumph. “But I don’t understand,” she told him. “I thought being a U.S. marshal was your heart’s desire.”

He gave her a lazy smile that she felt all the way to her toes. “It was. Until the day you came marching into that saloon.”

As their lips brushed and lingered, Sadie came loping out to run in circles around them, woofing merrily. A group of eager reporters from the Times and the Morning Post clustered around them as well, pads and pencils at the ready.

“Is it true,” one of them shouted, “that tonight was your last night to be toasted as the ‘Darling of London’?”

Before Billy could reply, Esmerelda cupped his face between her hands. Although she addressed the reporter, her tender gaze was for Billy alone. “That’s right, sir. Because after tonight, he’s nobody’s darling but mine.”