“Yes, ma’am,” he said, frowning at her tone. “I just thought you ought to know my opinion.”
“And now I do.”
She seemed to be waiting for something, but he didn’t know what, so he was silent, too. At last she said, with a touch of impatience, “You said you had ‘conditions,’ Mr. Calhoun? What other concerns did you have?”
He didn’t have an ounce of confidence that she’d agree to the second condition if she hadn’t to the first, but he had to try. Someone wiser than this English rose had to be in charge.
“I want to know that if I tell you to do somethin’ in the middle of a serious situation, Duchess, that you’ll do it—right then, without any questions, ’cause there might not be any time to argue about it. It won’t be because I like havin’ my own way—it’ll be because your life depends on doin’ what I say as soon as I say it.”
Their eyes dueled for an endless moment, and he saw a glimpse of the steely strength of her will. But she looked away first.
“Agreed,” Duchess Sarah murmured, “though I’m afraid I’m not very good at taking orders—I’ve not had much practice with it recently, you see. Now, we must settle upon your salary. As I asked before, how does four thousand pounds sound to you? I can give it to you at one lump sum, at the end of your employment, or in spaced increments, as you prefer.”
Morgan hesitated. “I don’t know. What is four thousand pounds in American dollars?”
She shrugged. “I’m afraid I haven’t the least idea. Donald?” She looked over her shoulder at her secretary, who by now had caught his breath and was less red faced.
Donald stared at the ceiling for a moment, then said, “I believe it’s in the vicinity of twenty thousand dollars, your grace.”
Morgan whistled through his teeth, an action that had Lord Halston glaring at him all over again. Twenty thousand dollars could take him off the outlaw trail forever. And it would sure make the trials of dealing with a mule-headed foreign woman downright pleasant.
“Okay, you’ve got a bodyguard, Duchess. When do I start?” he asked, wondering if he’d just set his foot to a road that was going to end in disaster.
It was as if the sun had suddenly come out. Duchess Sarah’s face was radiant with her smile. “Good. I’m very grateful. Can you present yourself back here tonight, say, at half after seven? I am expected at a reception in the home of Edward McCook, the territorial governor, at eight o’clock, and that should give us ample time to get there. You were carrying a saddle when I first encountered you—do you have a horse here?”
He nodded, his mind still on the reception, but she went on, “Very well, you will want to install it in the hotel’s stable. Tell the liveryman you work for me.”
“Duchess, you’re going to go to some party that half of Denver knows about?” Morgan said dubiously. “I don’t think you ought to go—not after that note.”
“Mr. Calhoun, I’m not hiring you so that I can stay meekly in my rooms here like a little mouse. I have agreed to be present at this event, and there are many important people who will be expecting to meet me. I will be there.”
He shrugged. He hadn’t really expected to win that round.
“Oh, and Donald, do give Mr. Calhoun an advance on his salary—say fifty dollars? Mr. Calhoun, you’ll need to pick up a suit of ready-made clothes for the sort of formal events you’ll be attending with me. Do you suppose Denver has such an establishment?”
“Well, yes, ma‘am, I imagine so, but it’s probably already goin’ on six, and I reckon the stores’re all closed.”
She looked disappointed, but darted a glance at Lord Halston and said, “All right, you may attend to that in the morning. Perhaps you could wear one of my uncle’s suits, just for this evening?”
Morgan was amused to see the Englishman bristle and begin to sputter, “Now, just a moment, niece—”
“No, ma‘am, I don’t reckon I could. Looks like his lordship’s trousers would end at my shins, and I’d probably rip ‘em at the shoulders the first time I flexed ’em.” He was trying to be tactful, but he felt the Englishman’s hostile stare intensify at the words. The duchess’s uncle sure spent a lot of his time looking angry. “Reckon I’d better be leavin’ if I’m gonna get back here in time for your party, ma’am. Don’t worry, I may not look fancy, but I’ll try to find somethin’ to wear that doesn’t disgrace you.”
If he left now, he’d just have time to explain to the widow that ran the Mountain View Boardinghouse why he was checking out the same day he’d checked in. And she might have a solution to his clothing problem. She’d mentioned that her late husband had been a tall man like him. With any luck, she’d still have his clothes, and with some of the money that the duchess’s secretary was holding out to him, he could induce her to part with something suitable for this evening—at least until he could get something of his own. Then he could get Rio, his pinto stallion, out of the livery down the street from the boardinghouse, ride him over to the Grand Central Hotel’s stable and present himself back to the duchess.
Sarah, now wearing her spectacles, watched in the mirror while Celia put the finishing touches to her hair with a curling iron. If only Thierry were here with me, then I should not be so nervous. She smiled at the thought of the handsome, tawny-haired Frenchman with his thin, elegant mustache, resplendent in his uniform as an officer of Louis Napoleon’s cavalry, escorting her to the reception tonight She wondered what he was doing right now, back home in England. Perhaps he was attending some ball in London, at the side of his exiled emperor, Louis Napoleon?
Thierry had told her he despised such events because of the fuss dowagers with marriageable daughters made over him, when he had much rather be with her. Soon, my love, she had promised. At the end of my journey we will be man and wife, and then you will be forever out of the reach of the matchmaking mamas, my poor darling.
“Your grace is in prime looks tonight,” her dresser said fondly from behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror
“Thank you, Celia,” Sarah murmured, studying her reflection critically. The gown of light blue grosgrain, with its vandyked bertha, opened in front over a white lace underwaist confined by a cluster of white satin roses, and showed off slender white shoulders and a hint of cleavage beneath a necklace of pearls with a rectangular blue topaz pendant. Matching topaz stones gleamed from her ears.
“Your grace’s gems set off your eyes.”
“They do, don’t they? They’ve always been my favorite set of Mama’s. Papa said I have her eyes,” Sarah said, and then found herself wondering what Morgan Calhoun would think of her appearance. The thought of his eyes straying toward the shadowy hint of cleavage made her pulse quicken.
The thought startled her. Why was she, a woman in love, thinking that way about a man she had hired to perform a service?
And what would Thierry say if he knew she had hired a bodyguard? He should be glad, if he could not be there to protect her, right? Instinctively, though, she knew that if the Count of Châtellerault had met Morgan Calhoun, he would be jealous, not glad.
Thierry de Châtellerault’s only fault, really, was his jealousy. Sarah had never been a flirt, had never given him cause to be insecure about her affections, but she could tell Thierry wasn’t happy whenever a well-favored lord conversed with Sarah or asked her to dance at a ball. They’d talked about it, and Thierry had claimed to understand the need for such subterfuge until their surprise marriage was a fait accompli, but each time, his face looked like a thundercloud.