by Zoë Archer
“And is this—?” Will had asked about the other photograph.
“Your parents. On their wedding day.”
Will had stared hard at the picture for a long time, finally seeing the faces of his mother and father. They didn’t look quite comfortable in their fine wedding clothes, and they seemed very young. Will’s father, Luke Bradshaw, resembled Will so much that he almost thought it was himself in the daguerreotype.
Now he lay in bed, Ben gently snoring, and kept staring at the picture. Light from the street fell through the high window, bathing the room in a soft glow. The shadowy ghosts of his family gazed out with unaging eyes. He tried to find some connection with them, outside of resemblance, but even now, after talking with Ben all day, Will felt as removed from Luke, Hetty and Emma as he did from the characters on the traveling stage. Ben was a good old man, and Will was growing to care for him, but there were few people who had a place in his heart. Jake, for one. And Olivia.
That day without her had been one of the worst of his life, tempered only by Ben’s constant joy at seeing his lost grandson. Every goddamned minute apart from her felt like the longest, coldest winter, and he actually checked his fingers once to see if he’d gotten frostbite. So while Will helped Ben out in the stable and listened to stories about his father, his mind kept rambling back to her.
He tried to picture where she would be throughout the day. At noon, she probably went to Greywell’s. There was still a lot of work to be done before the gala the next night. Will would have gone, but she had sent a note saying that he needed to spend time with his grandpa, and that everything was under control for the meantime. She would see him tomorrow evening.
It had helped to work in the stable, helped blow off the steam that had been building all day. He had mucked stalls, groomed horses and polished tack, building up a fine sweat as though he could somehow burn Olivia off like a fever. He kept telling himself he was doing the right thing by ending their affair, but if it was the right thing, why did it hurt like a son of a bitch?
Now, lying in bed, physically beat but mind hopping like a jackrabbit, he saw her clearly at home. It might be late, but she would be up. Maybe reading one of the dime novels she fancied. Or maybe she was fed up with cowboys and would turn to something a little more enriching. That library she had held hundreds of fine-looking books. Surely one of them had to be better than two-bit tales of cowpunchers.
The next night, they would finish the business with Pryce. Olivia had downplayed the risk she was taking, but Will knew that there was a lot at stake. If her gamble didn’t pay off, she could lose Greywell’s and a whole lot more. He knew that she’d eaten up a sizeable amount of her money just setting things up for tomorrow. Once everything had played out, and if Pryce got what was coming to him, Will and Olivia wouldn’t have any reason to see each other again.
“Jesus,” Will muttered, sitting up. He put his head in his hands and stared at the floor. He felt like he’d been sucker punched. Now he knew what the boys in the bunkhouse felt when they got those letters giving them the mitten. If it was anything like what ripped through him now, it was a wonder anybody managed to get back in the saddle. He’d thought losing Jake was hard, but there was some sense in the alter bocher’s death. Will was ready for it. Giving up Olivia, though, blindsided him.
He wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. As quietly as he could, he got dressed in the dark and slipped out of the room. Ben had told him to use the servants’ entrance, and it wasn’t long before he was back out on the street. There, he took huge gulps of air. To keep himself from running towards Princes Square, he started walked quickly east, along a path he’d taken almost a week earlier.
“Tex!” Portbury shouted when Will appeared at the bar of McNeil’s. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.” The policeman slapped Will heartily on the back. “What can I buy you?”
“Whiskey,” Will said. Portbury signaled the barkeep for two glasses, but after the drinks were poured, Will added, “Leave the bottle.”
As Will downed his whiskey in a single shot, Portbury eyed him uneasily. “Blimey, Tex, you look like a mourner at your own funeral.”
Steadily, Will refilled his glass. He offered more to Portbury, but the other man held up his hand. “Just as long as mourners get drunk,” Will said, “I’ve got no problem with that.” The whiskey still blazed as it went down, telling him that he had a ways to go before he was good and numb.
“Well, mate,” Portbury said with a shake of his head, “I can tell when a bloke wants nobody but the bottom of his glass. If you want me, I’ll be over in the back.”
He barely noticed the other man’s leaving. Will hunched over the bar and steadily poured whiskey down his throat, and as the night went on, the berth around him grew wider and wider. It seemed no one wanted anything to do with the big, angry American, and everyone wisely left him alone.
Until someone grew drunk and bold.
“Oi, Yankee Doodle,” a slurred voice said behind him. When Will didn’t turn around, the man said again, louder, “Oi,” and jabbed Will in the shoulder. He sniggered to himself.
Will smiled darkly down into his shot glass resting on the bar. He silently prayed that the drunk fool behind him would go just a little bit further.
“Nice ’at,” the man continued. To get Will’s attention, he reached up to flick at the brim of Will’s Stetson, but Will was faster.
He whirled around and grabbed the man’s wrist. “Don’t touch my hat,” he growled.
The man, ruddy with drink, still managed to turn pale. He moved to shrink back, but then saw that everyone in the pub was watching. “Your ’at’s as ludicrous as you are ’omely,” he challenged. For good measure, he added, “An’ your country’s a bleedin’ joke.”
The crowd gasped.
“Amigo,” Will said with a widening grin, “you just turned this day around.” And then he let fly.
Ben found him in the stables the next morning. Will sat in a clean stall, his legs stretched out in front of him, staring out the open door into the courtyard.
“Doesn’t the sun ever shine in this goddamned country?” Will muttered when Ben stepped into the stall. But his granddad didn’t answer this question.
“Great God!” Ben cried, then lowered his voice when Will winced. “What in the saints’ names happened to you?”
Will looked up at him, one eye swollen shut, dried blood in the corner of his mouth. “Just lettin’ loose a bit,” he said.
Ben looked both annoyed and strangely proud. “I sure hope you won that fight.”
He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, then gazed at the blood on his hand as if it was someone else’s. He tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I did.” Then, softer, he added, “I lost, too.”
“My lad,” Ben said, crouching down next to Will and placing a hand on his shoulder, “there’s one thing a man needs to learn, else he’ll wind up smashed to jelly long before he reaches my age.”
“What’s that?”
With a sad smile, the older man said, “There’s no way to beat a woman out of you.”
Between the Donleveigh’s cook’s application of beefsteak to his swollen face and a few hours of dreamless oblivion, Will looked almost presentable. He dressed for the gala in Ben’s room, slipping on the expensive evening clothes that, after tonight, he doubted he would need any more.
“Aren’t you a fancy gent?” Ben asked, sitting on the bed and watching Will finish his bowtie.
Will made a face at his granddad in the mirror. “Like a barnyard rooster in peacock feathers.” He scowled at his uneven bowtie, then tugged it loose to try again. One thing he hadn’t mastered was the art of men’s neckties. Knotting a bandana was the only thing he knew about finishing an outfit, and reminded himself that he liked it that way.
“Here,” Ben said, standing, “let me.”
Will turned and raised his chin so his granddad could work his craggy fingers at the tie. It warmed him a little, eve
n as he felt so damned cold inside, thinking that this was exactly what granddads and grandsons were supposed to do. Maybe, if Luke had lived, he would have shown his son about neckties and shaving and how to woo a girl.
But would his dad have known what to do now? Tonight, Will was going to make sure that Olivia’s plans for Pryce went off smoothly, and to keep his hired gun Maddox from causing her any hurt. Will almost hoped that there’d be trouble—despite the brawl at McNeil’s last night, he still had more fight in him. Even though the thing he wanted to take down couldn’t be fought with fists or guns.
When everything was said and done, Will would have to tip his hat and say goodbye to Olivia. He wasn’t planning on staying in England much longer after that. Knowing she was so close by but unreachable—that was the worst kind of hurt a man could stand.
“I’m not paining you, am I?” Ben asked as Will winced under his attention.
“Naw,” Will answered. “Just thinkin’ about somethin’.”
“That woman from the other night,” Ben guessed, “when you first came to see me.”
Will didn’t answer, but stepped back and looked in the mirror once the necktie was finished. It looked a fine sight better than his attempts. But he couldn’t wipe the melancholy look from his face. He slid his arms into his long-cut coat.
“She’s gentry, isn’t she?” Ben asked behind him. “I remember seeing her at one of the master’s parties, with her husband.”
“Husband’s dead.” Will pulled out his bag from under the cot and got his gunbelt. It wasn’t exactly the latest in Paris style, looked a bit strange with his fancy suit, but he didn’t care if he offended anyone’s fashion sensibility. Tonight was about protecting Olivia at all costs.
Seeing the Colt, Ben’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “You should never get mixed up with the blue bloods. Their kind only means strife for us.”
“Olivia ain’t one of that kind,” Will said, squaring his sore jaw. He buckled the belt.
But Ben continued to look unhappy. “She’s not like us; she’s one of them. The upstairs. Every time one of us belowstairs tangles with them, we’re the ones who wind up paying for it. We’re the ones who get hurt.”
Will took out his gun and carefully checked the bullets before reholstering it. He put extra ammunition in his coat pockets, then slipped his knife into his boot. He needed to get his mind ready for everything that was going to happen tonight, and his granddad’s small-mindedness wasn’t helping. So he kept his council.
“Listen, Will,” Ben said, more urgently. “The upper crust, they’re not normal folk. They’ve got their own rules, they live in their own world, sheltered, caring for no one but themselves. I’ve seen it time and again. That widow of yours is no different.”
“Olivia’s special,” Will exploded. Ben stepped back from the violence of Will’s temper, which filled the narrow room. “She’s the best woman I’ve ever known, and I ain’t going to stand here and listen to you tear her down. God damn this country. Everyone hidin’ away from each other, drawin’ lines and screamin’ about it if a body crosses ’em. Well, ya’ll can kiss my damned spurs.” He started for the door, but Ben’s voice stopped him.
“If she’s so different, why are you staying here with me and not with her?”
Will’s laugh was hollow. “’Cause I can lead a thousand head of cattle through rough Indian territory, and not bat an eye, but I’m still a goddamned coward when it comes to breakin’ that woman’s heart.”
He left, without closing the door behind him.
Surveying his appearance in his mirror, George Pryce smiled at himself. Oh, he looked absolutely cunning. He had to credit Roddam & Sons—their work was impeccable. The beautifully severe black wool of his evening clothes was so appropriate for an execution.
“Wonderful work, Crawcook,” he beamed at his valet.
“Thank you, sir.” The poor man was so unused to compliments, he nearly blushed. Pryce liked it that way. Kept the man in his place and on his toes.
“That will be all.”
With a grateful bow, Crawcook scurried out of the room. No doubt to go running to the other servants and regale them with tales of his master’s resplendent appearance. Well, Pryce thought magnanimously, let the little people have their fun.
Checking his jewel-encrusted pocket watch, Pryce saw that it was nearing eight o’clock. Lady Xavier’s little gala would be starting in an hour, which would leave him ample opportunity to grab supper at his club and leisurely make his way over to Bayswater.
“Are you sure you won’t join us at the opera tonight?” his mother asked, coming into his room. She wore ropes of pearls over her Worth gown, and had even tucked feathers in her graying hair. She was, Pryce thought approvingly, the image of a countess.
“Mother, you look lovely,” he said, pressing a kiss to her dry cheek.
She only sniffed. “Your father will be quite disappointed if you don’t accompany us.”
“Both of you go on without me,” he said blithely. “I have my own entertainment scheduled for tonight.”
“I declare, George,” his mother sighed, “you are becoming more peculiar every day.” With an artful, practiced shrug, she sailed out of his room.
He turned back to his mirror and gloated over his flawless, refined appearance. There was something so delicious in keeping secrets, he realized, particularly from people so close by. Once this whole business with Lady Olivia Xavier was settled, he decided he would investigate some other interesting opportunities Maddox had told him about. Wonderfully nefarious schemes involving smuggling and double-dealing, made all the more gratifying because they would happen right under his parents’ noses. And he would still be written about in the newspapers in the highest of terms. Why, he thought with a grin, the possibilities are endless.
The notion had him whistling all the way to his club.
“You’re looking quite lovely this evening, madam,” Olivia’s maid said as she finished dressing her hair. “But perhaps you ought to wear just a touch of rouge. Your cheeks are so pale.”
Though she wasn’t much interested in cosmetics, Olivia understood that if she wanted to present George Pryce with the illusion that all was well in her world, she needed to amend her appearance. So she dabbed on the smallest amount of red to her ashen cheeks. Satisfied, at least, with this small feature, she put on her sapphire and diamond earrings, which accented the dark indigo of her bare-shouldered gown. She thought that she might have worn one of her more celebratory dresses, something in a lively color, but it seemed the height of duplicity to dress festively when she felt funereal.
As Olivia stood, Sarah straightened her train and nodded approvingly.
“Good luck tonight, madam,” she offered.
“Thank you, Sarah.”
“Is...Mr. Coffin going to be here, tonight?”
Ice flooded Olivia’s veins. “I believe so.”
Sarah looked relieved. “That’s good. We all feel so much safer when he’s around.”
“I know how you feel,” Olivia said to herself as she made her way to the ballroom. She watched as the footmen put the last touches on the room. It wasn’t by any means a large space—there were far grander houses with ballrooms to rival Versailles—but she only wanted enough space to accommodate her guests, who would number around fifty.
Everything was in order. A special bar had been assembled where glasses of Greywell’s would be offered to the guests, and the orchestra was setting up in the far corner. Her cook had also prepared a variety of small bites that would taste pleasing with beer. It looked like a very elegant but entertaining little party.
Graham had played his part quite well, ensuring that George Pryce would be in attendance. She was betting that Pryce would not be able to resist watching what he hoped would be a spectacular disaster. And if anything should go wrong—if Pryce should bring his mercenary—Will had agreed to stand by.
To distract herself, she made herself examine the kegs of beer. S
eeing him tonight would be the most difficult part. In a ballroom, surrounded by the people who judged her and had the ability to make her life either endurable or miserable, she could not show how much being apart from him devastated her. He had come to mean so much to her, and then, to tell her that he loved her...
She blinked furiously to clear her eyes. It had taken all the strength she possessed to pick herself up from the floor of Will’s bedroom and drag herself to Greywell’s yesterday. Somehow, she had managed it, and managed to sleepwalk through the important preparations for this evening. Soon, she would reap the benefits.
Yet as she watched her servants finish readying the room and adjusting their own spotless uniforms, Olivia wondered what she was fighting for.
Will stepped into the ballroom, so handsome and lethal in his evening clothes it made her eyes burn. She saw his gun immediately, and she realized just how dangerous tonight would really be. If her guests commented on the fact that Will was dressed for a ball but armed for a showdown, she could explain it as Western custom, and they would shrug it off as American eccentricity. But Olivia’s attention quickly made its way back to Will’s face. His right eye was slightly swollen and bruised. It looked like he had been in a fight.
Alarmed, she quickly approached him, her heeled slippers rapping on the polished floors. His face was impassive, chiseled and sharp in the glow of the chandeliers. His eyes flicked over her without really seeing, a quick survey that betrayed no emotion.
“What happened?” she asked, reaching up to gently touch his face with her satin gloved hand. Her heart sank as he pulled back sharply from her. “Did Pryce’s man do that to you?”
He shook his head, still cool. “Little fun I had last night.”
“I wonder at your definition of fun,” she murmured. He could defend himself; she had seen it several times in the past. He was an excellent fighter, but it still disturbed her to think of him being hurt. “Thank you for coming back.”
