by Laurie Grant
His chuckle only fueled her rage.
“Are you trying to make me believe envy would motivate Kat to go along with murder-of her own sister?” she demanded.
“Sarah, Sarah...I had not realized you were so beautiful when you are angry. It almost makes me regret the necessity of shooting you,” he said. “But no, I do not entrust a simple girl with my plans. Kathryn will never know I was the one who killed you, though I rather thought you would die back in Denver rather than here.”
And suddenly she understood what had been nagging at the back of her brain ever since he’d shown her the letter.
“It was you all the time who was trying to kill me, and not Uncle Frederick?”
“But of course,” he said, tut-tutting at her as if she were a silly child. The pistol was lowered slightly. “I was amused that you thought it was your stuffy uncle, Sarah. Lord Halston has always been sure he should have been the duke, rather than you the duchess, but he is one of those stiffly proper Englishmen who would never do anything so hot-blooded as murder to secure a title!” He had lowered the gun to his side, though she could see his finger was still on the trigger.
Oh, Uncle Frederick, Sarah thought. How we wronged you, Morgan and I. Even if she was going to die, she’d gained a certain measure of peace, knowing it had not been her own uncle who’d wanted her dead. She wished she could somehow at least tell Morgan Uncle Frederick was innocent. Then a new thought struck her. “Then I did see you, on the street in Denver!”
He nodded as if amused. “I had to be quick to elude you that time. But I succeeded, and you probably convinced yourself your eyes were playing tricks on you, didn’t you?”
She nodded, horror-struck. “Then you were the one shooting at me at the railroad? At the theater? You killed Ben, my groom, Wharton and that policeman? You—you monster!” she cried, and would have launched herself at him, hands curved into claws, except for the pistol being brought up once again so that it was aimed right at her heart.
“Have a care, Sarah! I should hate to have to kill you before you have satisfied your inquisitive little soul about what has been happening! After all, you will have an eternity to ponder your mistakes that led to your death!” He seemed to think it a great joke, and laughed hilariously, though he was careful to keep his eyes on her.
“Actually, however,” he said, growing serious again, “I regret the necessity of those deaths, and I’m more than a little chagrined at missing my intended targets—you and your bodyguard.”
“Necessity?” she gasped. “But...who was sending me the threatening notes?”
“Notes?” he said, looking uncertain now. “I sent a pair of notes, only. I delivered them with the help of your secretary, Alconbury.”
“Are you saying Donald was your accomplice? No, I cannot believe it!” Each new fact he told her compounded a scheme so diabolical she could hardly comprehend all its ramifications.
“Yes, he was promised a share of my expectations as the master of the Challoner wealth in exchange for delivering the note I wrote in the style of an American—how do they say it?—yokel. I thought you would panic and leave Denver by the next train east, and I would follow you to the station and kill you. However, you did not panic, but dug in your heels and stayed. You see, Sarah, what I mean about your stubbornness? But you say you received other such notes?”
Sarah nodded. “Several of them, and I’m afraid I don’t understand why you continued to warn me, so that I became more cautious I would think it would have been much more advantageous to lull me into thinking the threat had disappeared,” she observed He seemed eager to discuss all the details of the plot, and as long as he was talking, he wasn’t pulling the trigger. She was still trying to think of a way she could wrest the gun from him, or get to the derringer Morgan had insisted on giving her yesterday, which even now weighed down her reticule.
He looked thoughtful, and then angry. “Alconbury must have sent them, secretly hoping you could still be persuaded to take flight out of my reach. I suspected from the first he had not the stomach for this plan.”
“But why didn’t he just come right out and tell me the truth?” Sarah wondered aloud.
“He knew I would kill him for betraying me,” Thierry said, so casually that Sarah was chilled all over again.
“You followed us all the way to Santa Fe?” she said, still temporizing. Now she knew why she had had that sense of a shadow haunting her. “But how is it that you didn’t catch up to us? It had to be easier for one man traveling alone to ride faster than we could with a thoroughbred and a packhorse to consider,” she taunted daringly, hoping to make him angry so that the hand holding the pistol would shake.
His dark eyes narrowed, showing her jab had struck home. His shrug was nevertheless philosophical. “It should have been easy, bien sûr, but thanks to some intentional misdirection from that black trader, I lost valuable time. After that, I seemed always to be just behind you—until I lost you in those Apache-ridden mountains. I decided to come ahead to Santa Fe, knowing you would seek me out here, sooner or later. But I could have killed you yesterday, after Calhoun was arrested and you were alone.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked. “It would have been easy.”
He gave a Gallic shrug. “I decided I would enjoy this one last meeting.” His grip had never relaxed on the pistol aimed at her. He walked around the desk, coming closer to her. “Sarah, even if I did not have to kill you so that Kathryn could be Duchess of Malvern, I would have to kill you for what you have done,” he informed her.
“What I have done? What on earth are you talking about, Thierry?”
His grin bared his teeth now. “As I indicated when we spoke of Donald Alconbury, I do not take betrayal lightly. And you have betrayed me, have you not?”
“Thierry...”
“Oh, yes, you betrayed me!” he said, his voice sounding strained. A crazed red light shone in his eyes now. His grip on the pistol had tightened until the hand clutching it looked bloodless. “You spread your legs for that crude Texan, did you not? You whored for him, didn’t you? You were a virgin, and I knew it. I had not besmirched your honor, though I could have many times.”
“You’re about to take my life, and you’re boasting that you didn’t take my honor?” she asked, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. “Forgive me, Thierry, but if that’s the case, I’m glad I have known the love of a man before I died—a man worth loving,” she added, not caring for that brief moment if they were her last words.
To her satisfaction, the pistol he held began to shake. “You must be done with questions,” he growled, “if you are lowering yourself to insults, Sarah. Prepare to die.”
Her will to live had flickered only for a moment. Now it was a strong flame again. “You won’t get away with this, you know,” she told him, praying she could make him believe it. Thierry was insane, but he hadn’t lost his self-interest. “The hotel is full of guests, from what I saw. If you shoot me, a crowd will come running at the sound, and you will be trapped before you reach the stairway. You don’t want to hang, Thierry.”
“Hang? Oh, I won’t hang. True, the stairway is far from this room. But there is always the balcony window, and below it, another balcony,” he said, pointing to it with his free hand. “We are but three stories from the ground. I can reach the side street before anyone ever reaches this room—and you, my dear, will be lying here quite dead. They will never catch me, for I am a master of disguise. You didn’t see me among the Mexicans lounging in the plaza yesterday, did you? But I was there, my sweet. And there are Frenchmen—o!d cavalry comrades of mine—who are prepared to swear I have been on holiday in Italy with them these few months.”
There was a silence while each stared into the other’s eyes. “Very well,” she said, forcing herself to shrug as if resigned to her fate. “But even a man facing a firing squad is allowed to have a cloth tied over his eyes, Thierry. Surely you have a handkerchief that I could use? For chivalry’s sake?” she added w
ryly.
He appeared flustered, and his eyes darted around the room. “No, I—let me think, Sarah. Perhaps one of the pillowcases, torn to fit...”
Only Thierry would pride himself on his chivalry when he was about to kill a woman, she thought. She might just succeed, if she was quick.
Sarah made a negligent gesture. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I had as soon get this over with. I have a handkerchief right here in my reticule, if you will permit me?”
Beads of moisture had begun to spring out on Thierry’s high, noble forehead. “Yes, yes, of course. Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the reticule she still held.
“Th-thank you, T-Thierry...” she said, letting her voice tremble while she steeled her heart. Hoping she looked like a woman resigned to dying, she locked her gaze with his and, holding her reticule with her left hand, reached in with her right. She muttered, “Now, where has that thing gone?” as she pretended to dig around for it, until Thierry was visibly fidgeting.
“Forget the handkerchief, Sarah. Just shut your eyes!”
“No, wait, I have it here,” she said Then Sarah removed her hand from inside the reticule, and she was holding Morgan’s single-shot derringer, the one he had called his “boot gun.” She had a split second to see Thierry’s eyes widen, and then she fired.
Once freed, Morgan, who had paused only to demand directions of the dazed Sheriff McElroy, had easily passed the marshal as he ran through the streets of Santa Fe toward the Exchange Hotel. Even so, he was still only running up the entrance steps when he heard a muffled shot from somewhere on the upper floors. Oh, God, was he too late?
When Morgan thundered into the Spanish-style lobby with McElroy and Stoner pounding at his heels, he found the desk clerk staring up at the ceiling, along with several other inhabitants of the lobby.
“The Frenchman!” Morgan yelled as he ran up to him. “What room?”
The desk clerk blinked owlishly at him, then consulted his ledger, flinching as Morgan pounded the desk again.
“What room, damn you!”
“Three-o-eight! Down at the end of the hall,” he added, but Morgan was already dashing to the stairs, flanked by the two lawmen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morgan had just reached the third floor when he heard the second shot. Lord God, was he already too late? If he opened the door and found Sarah lying lifeless on the floor, he wouldn’t need the gun McElroy had returned to him—he’d kill the damned Frenchman with his bare hands!
Later he couldn’t remember running the last few yards from the stairway to the room at the end of the corridor, or throwing himself against the door until at last it gave way before him. He could only remember seeing Sarah, wonderfully, miraculously alive in the cloud of gunsmoke, standing there holding a gun on a man who could only be Thierry de Châtellerault.
“S-Sarah!” he gasped. “Are you—are you all r-right? We heard shots—”
“Morgan! Oh, thank God you’re here, Morgan! He was going to kill me!” she cried. She backed rapidly toward Morgan, still holding the gun on Thierry, until Morgan could put an arm around her trembling shoulders and pull her against him. He raised the pistol Stoner had given him until it was aimed at the Frenchman’s head. Behind him, Stoner and McElroy stumbled into the room, their guns drawn, and for a moment the only sound was the winded breathing of the three men.
“It’s—it’s okay, honey, I’ve got him,” Morgan said into her hair, and she allowed the hand with the pistol to fall to her side as she collapsed in tears against his chest.
Holding her, Morgan was finally able to study the man who’d been trying to kill Sarah Challoner. Though shorter and a bit stockier than himself, de Châtellerault was nevertheless handsome enough to attract any woman, with his trim soldier’s figure, his fair hair and curving mustachios—or at least he probably would have been when his lips weren’t curled in a snarl and his dark eyes weren’t snapping with hatred. He was pale as bleached buffalo bones, however, and when Morgan looked more carefully, he saw why.
The Frenchman was clutching his bloody right wrist with his left hand, and even from where he stood, Morgan could see the crimson hole.
“She is a monster, this woman!” Thierry growled to no one in particular.
“I shot him, Morgan, with the derringer you gave me yesterday,” Sarah said against his chest. “I had to...he was going to kill me.”
“But the derringer only holds one shot. I heard two. And I’ve never seen the pistol you’re holding,” he said, staring at the ornate carved ivory butt of the gun.
“It’s—it’s Thierry’s,” she managed to say through her tears. “My shot knocked his pistol from his hand, but he started to dive after it with his other hand. I—I got to it first, and fired a warning shot with it. I told him if he made another move I’d shoot him right in the heart. I—I meant it! But oh, Morgan, it was awful. I’ve never shot a man before!” she cried, breaking into fresh sobs.
“Easy, honey,” he said, running his free hand through her hair in an effort to soothe her. “You did just right. All that practice—and wearin’ your spectacles—paid off when it counted, didn’t it?” His heart was too full of thankfulness that Sarah was alive to be more than minimally aware of McElroy informing the Frenchman he was under arrest, then handcuffing him and leading him out of the room Stoner remained.
“But... but how did you—all of you—” she gestured toward the marshal “—know about Thierry?” she asked in a bewildered fashion.
Stoner then explained about the telegram, and added that her uncle was on the way from Denver to Santa Fe.
Sarah smiled through her tears. “That was the one good thing I heard out of all the shocking things Thierry told me—that my uncle wasn’t the one who wanted me dead. I confess I’m rather eager to see him again, now that I know that. But how did you happen to be with the sheriff and the marshal, Morgan? Have you...? Oh, Morgan! Have the charges been dropped?”
He hated having to shake his head and watch the joy die from the blue eyes behind the ovals of glass.
“No, I’m afraid I’m still in custody, Duchess. I just...well, convinced the two lawmen to let me help. I—I reckon it’s time to give this back, though,” he said, holding his pistol butt-first toward the marshal. Seeing that Sarah was about to protest, he added, “I have to, honey. I gave my word as a Southern gentleman. Besides, it’s time to stop running and face the music.”
Stoner took it solemnly, with the dignity of a general accepting an enemy officer’s sword.
“I’m real glad your uncle’s coming, Duchess,” Morgan told her. “Why don’t you wait for him to get to Santa Fe, and let him take you on home?”
She raised her chin and set her jaw, always a warning that duchess-style stubbornness was about to follow.
“If he gets here before you and the marshal leave for Austin, fine, he can come along if he wants. I’m going with you, Morgan, my love, so you may as well save your breath and stop trying to convince me that I should go home!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“We ought to reach Austin by noon, your lordship,” Jackson Stoner announced, leaning down from his horse to speak to Sarah’s uncle while the stagecoach team was being changed at Round Rock.
“Thank God for small favors!” exclaimed Lord Halston, fanning himself vigorously enough that the breeze fluttered some of the few strands of gray hair left on his head. “When God made hell, he certainly must have had in mind the heat of Texas.”
Celia, looking decidedly wilted, heartily agreed.
“Oh, this is what a Texan would call a mild October day, sir,” Morgan, who had just led his pinto and Sarah’s mare away from the watering trough, remarked in an amused tone “I reckon you wouldn’t want to be here in August, then.”
“Indeed I would not, Mr. Calhoun,” Lord Halston retorted with asperity. “I believe at this moment I would sell my soul to see the cool green of England.”
“Careful, uncle, the devil might be listening,”
Sarah teased, but her look was sympathetic. Poor dear man, the journey had been hard on him, sitting in the lurching, jolting Concord coach for the nine-hundred-mile journey between Santa Fe and Austin. But he had been bound and determined to accompany her, she reminded herself.
Lord Halston and Celia, her dresser, had arrived in Santa Fe three weeks after the arrest of de Châtellerault, just the day before Sarah was due to leave for Texas with Morgan, the marshal and their cavalry escort.
After hugging his niece with an uncharacteristic emotionalism, he’d repeated, “Thank God you are safe! I’ve been so worried!” for five minutes straight. He’d told her how Alconbury, her erstwhile secretary, had disappeared shortly after confessing to Lord Halston all about the conspiracy, including his part in keeping Thierry informed about her movements. Alconbury had fled to avoid arrest as an accomplice, naturally, but her uncle had hired detectives and they were presently searching for him.
“I’d never have suspected Donald,” Sarah had commented. “He never seemed capable of so much as swatting a fly. Apparently he minded being a penniless younger son more than we realized.”
Uncle Frederick had then listened grimly as Sarah told him about the capture of de Châtellerault. She downplayed her own part in it, of course. Uncle Frederick had aged visibly since she had last seen him, and she wasn’t sure his heart was up to hearing that Morgan had taught her how to shoot a pistol during the course of their overland trek from Denver, let alone that she had shot her would-be murderer in the wrist.
Judging by the terrible expression on Lord Halston’s face when the full extent of the French count’s treachery had been discussed, Sarah thought it was fortunate for Thierry that he’d already left town, in the company of another marshal and a pair of deputies, to stand trial in Denver for the murders he had committed there
“But where is your stalwart Texan? I’d like to thank him personally,” Uncle Frederick had remarked then, and Sarah had had to tell him about Morgan’s arrest, and the fact that she was going to Texas with him to help him clear his name.
