The Emperor's New Clothes

by Victoria Alexander

  He leaned forward in a confidential manner. “Coyotes.”

  “Coyotes?”

  “Coyotes.”

  “Would horses then still be part of the procedure, if we are to hunt coyotes instead of a fox?” A hopeful note sounded in her voice.

  He laughed. “I doubt you could hunt coyotes on foot.”

  “Oh.” She struggled to hide it, but he noted a slight edge of disappointment in her tone. Why would the woman care about the exact details of hunting coyotes?

  “It should be quite an interesting experience,” he said. “I know I am looking forward to it.”

  Her smile did not reach her eyes. “As am I.”

  “You know, Countess.” Now that he had dispelled any vague doubts about his suspicions, he was compelled to offer her a subtle warning. “I dislike pretense and deceit, be they in a fox hunt or other activities.”

  “I know.” She snorted in a most unladylike manner. “You shot your brother.”

  “Indeed. And I was rather fond of him.” He heaved an exaggerated sigh of regret. “It was unfortunate, but it was also a question of my honor and my family’s honor.”

  “But your family threw you out of your own country.” She tilted her head in a provocative manner and studied him. “It scarcely seems they were particularly concerned with your dedication to their honor.”

  “Nonetheless, it concerned me.” His gaze caught hers and he stared for a long, silent moment. “Regardless of how they felt, I believed my brother and my fiancée disgraced my family as well as myself. Given enough time, I am also certain they would have brought public humiliation down upon us all. Made us look like fools, as it were. I did what I needed to do to prevent that.”

  “How very noble of you.”

  “Be advised, my dear.” He lowered his voice and gazed into her lovely green eyes. “I consider Mr. and Mrs. Matthews to be family.”

  Her gaze didn’t flinch from his, and in spite of himself, admiration swept through him. Whatever else she may be, Ophelia was no coward. “How wonderful for you all.”

  “Do you have family, Countess?” he said softly.

  “No.” Her voice was sharp, as if she’d had enough of their game. “But what I do have right now is an agreement for a great deal of money to relinquish my ancestral home to new owners. I also have a number of plans to make. So if you would not think it impolite of me, I would much prefer to be alone.”

  “By all means.” He grasped her hand and pulled it to his lips. “I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow then.”

  “Excellent,” she muttered, and yanked her hand from his.

  He turned and strode toward the door, meeting Tye on his way out. As much as he’d initially thought it served Tye right to be taken in by this imposter, now his loyalty to Big Jack and Lorelie demanded he tell his old friend everything.

  “Tye, I must talk to you.”

  Tye’s brow creased with annoyance. “Is Ophelia out here?”

  “Ophelia is exactly what I need to discuss.”

  Tye grinned and held up a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I have better things to do right now than talk.”

  “I can see that,” Sedge said wryly. “Still, I think there are a few things about the countess you should know.”

  Tye’s expression hardened. “I know all I need to know.”

  “I know you suspect she isn’t who she says she is.” Tye raised a brow, and Sedge shrugged and went on. “It was obvious, old man, the way you baited her at every turn tonight. Tsk, tsk. Not exactly the way to earn her trust, I shouldn’t think.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Indeed. Well, perhaps I could lend a bit of assistance on that score.”

  Tye’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t need any help. And I don’t need any competition. What I need is for you to stay away from her.”

  Sedge laughed. “It’s not at all what you think.”

  “What I think—what I know—is that you and I have always pursued the same women. But this is different. There’s more at stake here than an evening with a beautiful woman.”

  Sedge gritted his teeth, fighting off a growing sense of irritation. “I realize that. What I’m trying—”

  “I’m warning you right now, old friend. I have plans for the countess, and I don’t want your amorous intentions to mess them up.”

  “I’m not—”

  “You bet you’re not.” Tye glared.

  “I merely wanted to—”

  “I know what you want.”

  “Very well.” Frustration and anger surged through Sedge. “You’re so bloody stubborn and so damned smart. Do what you want. I wash my hands of the whole blasted thing.”

  Tye cast him a self-satisfied smile. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. It will do me a world of good to see you make a fool of yourself.” Sedge turned and threw open the door.

  He should have known better than to try to help. Through all the years they’d known each other, Tye had always believed he knew best. Fine. He was on his own. Bloody fool. He wasn’t nearly as smart as he thought he was. If he’d listen to Sedge, he’d have the proof he needed to unmask the fraudulent countess.

  There was no possibility Sedge would share that proof with him now. On his own, Tye would never realize that a countess’s husband was not a count. And he couldn’t possibly know that waves never crashed below the cliffs of the county of Warwick. Warwick was as landlocked as Wyoming. Ophelia didn’t know it either. There wasn’t a doubt in Sedge’s mind she was not English and not a countess. He wondered about her claim of widowhood as well.

  That was one discovery he’d like to be around when Tye found out. Abruptly, good humor washed away his anger. It would be great fun to let Tye try to ferret out the obvious discrepancies in Ophelia’s story. Right now, all the man had was suspicions based on the relatively minor problem of poor memory, easily explained by lingering grief. Only Sedge’s unique background gave him the knowledge to see through Ophelia’s masquerade. Surely the woman had never expected to run into an Englishman in this part of the world.

  No, let Tye work, and work hard, to learn the truth. Sedge suspected the coming duel of wits between Tye and Ophelia would be quite impressive. From the little he’d seen so far, he was confident she was a fitting match for his friend.

  This was one contest he’d almost enjoy more as an observer than a competitor. He chuckled to himself. The odds here appeared even, and only a fool would wager on the outcome. Sedgewick Montgomery was no fool. Still, the temptation was strong to make a small bet.

  If only with himself.

  Chapter Eight

  “Champagne?” With a flourish, Tye presented the wine.

  Ophelia released an exasperated sigh. “Does this porch attract everyone in Dead End? What are you doing here?”

  “I just—”

  She thrust out a hand to ward off his answer. “No, no, don’t tell me. The last time I asked that question I ended up listening to the life story of Mr. Montgomery.”

  “It’s quite a story.” Tye grinned and offered her a glass. Ophelia eyed the vessel as if about to refuse, then accepted it with a resigned shrug. He popped off the cork and filled her goblet. “What did he say?”

  She took a sip of the wine and gazed off in the distance, a note of amazement in her voice. “He shot his brother.”

  Tye poured a glass for himself and set the bottle on the porch floor. “With good reason, I’d say.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yep.” He pulled a healthy swallow of the wine. “He was betrayed, Ophelia, and lied to.”

  “Still, to shoot your own brother…” She shuddered and fell silent, staring out at the endless Wyoming night. What was going on in that clever brain of hers? What was she thinking with that faraway look on her face? A look, not quite of reminiscence but more like longing. An odd thought shot through him. How would he feel if she had that look for him? “Do you have a brother, Mr. Matthews?”

 
“Me?” The abrupt question took him by surprise. “No, I was an only child.”

  “And your aunt and uncle raised you?”

  “My folks died of influenza when I was twelve.”

  “That must have been very difficult,” she said quietly.

  “I guess it was.” His gaze followed hers into the moonlit night. “It’s been a long time since I thought much about it.”

  “I am sorry.” She turned toward him, the pale light reflecting a genuine sympathy in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “No, it’s all right.” He smiled. “I don’t mind. They were good people and I still miss them. Especially now that I’m back home, on the ranch they built.” Tye shook his head, abruptly self-conscious. “You don’t want to hear about this.”

  “I’d very much like to hear.”

  He studied her for a long moment until convinced of her sincerity. “Their ranch, the Triple M—”

  “Triple M?”

  “Yep.” He laughed softly. “My dad’s name was Mitchell, my mom’s Megan—”

  “And the third M is for Matthews?”

  “It sounds kind of silly and sentimental.”

  “I think it sounds very nice.” Her voice was as gentle as the night, and it warmed his blood. “It has a wonderful ring of family to it. You must have been very close.”

  “I guess we were.” He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the porch rails and stared into the blackness. Memories washed through him. As though it were yesterday, he could see the tall, fair-haired cowboy with the laughing eyes. “My dad taught me to sit a horse and chase calves and fish in the creek that runs through the west range. It flows down straight from the mountains and the water’s fresh and clear and icy cold. It’s damn near the prettiest spot in the territory, maybe the country.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  He flashed her a quick, surprised look. “Would you like to see it sometime?”

  “I believe I would…sometime.” She smiled. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “Megan Matthews was pretty and young. I recall her hair was the color of sunshine.”

  “Like yours?”

  “Like mine.” He laughed and remembered the mother who kissed away the hurts of the day and the bad dreams of the night. With a start, he saw vividly as an adult what he couldn’t recognize as a child: The happiness the three of them had shared had as much to do with the secret, teasing looks he’d catch his father giving his mother and the desire returned in her gaze, as it did the love of a family, one for another.

  Would he ever find the kind of woman who could share a love of children and family as well as a passion for him and him alone? The surprising question struck him with an unexpected sharpness. He hadn’t looked for such a woman, hadn’t especially wanted to share his life with anyone, hadn’t really considered it one way or the other. Why on earth did the thought even occur to him? And why now? Perhaps it was simply the keen edge of poignant memories of happy days. Perhaps it was merely that, after so long, he was finally home again. He raised his gaze to hers, to eyes that gleamed with an understanding he didn’t expect and never suspected. Perhaps…it was something altogether different?

  “I’m living their dream, you know,” he said as much to himself as to her.

  “Are you?”

  “My dad started his ranch with help from Uncle Jack, and it was all going great. And then they got sick.” He paused, and the fears and confusion and anger that he’d thought long forgotten swept through him, and he was once again a little boy watching the people he loved lose the battle for their lives. He drew a shaky breath and firmly pushed the memories away. He was an adult now, and the best homage he could pay Mitchell and Megan was to finish what they’d started and make their dream of life out here a reality.

  “And you came to live with Jack and Lorelie?”

  “Yep.” He straightened and settled his back against a post, crossing his arms over his chest. He stared at her lovely features, illuminated and shadowed by the moon with every breath she took. What on earth had she done to him to get him to spill his guts like this? Lord, he hadn’t talked about his parents in years. And wasn’t he supposed to be getting the truth out of her? “So, Countess, it’s your turn. Tell me about your family.”

  She laughed, a light lyrical sound that drifted on the breeze. “There really isn’t much to tell. My husband—”

  “Albert?”

  “Um-hum. He’s dead, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  She shrugged. “And I really have no other family.”

  He raised a brow. “No brothers? No sisters?”

  “No.” She hesitated, then sighed with dramatic regret. “No, I am very much alone.”

  “But surely you had parents?”

  “Well, certainly, everyone has parents.” A slight note of indignation colored her words. “Mine are both dead.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Mr. Matthews, I don’t think—”

  “You listened to me. The least I can do is return the favor.” Besides, the more he made her talk, whether she told the truth or pure fiction, the more likely she would be to make a mistake and then he would have his proof. Odd, though. For a fleeting instant there, it no longer seemed quite as important to unmask her as it had earlier. He brushed away the disquieting thought. “Go on, Countess.”

  “Very well.” She pulled a deep breath. “If you insist…” Ophelia stood silently for several seconds as if gathering her thoughts or concocting a story. A tiny twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. What if her memories were real and as bittersweet as his? No matter who she said she was today, she’d once had a family and parents. Was his quest for the truth reason enough to force her to dredge up remembrances that could be as gripping as his own?

  “I never knew my mother.” Her voice was calm and controlled, as if she struggled to maintain a sense of distance. Instinctively he knew, if nothing else she told was the truth, this was. “She died when I was an infant. My father—”

  “The Shakespearean scholar?”

  She laughed ruefully. “Indeed. Shakespeare was very much his life. To the point that we never had a real home but simply moved from thea—university to university. The life of a gypsy really.”

  His own love for his family home washed through him, and he wondered how anyone could grow up without knowing there was one place in the world where you’d be safe and warm and welcome. “I see.”

  Something in his tone must have struck a nerve. Her spine stiffened and she straightened her shoulders. Her eyes glittered in the moonlight. “No, Mr. Matthews, you do not see. My father had a great deal of faults, prime among them his lack of desire to settle in one location and his failure to commit to any single woman long enough to provide a mother for his children. However, those shortcomings pale in comparison to his virtues.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Let me tell you something, Mr. Matthews.” Anger emanated from her like a physical force. “No matter what else he was, he was a good father. No children could have asked for a more caring and loving parent. He left us with very little when he died. His legacy was barely more than an innate mastery of the works of Shakespeare, arguably the most beautiful words in the English language, quite a heritage really, and unquestioned knowledge that we were loved. And then, Mr. Matthews, I married Alvin—”

  “Alfred.”

  “Whomever,” she snapped with a dismissive wave of her hand. Lord, the woman was furious. And absolutely magnificent. Whatever else she was, her loyalty to her father was impressive. Tye watched with fascination. Ophelia was far too riled to even notice that poor, dead Albert-Alfred-Alford-Alphonse’s name had changed once again. Oh, this was delightful. She was delightful. And wringing the truth from her would be delightful, in whatever way he could.

  “Then he died, and any thought I had of a real family and a real home died with him.”

  “What about the castle?”

  “Th
e castle?” She shook her head impatiently. “It was always his really, not mine. But now, your uncle has given me what I’ve always wanted. The means to provide a home just like his and yours. A place to put down roots and call my own. Where I don’t have to worry about who might be at the door or how I’m going to pay the rent or whether or not I’ll break my neck climbing out windows.”

  “Alvin made you climb out windows?”

  “No, of course not. At least not often.” Even in the dim light he could see her brow furrow in a desperate attempt to explain away her words. While the deceased count was obviously a fabrication, Tye had no doubt her fears were real. “He was quite a…um…joker,” she said. “Very fond of pranks, that’s all.” She downed the remaining champagne in her glass and held it toward him for more.

  He raised a questioning brow. “Do you really think you should?”

  “My dear Mr. Matthews.” Her haughty, royal tone had returned, and he struggled to check a smile at the transformation from passionate defender of father and family back to regal countess. “I never have more than two, and I have only had one glass as yet.”

  Tye shrugged, picked the bottle up off the floor and filled her goblet. Her hand holding the glass shook slightly. She lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed quickly. As if the wine had renewed her courage, she turned to him. “Now then, if you don’t mind, Mr. Matthews…”

  “I thought you agreed to call me Tye.”

  “I don’t like calling you Tye. It implies a relationship I would prefer to avoid.”

  “Oh?” Her continued annoyance suited him. She said far more in this mood than she did otherwise. What was that nonsense about climbing out of windows anyway? He considered her carefully, and noted how the moonlight caught the fire flashing in her eyes. Abruptly, he wanted that fire to flash for him in the throes of an emotion far more satisfying than anger. “What kind of relationship?”

  She cast him a startled glance, then pulled her gaze away, ignoring his question. “Very well, Tye. I have a great deal of thinking to do and I would prefer to do it alone.”