by Janet Dailey
Boone dismissed her question with a noncommittal, “You can’t pick your parents.” He warmly clasped her hand, enveloping it in both of his. “You are as beautiful as ever, Tara.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a demure dip of her head, then withdrew her hand and divided her glance between father and son. “Tell me, how did the two of you manage to lure my ward into the courtyard?”
“Sheer luck, I think,” Boone replied as he directed an intimate, warm look at Laura.
“I suspect the luck is all Laura’s.” Tara drifted closer to her self-proclaimed ward, then addressed Laura in pseudo-confiding manner. “You do realize that you are in the company of two of the world’s most sought after bachelors, not to mention that you are practically neighbors—at least in a manner of speaking.”
“Really?” Laura said with some surprise. “Do you own land in Montana?”
“Good Lord, no. It’s too damned cold up there,” Max stated with force.
“Actually,” Tara began, “I was referring to the Rutledge family ranch. The Slash R can’t be far from the old Calder homeplace in Texas that Chase bought from Hattie before they were married, and especially after he bought so much of the adjoining land.” She looked to Max for confirmation.
“We have a boundary in common,” he acknowledged.
“If I had known we had such attractive neighbors,” Boone inserted, smiling at Laura, “I would have paid a visit long ago.”
“Actually I’ve only been to the C Bar a couple of times, and that was when I was much younger,” Laura said.
“Chase bought it for purely sentimental reasons,” Tara recalled, “after learning that the C Bar was his grandfather’s birthplace. For a good many years, he and Hattie used it as a winter retreat to escape the Montana cold, but I don’t think he’s been back since Hattie passed away five years ago. Truthfully, I don’t think he’s physically capable of making the trip any more. It’s hardly surprising, considering Chase is in his eighties.”
“If he ever decides he wants to sell the place, tell him to give me a call. It would be easy enough to incorporate the ranch into my spread,” Max declared.
“I’ll let him know,” Laura promised, although she doubted her grandfather would be interested in selling.
Losing interest in the subject, Tara changed it. “So what brings you two to Rome? Is it a business or pleasure trip?”
“Business, of course,” Max retorted. “And don’t bother asking what kind. It’s my business and none of Dy-Corp’s.”
“Now, Max,” Tara said in a chiding tone. “You know I have nothing to do with running my daddy’s corporation.”
“Not officially,” he agreed dryly, “but you know the right strings to yank when you want something done. There’s a lot of truth in that old saying, the fruit never falls far from the tree. You’re E.J. Dyson’s daughter, all right. Unfortunately, Boone is his mother’s son—all looks and no brains. He’d rather play than work.”
Boone smiled away the criticism. “It’s always bothered him the way I manage to make time for a little pleasure on any business trip. And having two such beautiful women as dinner companions definitely makes this trip a pleasure.” Even though he included Tara in his remark, his attention was centered on Laura.
“You’re being too kind,” she told him in mock protest.
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Boone assured her.
“Speaking of dinner, when the hell are they going to serve it?” Max demanded in a sudden surge of impatience. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until the middle of the damned night to eat.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when the musical tinkle of a set of chimes drifted out from the ballroom. “You’re in luck, Max,” Tara said. “I believe that’s the signal that dinner is served.”
“High time, too,” he muttered, as Boone moved to the back of his chair to assist him.
After reentering the ballroom, the foursome joined the flow of the other guests idly making their way to the hall. With the wheelchair rolling along under its own power, Boone left his father’s side to join Laura.
“How long will you be staying in Rome?” he asked. “I don’t believe you said.”
“A day or two, at least. We’ve been toying with the idea of going to Tuscany for a few days, or maybe to the coast. We have a very flexible schedule, totally subject to the whim of the moment. And you, will you be staying long in Rome?”
“Unfortunately no. Just two more days here, then it’s on to London.”
“What a shame. England’s on our list, but not until later.”
“There’s nothing to stop you from making more than one visit, is there?” Boone asked in light challenge. “You did say your schedule was subject to the whim of the moment.”
“I did say that, didn’t I?” The teasing smile she gave him was playfully noncommittal. With a man like Boone Rutledge, Laura suspected it would never be wise to seem too eager for his company.
“Yes, you did.” He leaned fractionally closer, his voice lowering to a volume intended for her hearing alone. “I can promise you dinner, alone, at an intimate little restaurant I know with a great view of the Thames.”
As they reached the wide doorway into the hall, Laura threw him a laughing look. “Ahh, but can you promise me a misty London fog—” She suddenly collided hard with another guest, the sudden impact surprising a small outcry from her. A pair of hands gripped her upper arms, preventing Laura from being knocked completely off balance. She couldn’t say how, but she knew in that instant they didn’t belong to Boone.
“Hey, watch where you’re going.” Boone’s indignant voice came from very near.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
It was the second voice, male and distinctively British in its accent, that prompted Laura to lift her head. “No. I . . .” The words died in her throat when she found herself face to face with a fair-haired stranger with hazel eyes, flecked with beguiling glints of gold. The air between them seemed suddenly charged with a white hot current of electricity. Laura felt the tingle of it through her entire body, snatching at her breath and scrambling her pulse.
Something flickered across the stranger’s lean, angular features, erasing the look of concern and replacing it with a deep, heady warmth.
“Hel-lo,” he said, giving each syllable a dazed and dazzled emphasis.
“What happened, Laura? Did you forget to look where you were going?” The familiarity of Tara’s affectionately chiding voice provided the right touch of normalcy.
Laura seized on it while she struggled to collect her composure. “I’m afraid I did. I was talking to Boone and—” she paused a beat to glance again at the stranger, stunned to discover how rattled she felt. It was a totally alien sensation. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t felt in control of herself and a situation. “And I walked straight into you. I’m sorry.”
“No apologies necessary,” the man assured her while his gaze made a curious and vaguely puzzled study of her face. “The fault was equally mine.” He cocked his head to one side, the puzzled look deepening in his expression. “I know this is awfully trite, but haven’t we met before?”
Laura shook her head. “No. I’m certain I would have remembered if we had.” She was positive of that.
“Obviously you remind me of someone else then,” he said, easily shrugging off the thought. “In any case, I hope you are none the worse for the collision, Ms.—” He paused expectantly, waiting for Laura to supply her name.
The old ploy was almost a relief. “Laura Calder. And this is my aunt, Tara Calder,” she said, rather than going into a lengthy explanation of their exact relationship.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he murmured to Tara, acknowledging her with the smallest of bows.
“And perhaps you already know Max Rutledge and his son, Boone.” Laura belatedly included the two men.
“I know of them.” He nodded to Max.
When he turned to the younger
man, Boone extended a hand, giving him a look of hard challenge. “And you are?”
“Sebastian Dunshill,” the man replied.
“Dunshill,” Tara repeated with sudden and heightened interest. “Are you any relation to the earl of Crawford, by chance?”
“I do have a nodding acquaintance with him.” His mouth curved in an easy smile as he switched his attention to Tara. “Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately no,” Tara admitted, then drew in a breath and sent a glittering look at Laura, barely able to contain her excitement. “Although a century ago the Calder family was well acquainted with a certain Lady Crawford.”
“Really. And how’s that?” With freshened curiosity, Sebastian Dunshill turned to Laura for an explanation.
An awareness of him continued to tingle through her. Only now Laura was beginning to enjoy it.
“It’s a long and rather involved story,” Laura warned. “After all this time, it’s difficult to know how much is fact, how much is myth, and how much is embellishment of either one.”
“Since we have a fairly long walk ahead of us to the dining hall, why don’t you start with the facts?” Sebastian suggested and deftly tucked her hand under his arm, turning her to follow the other guests.
Laura could feel Boone’s anger over the way he had been supplanted, but she didn’t really care. She had too much confidence in her ability to smooth any of Boone’s ruffled feathers.
“The facts.” She pretended to give them some thought while her sidelong glance traveled over Sebastian Dunshill’s profile, noting the faint smattering of freckles on his fair skin and the hint of copper lights in his very light brown hair.
Despite the presence of freckles, there was nothing boyish about him. He was definitely a man fully grown, thirty-something she suspected, with a very definite continental air about him. He didn’t exude virility the way Boone Rutledge did; his air of masculinity had a smooth and polished edge to it.
“I suppose I should begin by explaining that back in the latter part of the 1870s, my great-great-grandfather Benteen Calder established the family ranch in Montana.”
“Your family owns a cattle ranch?” He glanced her way, interest and curiosity mixing in his look.
“A very large one.”
“How many acres do you have? I don’t mean to sound nosy, but those of us on this side of the Atlantic harbor a secret fascination with the scope and scale of your American West.”
“So I’ve learned. But truthfully we don’t usually measure in acres. We talk about sections,” Laura explained. “The Triple C has more than one hundred and fifty sections within its boundary fence.”
“You’ll have to educate me,” he said with a touch of amusement. “How large is a section?”
“One square mile, or six hundred and forty acres.”
After a quick mental calculation, Sebastian gave her a suitably impressed look. “That’s nearly a million acres. And I thought all the large western ranches were in Texas, not Montana.”
“Not all.” She smiled. “Anyway, according to early ranch records, there are numerous business transactions listed that indicate Lady Crawford was a party to them. Many of them involved government contracts for the purchase of beef. It appears that my great-great-grandfather paid her a finder’s fee, I suppose you would call it—an arrangement that was clearly lucrative for both of them.”
“The earl of Crawford wasn’t named as a party in any of this, then,” Sebastian surmised.
“No. In fact, the family stories that were passed down always said she was widowed.”
“Interesting. As I recall,” he began with a faint frown of concentration, “the seventh earl of Crawford was married to an American. They had no children, which meant the title passed to the son of his younger brother.” He stopped abruptly and swung toward Laura, running a fast look over her face. “That’s it! I know why you looked so familiar. You bear a striking resemblance to the portrait of Lady Elaine that hangs in the manor’s upper hall.”
“Did you hear that, Tara?” Laura turned in amazement to the older woman.
“I certainly did.” With a look of triumph in her midnight dark eyes, Tara momentarily clutched at Laura’s arm, an exuberant smile curving her red lips. “I knew it. I knew it all along.”
“Knew what?” A disgruntled Max Rutledge rolled his chair forward, forcing his way into their circle. But Boone stood back, eyeing the Englishman with a barely veiled glare. “What’s all this hooha about?”
“Yes, I’m curious, too,” Sebastian inserted.
“Well . . .” Laura paused, trying to decide how to frame her answer. “According to Calder legend, Benteen’s mother ran off with another man when he was a small boy. If the man’s name was known, I’ve never heard it mentioned. He was always referred to as a remittance man, which, as I understand, was a term used to describe a younger, and frequently ne’er-do-well, son of wealthy Europeans, often titled.”
Sebastian nodded, following her line of thought to its logical conclusion. “And you suspect your ancestor ran off with the man who became the seventh earl of Crawford.”
“Actually, Tara is the one who came up with that theory after she found some old photographs.”
Taking Laura’s cue, Tara explained, “Back when I was married to Laura’s father, I was rummaging through an old trunk in the attic and came across the tintype of a young woman. At that time, the housekeeper, who had been born and raised on the ranch, told me it was a picture of Madelaine Calder, the mother of Chase Benteen Calder. I’m not sure, but I think that was the first time I heard the story about her abandoning her husband and young son to run off with another man. Needless to say, I was a bit intrigued by this slightly scandalous bit of family history. And I became more intrigued when I happened to lay the tintype next to a photograph taken of Lady Crawford. Granted, one was a picture of a woman perhaps in her early twenties, and the woman in the other photo was easily in her sixties. Still, it was impossible to discount the many physical similarities the two shared, not to mention that the young woman had been called Madelaine and the older one was known as Elaine. I just couldn’t believe it was nothing more than a series of amazing coincidences. I’ve always suspected they were pictures of the same woman, but I have never been able to prove it.”
“And if you could, what would that accomplish?” Max challenged, clearly finding little of importance in the issue.
“Now, Max,” Tara chided lightly, “you of all people should know that sometimes there is immense satisfaction to be gained from finding out you were right about something all along.”
Max harrumphed but didn’t disagree with her response. Boone remained a silent observer. Something about the way he looked at Sebastian Dunshill spoke of his instant dislike of the man.
“You say there’s a portrait of Lady Elaine displayed at the earl of Crawford’s home,” Tara said, addressing the remark to Sebastian.
“Indeed there is. A splendid one.”
“I’d love to see it sometime.” Her comment had an idle, offhand ring to it. Laura suspected she was the only one who knew the delivery was deliberately calculated to achieve results.
“If you intend to visit England in the near future, perhaps I can obtain an invitation for you.” Sebastian’s glance included Laura.
“As matter of fact, we have talked about flying to London,” Laura admitted and slid a glance at Boone, subtlety letting him know that she hadn’t forgotten his dinner invitation. His expression immediately warmed to her.
A liveried servant approached the group, bowed respectfully to Sebastian and addressed him in Italian. Sebastian responded in kind, then explained to the others, “We are to be escorted to the dining hall where the other guests are being seated.”
“Let’s quit dawdling and go.” With a flick of a switch, Max sent his wheelchair rolling forward.
When they arrived at the banquet hall, the Rutledges were directed to the upper end of the table. Boone had barely taken his seat wh
en Max demanded in a low, gravelly voice, “Where’s that gal sitting? Not next to that Englishman, I hope.”
“No. He’s seated to the left of the contessa. Laura and Tara are closer to the middle section.”
“Good,” Max muttered and nodded curtly to the gentleman seated opposite from him. Then he addressed his son. “Why’d you let that damned Englishman monopolize the conversation like that? You let him snatch her right from under your nose and never said a word.”
“Just what is it you think I should have done?” Boone countered in a voice of tightly controlled anger.
“Good God, do I have to tell you everything to do?” Max shot him a look of disgust. “All you had to do was speak up. Instead you stood there and pouted like some kid that had his new toy taken from him. I swear, sometimes I think the only thing you have for a spine is a wishbone.”
“For your information, Laura has agreed to meet me in London for dinner later this week,” Boone murmured tightly.
“She said that.” Max stared at him with a mixture of surprise and skepticism.
“Yes. I plan on talking to her after dinner to settle on an exact date and time.”
“See that you do.”
“You are actually serious about wanting me to marry her, aren’t you?” Boone realized.
“You’re damned right I am,” Max stated. “I hadn’t talked to her two minutes before I knew she had more sand in her little finger than you have in your whole body. It’s not likely that any of it will rub off on you, but there’s a damned good chance your kids will have it. And that’s just about all I’ve got to look forward to.”
Boone held his tongue with an effort and fought the urge to wad up his linen napkin and shove it down the old man’s throat.
The multiple-course meal was followed by a private recital performed by a well-known Belgian pianist. It was well after midnight when Laura and Tara emerged from the palazzo and climbed into their hired car.
“What a marvelous party,” Tara declared as she absently adjusted the folds of her satin evening wrap. “And so full of surprises, too. First running into the Rutledges—” She broke off the rest of that thought to glance curiously at Laura. “Which reminds me, I noticed that Boone cornered you after the piano recital. What did he want?”
