The Duchess And The Desperado

“I want you, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, giving him the full force of her compelling gaze. Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication About the Author ACKNOWLEDGEMENT Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Copyright

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Western from Mary McBride

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FIRE SONG—a dramatic medieval novel

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“I want you, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, giving him the full force of her compelling gaze.

His groin tightened as the words echoed in his head. I want you. Lord, what he’d give to hear a woman like her saying such words with a more intimate meaning!

“And you’ll be handsomely paid, I do assure you—with no backbreaking work.”

“No, no backbreaking work,” he agreed. “I could live real easy, bein’ your bodyguard—and get killed with an easy bullet.”

Her face paled. “Yes, there is a risk, as you saw this afternoon. But I don’t want to die, either. Perhaps all it will take to discourage this scoundrel is the presence of a strong, intelligent man prepared to defend me.”

“You don’t know me,” he told her, locking his gaze to hers. “You don’t know anythin’ about me, Duchess. Everythin’ I’ve told you could be a lie!”

Dear Reader,

Next month, Harlequin Historicals^® turns ten years old! But we have such a terrific lineup this month, we thought we’d start celebrating early. To begin, award-winning author Laune Grant, who is known for her stirring Medievals and gritty Westerns, returns with a delightful new story, The Duchess and the Desperado. Here, a rancher turned fugitive inadvertently becomes a bodyguard to the very visible Duchess of Malvern when her life is threatened during a goodwill tour of the American West. Don’t miss it!

In The Shadowed Heart by Nina Beaumont, set in eighteenth-century Europe, a beautiful young woman on a quest for vengeance unwittingly falls in love with the man she thinks may have harmed her sister.... Also out for revenge is Jesse Kincaid, of MONTANA MAVERICKS: RETURN TO WHITEHORN fame, when he kidnaps his enemy’s mail-order bride in Wild West Wife by popular Silhouette^® author Susan Mallery.

Rounding out the month is A Warrior’s Honor, the next Medieval in Margaret Moore’s popular WARRIOR SERIES. In this tale a knight is tricked by a fellow nobleman into abducting a beautiful lady, but, guided by honor—and love—seeks to rescue her from his former friend.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical^®.

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Tracy Farrell

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The Duchess And The Desperado

Laurie Grant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mary Jo Putney, for teaching me the joys of letters

patent, and, as always, to Michael.

LAURIE GRANT

combines a career as a trauma center emergency room nurse with that of historical romance author; she says living in two worlds keeps her sane. Passionately enthusiastic about the history of both England and Texas, she divides her travel time between these two spots. She is married to her own real-life hero, and has two teenage daughters, two dogs and a cat.

If you would like to write to Laurie, please use the following address: Laurie Grant, P.O. Box 307272, Gahana, OH 43230.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I would like to thank the Denver Historical Society for

their invaluable assistance regarding the home of

Territorial Governor McCook and the hotels of the time.

Chapter One

Malvern Hall,

Herefordshire, England,

1872

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Sarah heard her sister, Kathryn, mutter as she watched Sarah selecting dresses from her wardrobe and directing the maids in their packing.

Sarah Challoner, Duchess of Malvern, looked over her shoulder at Kathryn and was touched. She thought her younger sibling looked wistful. She smiled. “Going to miss me, are you, Kat?”

Kathryn made a moue of disgust. “Don’t call me that. Thierry says it isn’t dignified.” She turned and gazed out the window that looked over the Malvern Hills in all their glory. “And yes, I am going to miss you. It sounds as if you’ll be gone forever.”

“I cannot call you Kat anymore?” Sarah said in mock dismay, struggling to hide her amusement. “But you have been my little sister Kat since you were born ! Ah...yes, Tilly, I believe I will take the blue foulard,” she said, pointing at a gown the maid held out for consideration.

“But not any longer, if you please,” said Kat with stiff dignity. “I shall be out next year, and Thierry say a nickname is not at all comme il fuut,” she added in an admirable French accent.

Sarah allowed herself to appear impressed. “I see. Well, if Thierry has decreed it, Kathryn it is, then.” Thierry says this, Thierry says that. She suspected her sister, who at seventeen was barely out of the schoolroom, had a bad case of hero worship for the dashing French count who was secretly Sarah’s fiancé. It probably wouldn’t be going too far to say she was infatuated with Thierry de Châtellerault.

Ah, well. That’s all right. She was just glad that Kathryn liked Thierry. It would be so awkward if her sister hated the man Sarah was going to marry. And it was perfectly normal for young girls to have these infatuations, after all. Sarah could remember a couple of her own-embarrassing, painful things they had been! Once she and Thierry returned from America as man and wife, though, Kathryn—Kat, she insisted to herself—would gradually learn to let go of her feelings and concentrate on finding her own special someone.

“Sure you wouldn’t like to change your mind and come with me?” Sarah inquired of her sister, who still had her back to her. “Wouldn’t you love to see America?”

“No,” came the uncompromising reply. “I can’t think I would enjoy racketing around the States in carriages and on trains, living out of suitcases for months on end! Besides,” she said, lowering her voice so that the servants wouldn’t hear, “once Thierry joins you in Santa Fe and you get marned, I shouldn’t like to be the gooseberry.”

“Gooseberry?” Sarah repeated, mystified. Kathryn was forever picking up servants’ cant.

Kathryn whirled around, her face sullen. “You know, the odd man out. I’d be superfluous.”

Sarah suddenly understood. She let go of the gown she was examining and rushed toward her sister. “Nonsense, dear...”

“But of course I would,” Kat cried. Her face was a study in disdain, her posture rigid, saying as clearly as if she shouted it that Sarah was not to embrace her. “I can’t think of anyone more useless on a honeymoon than one’s younger sister.”

Sarah stopped short and pushed her glasses back up on her nose. Perhaps she had been spending too much time with Thierry, and Kat was feeling left out. The girl’s wounded feelings were almost palpable.

“But it isn’t as though you’d be alone with just us, darling,” she said, low-voiced. “Uncle Frederick is coming along, and Donald, and Celia.... Think of all the sights we’d see, going from New York to California to Texas Just imagine, the Wild West!” If only she could infuse Kat with some of her enthusiasm!

Kat turned her back to Sarah once again. “Yes, but once you join Thierry, I can’t imagine anything more boring than spending time with our uncle and your secretary and your dresser while you’re off billing and cooing with him,” Kat said, her voice thick, as if she were fighting tears. “I’m not going, and that’s final. I just don’t understand why you have to go, Sarah.”

“If I were a man no one would question it,” Sarah observed. “Why should I not get to take a Grand Tour just as if I were a man? I’m duchess in my own right, after all, and I want to do it.”

“But men do their Grand Tour in Europe,” her sister noted.

Now it was Sarah’s turn to make a face. “We went to Paris with Papa, did we not, and on to Italy? The Continent doesn’t interest me. No, I want to see America—especially the vast open spaces of the West, Kat—ah, Kathryn. It must be so exciting to live there—not like tidy old England, with its manicured lawns and ponds, and quaint little towns several hundred years old. I need to see that before I settle down as ‘the duchess’—and as Thierry’s wife, as wonderful as I know that will be,” Sarah said. She willed Kat to face her, but Kat remained rigidly staring out the window. “And besides, it’ll give me a little breathing room away from Her Majesty’s incessant demand that I marry the boring Duke of Trenton, who’d be my equal in rank. Come, Kathryn, you must agree it’s delicious to imagine Victoria fuming when I return home married to the Count of Chatellerault instead?”

Kathryn slowly turned to face her, her lips reluctantly curving upward. “Yes...I can just imagine the queen wringing those plump hands. All right, I suppose you will go no matter what I say. But tell me—are you going to wear your glasses when you’re touring?”

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief that her efforts to mollify Kat had finally succeeded enough that she had turned to teasing. “Hmm...I suppose it depends if it’s just us—Uncle Frederick, Donald, Celia and I. You know how vain I am about being seen in my spectacles.”

Kat smirked. “I can just imagine—you’ll come back and we’ll ask what the most impressive sight was and you’ll wave your hand and say ‘I don’t know. It was all just a blur.”’

Sarah didn’t mind the sisterly taunt, for she’d always admitted vanity to be her worst failing.

“I’ll see you at dinner, Sarah,” Kat said, moving toward the door.

“All right, but where are you going in such a hurry?” Sarah asked, picking up the gown she’d discarded only moments ago. It wasn’t her favorite, but it would be good for traveling.

“Oh, Thierry said he’d take me riding while you were busy packing,” Kat murmured over her shoulder, her hand already on the door. “Since he won’t be meeting you in New Mexico right away, he’s rather at loose ends, too, you know.”

Sarah smiled and bade her sister enjoy herself. It was good of Thierry to keep Kat occupied, but perhaps she should speak to her fiancé later this evening and warn him that her younger sister had conceived a tendre for him. She knew she could count on Thierry to let Kat down easily.

Chapter Two

Denver

Colorado Territory

July 1872

“Oh, Celia, do look,” Sarah breathed, gazing out the window as the train wheezed to a stop. She pointed at the distant Rocky Mountains, still snow tipped even though it was midsummer. The sight was enough to make Sarah forget the discomforts of the journey. “Are they not magnificent? Even the Peak District has nothing to compare with them!” She felt the headache that had plagued her all through the jolting, swaying ride slipping away.

“Yes, your grace,” her dresser muttered, though she only glanced momentarily at the magnificent mountain range that stood sentinel over Denver. “We’ve been seein’ them for the past two hours.” She was nervously watching the motley throng on the station platform from the other side of their luxurious private railway car that had brought them all the way from St. Louis.

“But we can see them so much more clearly now. Just one moment, Celia, and I’ll be ready to disembark,” Sarah said, folding her spectacles and putting them safely away in her reticule. Not for the world would she have appeared among strangers wearing them. “Carry this, would you please, dear?” she said, handing her servant the reticule. No doubt she’d need her hands free for greeting those who came to welcome her.

The crowd gaped and pointed at the Duchess of Malvern and her entourage as they disembarked from the train at the Kansas Pacific Depot, but to Sarah, minus her spectacles, they were a buzzing blur.

“They’re so rude, the way they stare. You’d think they’d never seen a duchess before.” her dresser muttered to no one in particular.

Sarah chuckled, saying, “I’m sure they haven’t, Celia. This is America, after all. They do not have duchesses here.”

“Nor manners, your grace,” her dresser retorted as one gawker came even closer and, after blowing his nose noisily on a dirty handkerchief, pointed at the Paris creation on the duchess’s head.

“Oh, do stop grumbling, Celia, and take a breath of the fresh, bracing Western air—that should clear out the cobwebs!” Indeed, her own headache was fast diminishing, and she felt almost human again.

“I believe that is Pikes Peak in the distance, your grace,” Donald Alconbury, her secretary, murmured in her ear, pointing at the high peak in the distance. “Indeed, the air is very clear here, or we should not be able to see it.”

“Ah... beautiful...” she murmured, though of course Donald had forgotten she could not distinguish it from the others without her spectacles.

“I can’t imagine where the welcoming committee must be,” fretted Lord Halston. “I telegraphed the time of your arrival, and I was promised no less than the mayor and the territorial governor on hand to welcome you to Denver. But perhaps they await us inside the depot,” he said, motioning toward the large, two-stoned brick building behind them.

“Then go and fetch them, uncle,” Sarah said serenely, turning and heading for the rear of the train. “I intend to see Trafalgar properly unloaded.”

“But, your grace, your groom will see to that,” her dresser fussed. “Come inside, do. Look, there’s another of those noisy monsters pulling in, and it’ll blow soot all over your clothing!”

The second train’s whistle shrieked, splitting the air as it wheezed to a stop a little behind and on a track parallel to the one that had just brought the duchess and her party from St. Louis Just as Celia had predicted, the locomotive’s huge smokestack belched a cloud of smoke.

Sarah paid no heed to the down-drifting particles of soot, however. The train had almost immediately begun disgorging its human contents, and as she passed the open space between one car and another, her attention was caught by a particular passenger who was just stepping down from the other train onto the ground.

With just a few yards between them, she could see him well enough. He was tall and lean and wore a wide-brimmed hat, denim trousers, boots and duster coat. A saddle was slung over one shoulder; he carried a pair of saddlebags in the other hand. His hair was a shade of brown so dark it could pass for black except in bright sunlight, and he needed both a haircut and a shave. He might be handsome once properly groomed—though very different from Thierry, of course—but at present he just looked dangerous, Sarah decided, watching as he narrowed his eyes in the direction of the station house, then started striding toward the rear of the train he had just left.

A sudden wind blew the side of his unbuttoned duster backward, exposing a pistol riding in a holster on his hip. The presence of the pistol confirmed the air of danger he carried with him. A desperado, thought Sarah, remembering the lurid covers of the cheap novels she’d seen on sale not only in America but in London, too. Perhaps he was an outlaw! But no, surely outlaws did not travel on trains like normal, lawabiding folk. He was probably just an ordinary cowboy, she told herself. Standards of grooming were not the same here as at home. But she was not convinced.

As if aware that he was being watched, however, he paused and looked between the two cars, right at her. Sarah was close enough to see a pair of green eyes studying her from the top of her modish hat to the tips of her buttoned kid boots.

He must have approved of what he saw, for a slow smile spread over his beard-shadowed, lean face and warmed the green of his eyes. He let the band of leather that connected the two saddlebags slide back on his forearm, which enabled him to touch the brim of his hat in a manner of greeting. Then he resumed walking and was lost to her sight.

Sarah felt heat rising up past the pleated edge of her cloak. She’d been looking at him—staring, in fact—and the cowboy had caught her at it and stared right back! Why, his grin had been cheekier than a Cockney beggar’s!

She’d been stared at before, especially since coming to the United States, but somehow his bold, direct gaze had affected her differently. For the life of her, though, she could not say why she found his look energizing rather than merely annoying.

In any case, Sarah reminded herself sternly, she must not waste time gaping at the locals. She needed to ensure the safety of her mare. Walking down to the front of the car that she knew held Trafalgar, she was in time to see the door slide back and her groom emerge, bending to extend the wooden ramp down onto the ground.

“Ben! How did she weather the journey?” Sarah called out.

“Well enough, your grace, though she didn’t fancy that other train pulling in next to this one,” Ben Huddleston, her wiry old groom, informed her. “Been tossin’ and plungin’ about these last few minutes, she has.”

Sarah could hear the thudding of hooves as Trafalgar protested against the boxcar’s walls. “Well, bring her out. She’ll settle down once she gets out of confinement, I’m certain.”

Ben doffed the tweed cap he was never without. “Yes, your grace.” He disappeared back into the depths of the boxcar, and Sarah could hear the groom speaking soothingly to the high-spirited thoroughbred, and the mare’s snorting, stamping retort.

Sarah smiled. Trafalgar had always been a fractious traveler, and the groom’s advice had been to leave the hunter at home in Herefordshire. “The sea voyage alone will shatter her nerves, Duchess, not to mention all the roamin’ around that barbarous country. Why not breed her, your grace? By the time you come home, the foal could be weaned and you’ll be back chasm’ the fox on your mare again.”

“Are you more worried about the mare’s nerves or yours, Ben?” she had teased him. “I wouldn’t think it fair to impose on Trafalgar the very thing I’m trying to escape myself,” she had added lightly, and laughed as the implication of her last remark had brought a blush to Ben’s cheeks. “Well, it’s true. My uncle is pressuring me to marry and so is the queen, but having just reached my majority, I can’t imagine why I should settle down meekly and marry whoever the queen thinks suitable for me! I want my favorite mare with me, and so she shall come. She’ll do fine, you’ll see.”

What the Duchess of Malvern wanted, she got, and the tall bay thoroughbred had been brought along. If anyone’s nerves had been shattered in the course of the ocean voyage and the “roamin’ around” the United States of America, it had been Ben’s, not Trafalgar’s.

As she waited for her mare, Sarah glanced down the track, but she could no longer see the dangerous-looking American. Too bad, she thought wryly. He had probably never seen such a fine horse as Trafalgar in his life, and she had imagined his eyes widening as he glimpsed her with her handsome hunter. She had been sure he would be impressed.

C’est la guerre, as Thierry would have said. Why did she feel any need to impress such a man, anyway? She was the Duchess of Malvern, and she had the world at her feet. Once she was reunited with her dashing Thierry, she would indeed have everything!

Then, plunging, whinnying and trying to rear, Trafalgar was led down the wooden ramp by Ben, who had blindfolded the horse. Even so, he had his hands full making sure the mare neither careened off the side of the ramp nor did him an injury, and Sarah rushed forward, heedless of the groom’s protestations that she’d get her traveling costume dirty.

“I don’t know why you bother blindfolding her, Ben,” she chided as she whipped the dark cloth from underneath the bay’s halter and took the lead rope from her groom. “She’s not a whit easier to handle—easy there, girl! Easy... See, you’re out of that nasty boxcar and onto solid ground, and I’ll see that you rest in a big loose stall tonight with plenty of grain to eat....” It never mattered what she said, only that she kept talking to the skittish thoroughbred.

But this time, even her soothing voice didn’t seem to be working its usual magic

Just then a shot rang out from somewhere in the milling throng on the station platform, a shot that whistled right over Sarah’s head and embedded itself in the wood of the boxcar. The mare went wild with terror, rearing and nearly yanking Sarah’s arm out of its socket. The screams and shouts of the crowd blended with the frightened whinnying of the thoroughbred as it plunged and kicked. Then, as Sarah struggled to keep hold of the lead rope, another shot rang out, kicking up the dust right in front of the toe of her right boot. The surprise of the second shot made Sarah loosen her grip on the rope—only for a second, but it was enough. Trafalgar gave a mighty toss of her head, yanking the rope out of Sarah’s hand, wheeled and went galloping down the tracks, with Ben in hot pursuit.

A weight hit Sarah from behind, knocking her flat a heartbeat before a third shot whistled by her. She heard the wood of the boxcar splinter with the impact of the third bullet. For a fleeting moment she had the ridiculous notion that one of the mountains had somehow moved and fallen on her...and then a voice drawled, “Lady, don’t you have the sense to hit the dirt or take cover when you’re bein’ shot at?” and she realized that it was the dangerous-looking American who had tackled her and knocked her into the dirt, covering her with his body.

Sarah thrashed beneath him, trying to free herself. “How dare you? Get off me, sir!” she demanded. “My mare—I have to catch my mare!” Out of the corner of her eye she could see a blur of movement. People were fleeing the station platform in panicked droves, while others had likewise flattened themselves on the ground.

“Forget your mare for the time bein’, lady!” he ordered, dragging her to her feet with one hand, holding his drawn pistol with the other. “We’re going to take cover until we’re certain the shootin’s stopped.” He pulled her along with him until they had reached the other side of the boxcar.

“Stay there,” he said, flattening her against the side of the car with his forearm while he inched around to where he could see the station platform again.

“But I have to see that—”

“Stay there,” he ordered over his shoulder. Then, after a silent minute of scanning the crowd, he said, without looking back at her, “Everyone’s runnin’ to and fro like chickens with their heads cut off. I couldn’t see where the shots came from, and now I don’t see anyone with a gun.” He turned back to her. “Why would anyone want to shoot at you, lady? Who are you?”

She heard Alconbury and Lord Halston calling her, but ignored their cries for the moment. “You think someone was shooting at me?” she asked incredulously. “My good man, I hardly think anyone would have a reason to shoot at me. I’m but newly arrived in your city, a British subject—” Standing just inches from him, she had no difficulty seeing him clearly, and she saw him raise an eyebrow.

“There’s folks that’d argue about my goodness,” he drawled, his green eyes mocking. “I thought you didn’t sound American. So who are you, and what’re you doing in Colorado Territory, and why is someone shooting at you?”

She resented his interrogation. “I’m not accustomed to introducing myself to a stranger, sir.”

The green eyes narrowed. “I just saved your life, and you want to stand on ceremony?”

She realized he might well be right. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid that being frightened makes me a trifle cross. I spoke more sharply than I intended,” Sarah apologized. “I think you did save my life, and I’m very grateful. My secretary will see that you’re suitably rewarded, Mr.—”

He hesitated for a moment, then growled, “Morgan Calhoun, and there’s no need to be talkin’ about any reward. It was just the right thing to do.” His expression softened somewhat. “I reckon you’re entitled to feel a mite cross at bein’ shot at, too. Most females would have had hysterics. Oh, and I’m sorry about dirtyin’ your fine clothes, ma’am....”

Sarah managed a tremulous smile. “No apologies are necessary on that score, certainly. I’d rather be a bit soiled and alive than an immaculate corpse.”

Morgan Calhoun grinned at that, but still seemed to be waiting for something, and after a moment she realized what it was.

“Oh! How remiss of me! My name is Sarah Challoner,” she said, and was about to add her title when Donald Alconbury, Lord Halston and Celia ran panting around the side of the boxcar.

“Your grace! Are you...all right? Were you wounded?” demanded her secretary.

“Who is this ruffian?” Lord Halston asked, pointing at Calhoun. “Unhand the Duchess of Malvern immediately, fellow!”

Morgan Calhoun stared at Sarah. “A duchess? You’re a duchess?”

She nodded. “The Duchess of Malvern, actually. Yes, Donald, don’t worry, I’m quite all right, thanks to Mr. Calhoun, here.”

Morgan looked back at Lord Halston, then down at his own hands, one of which still held his drawn pistol; the other held nothing. “I don’t reckon I need to ‘unhand’ what I’m not touchin’ at the moment, fellow,” he retorted, bolstering the pistol. “Who’s he?” he asked Sarah, indicating the indignant Lord Halston with a nod of his head.

“Lord Halston, may I present Morgan Calhoun,” Sarah said. “Mr. Calhoun, my uncle, Lord Halston. Please stop glaring at Mr. Calhoun, uncle—instead, he deserves our thanks. Had he not thrown me to the ground, that last shot might well have put a period to my existence. And who was shooting at me, anyway?”

Frederick, Lord Halston, muttered something that may have been an apology, then said, “None of these incompetent idiots seems to have a clue who fired the shots, though one woman said they seemed to be coming from one of the upper-story windows in the station, and the train officials went up to check. I think we should make arrangements to leave immediately, your grace. Obviously someone in this barbaric settlement—” he wrinkled his nose as he looked around “—means you harm.”

Sarah ignored his suggestion. She pointed down the track, where her groom led her trembling bay mare. “Oh, good, Ben’s caught her. Bravo, Ben!” she called.

“Duchess, I don’t know what in thunder you’re doin’ here, but Lord Whatsis may have a good idea about leavin’,” interjected Morgan Calhoun. “Somebody’s obviously taken exception to your arrival.”

Sarah heard Halston’s growl of indignation at the ridiculous name, then she turned back to the American. “Nonsense. We’ve only just arrived, and I have no intention of getting back on a smelly, noisy, dirty train—or any other form of conveyance. I’m here on a goodwill tour on behalf of Her Majesty the queen, you see, and people are expecting me. Departure today is out of the question.”

“But Duchess, someone hasn’t got any goodwill for you,” Morgan Calhoun noted with maddening persistence. “Surely there’s plenty of other cities you could spread that goodwill in.”

“Perhaps your rescuer is right, your grace,” Donald Alconbury murmured.

“Nonsense, we’re made of sterner stuff than that, are we not?” Sarah said. “I have no idea why someone seemed to be shooting at me, unless the person mistook me for someone else? Yes, surely that’s it.”

She saw Alconbury and Lord Halston exchange a look, as if they knew something more, and was about to challenge them about it when Calhoun spoke up again.

“I don’t reckon so, Duchess. You don’t look like anyone else in these parts,” Calhoun argued, with a meaningful glance at the more humbly dressed women on the station platform.

As she looked in the direction he had nodded, she saw several well-dressed men threading their way through the milling, pointing crowd toward them.

“I believe the welcoming committee’s finally caught up with us at last,” she murmured.

A tall, thin, worried-looking man with a mustache and a bearded chin, dressed in a frock coat and carrying a stovepipe hat, led the quartet that charged down onto the tracks and threaded their way between the boxcars to reach them.

“The Duchess of Malvern, I presume?” At Sarah’s nod, he said, “Your ladyship, I’m terribly sorry to be late, and sorrier still when I was informed of what just befell you. I’m John Harper, the mayor of Denver.” There were beads of sweat visible on his balding forehead when he bowed.

Sarah heard Lord Halston clear his throat, and swiftly darted a quelling look at him, guessing he was about to inform the mayor of Denver that a duchess was properly addressed as “your grace,” never “your ladyship.” Americans had no knowledge of how to address the peerage, and there was nothing to be gained by pompously shaming them in public.