Chapter
One
The flattering glow of candlelight welcomed the
arriving guests to the home of Count and Countess Valerie, a
sixteenth-century palazzo on Rome’s Capitoline Hill.
Twenty-one-year-old Laura Calder ran an appreciative eye over the
frescoes and friezes that adorned the walls and ceilings of one of
the palazzo’s many ballrooms, but her attention quickly reverted to
her fellow guests.
Not all had gathered in the ballroom.
Some, first-timers like herself, were being shown around the
palazzo, a tour Laura had recently completed. Virtually all on hand
were strangers to her, although Laura recognized several faces,
identifying them from photographs she had seen in either the
society or business pages. So far she had spotted an Italian film
producer, a French dignitary, an American industrialist, a former
British prime minister, a robed papal envoy, and a Pulitzer
Prize–winning author.
Yet, surveying the throng of notables
and glitterati, Laura was half-tempted to unleash a rather raucous
“Yee-haw” just to watch the shock waves it would create among such
a staid and dignified gathering. She smiled at the thought of all
the raised eyebrows and down-the-nose looks that would be directed
her way if she did. Perhaps another time,
she decided.
“Excuse me—you there, young lady.”
Amongst the foreign chatter going on around Laura, the gruff and
rather demanding male voice was too distinctively American with its
trace of Texas twang not to immediately catch her
attention.
When she looked around to locate its
source in the acoustically poor ballroom, she spotted an older man
in a wheelchair, positioned facing the doors that opened into the
palazzo’s inner courtyard. In a glance, she took in the grizzled
silver of his hair, the harsh, age-lined gauntness of his face, and
the thickness of his heavily muscled torso beneath the fine cut of
his suit jacket, a thickness that was so at odds with the atrophied
slenderness of his legs.
There was something vaguely familiar
about his face, and about the fact that it belonged to a man in a
wheelchair, but Laura couldn’t make the connection to come up with
his name. Belatedly she noticed that his hard, dark eyes had
fastened their gaze on her.
“You there.” He motioned to her, then
paused and scowled uncertainly. “Do you speak
English?”
Her mouth curved in an easy smile. “I
do indeed.”
“An American. Thank God,” the man
muttered, half under his breath, then broke eye contact with her
and nodded toward the door. “Give me a hand with this door. I need
some air.”
Laura caught the note of frustration in
his voice and guessed immediately that this was a man who loathed
the idea that he required anyone’s assistance. Just like her
grandfather, it could make him very irritable.
Certain that he would find any verbal
response from her irksome, Laura said nothing and simply crossed to
the door. As she pushed it open, she noticed the raised threshold
and knew it could pose a problem for him even though the wheelchair
was motorized. Without a word, she passed him her beaded evening
bag and stepped to the back of his chair. Gripping the handles, she
gave it a push and a tilt and wheeled him into the inner
courtyard.
With a touch of the controls, the man
swung the chair toward her and ran an appraising eye over her,
inspecting the sophisticated upsweep of her blond hair, the
sculpted fineness of her features, the diamonds that dangled from
her lobes, and the silken elegance of her gown, its rich chocolate
color intensifying the deep, dark brown of her eyes that contrasted
so with the gold of her hair.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he
announced, making no effort to return her evening bag.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Laura
allowed a small smile to play across her lips.
“What’s your name?”
“Laura Calder.”
“Calder, you say. Any relation to the
Calders of Montana?” he asked, exhibiting a mild
curiosity.
“Chase Calder is my grandfather,” she
confirmed, not at all surprised that he should know of her family.
While the Calder name meant little in Europe, it was widely known
at home.
“Your grandfather,” he murmured and
looked at her with new eyes. “You must be Jessy Calder’s daughter,
’cause you certainly didn’t get that blond hair from Chase.” He
shot a look toward the ballroom. “Is your mother here? I don’t
recall seeing her.”
“No, I’m with Tara Calder. She’s been
like an aunt to me.” She was deliberately offhand with her answer,
skipping any specific response to a relationship that was difficult
to explain, even though it had existed almost from the day she was
born. Eyebrows were invariably raised when people learned that Tara
Calder had been her father’s first wife. Yet, in many ways Laura
was closer to her than she was to her own mother.
“Tara,” he thoughtfully repeated the
name, then brightened in sudden recognition. “Of course. E.J.
Dyson’s daughter. I remember now; she was married to your father
once.” His eyes narrowed on her, an avidly interested gleam
lighting them that Laura had seen in others when they made the same
connection. “And you’re here with her.”
Laura was too used to fielding such
remarks to be bothered by it. She handled it the way she always
did, by altering ever so slightly the direction of the
conversation.
“Yes. I graduated from college at
midterm, but Tara insisted that my education wouldn’t be complete
without a tour of Europe.”
He nodded, his expression taking on a
faraway look. “Yes, that’s the way it used to be done when a girl
came of age. February in Switzerland, March in Greece or the
Riviera, April in Paris, naturally, and . . .” He paused before
concluding, “Italy in May.”
“Something like that,” Laura admitted,
his guess at her itinerary coming close to accurate.
“Must be missing Montana about now,” he
surmised.
“I haven’t really had time. There’s
been too much to do, to see, and to experience.” And she was loving
every moment of it. With his questions answered, it was her turn to
ask some. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to appear rude, but—I know I
should recognize you.”
“I’m Max Rutledge.”
“Of course.” Everything clicked into
place: Max Rutledge, the Texas rancher turned oilman, turned
banker; a politically powerful mover and shaker behind the scenes,
crippled in a car wreck that claimed his wife’s life—and worth
billions. “I’ve heard of you.”
His chin lifted in measured challenge.
“What have you heard?”
Laura knew instinctively that she was
being tested. “I’ve heard that you have no patience with fools or
liberal Democrats.”
With a grin as big as Texas splitting
his face, he settled back in his wheelchair and surveyed her with
approval. “That’s one and the same thing, isn’t it?” The question
at the end was purely rhetorical. “That answer was a bit cheeky.
Kinda surprised me.”
Laura smiled, certain now that she knew
how to deal with him. “I imagine you are a lot like my grandfather.
He can’t stand it when people pull their punches because of who he
is.”
“I met your grandfather a couple times.
It was some years back, though,” Max Rutledge recalled. “He struck
me as a man who knows exactly what he wants. More important, he
knows how to keep it.” He studied her thoughtfully. “I get the
feeling that some of that trait runs in you.”
“You definitely have met my
grandfather.” Laura carefully avoided a direct response. It was
something she had learned from her grandfather. Endless times he
had told her never to brag about who she was or what she had,
counseling her that if someone didn’t know, he’d find out on his
own soon enough. It was a lesson that had gone hand in glove with
Tara’s teaching that it was more important for Laura to make the
right impression than a good
one.
“So”—Max Rutledge dropped her evening
bag onto his lap and clamped both hands on the armrests of his
wheelchair—“are you enjoying this little do?”
“I am. Aren’t you?” she
countered.
He harrumphed ever so faintly, with a
note of amusement. “Not really. For a man like me, trapped in this
thing, I spend half the evening staring at buckles and
bosoms.”
Laura laughed, a spontaneous and
natural reaction to his irreverent remark. She struggled to swallow
it back, not wanting him to think she was laughing at his
infirmity. But remnants of it bubbled in her voice when she said,
“That offers a very different perspective on what it’s like for
you.”
“It’s a view that can have some
eye-opening rewards on occasion,” he declared with a naughty
twinkle in his eyes.
“I can imagine—vividly.” There was a
movement in her side vision as one of the guests passed by the
door, briefly blocking the light from the ballroom streaming into
the courtyard. It suddenly occurred to her that Tara might be
wondering where she was. For that matter, whoever came with Max
Rutledge might be wondering the same thing about him. Laura was
certain a man of his stature wouldn’t have come alone. “Is there
someone with you? I could—”
“Just my son.”
Laura thought she detected a note of
impatience, almost disgust, in his rather abrupt reply.
“Boone—isn’t that his name?” she recalled, unable to summon up much
else about him except a vague memory that this most eligible
bachelor from Texas had a bit of a reputation for playing the
field.
“That’s right. He’s getting the grand
tour of the palace.”
Again she sensed an air of
dissatisfaction and decided that Boone Rutledge wasn’t a wise
subject to pursue. “The view from the palazzo’s rooftop garden is
quite spectacular.”
“So I hear. But these old palaces don’t
come equipped with elevators.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Laura
admitted with a touch of her mother’s candor.
“No reason why you should,” he replied
and once more subjected her to the penetrating study of his gaze.
“I like you. You’d make a good wife for my son.”
She arched her eyebrows a little higher
at his bold statement. “Thank you, but I think your son may have
something to say about that.”
A darkness gave his eyes a steely
quality. “Not as much as you might think,” he muttered and looked
up when a tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway and
threw a shadow across them. “It’s about time you showed up, Boone.”
Again his voice had that edge to it as if there was little about
his son that pleased him. “I thought I would have to hold on to
this lady’s handbag all evening.” He stretched out an arm,
extending the beaded purse to Laura.
When she stepped forward to reclaim her
bag, Boone Rutledge moved out of the doorway to approach them.
Laura slid her glance over him, quick to notice the hint of curl in
his dark hair, the hard and manly angles of his face, and the
muscled trimness of his physique. When Boone added a sexy smile of
greeting to the mix, the result was a package of raw virility that
required only a black Stetson to complete the image of Texan
manhood. It made her wonder if Max Rutledge had cut a similar
figure when he was whole and in his prime.
“I’d like you to meet my son, Boone,”
Max said, beginning the introductions. “Boone, this is Laura
Calder, Chase Calder’s granddaughter.”
“Chase Calder of the Triple C Ranch in
Montana?” Boone glanced at his father for confirmation even as he
reached out a hand to Laura in formal greeting.
“The same.” Max nodded.
“I always meant to attend one of the
Triple C’s private livestock auctions. And now, meeting you, I
really am sorry I haven’t.” He held her hand an instant longer than
necessary, conveying his interest.
Laura didn’t feign any false modesty.
She was blond, built, and beautiful—and knew it. Dealing with a
man’s advances, whether wanted or otherwise, was one of the first
things she had learned.
“In that case I’ll make sure that you
both receive a personal invitation to our next one.” She made her
smile warm enough to encourage his interest.
“If you do, you can count on me being
there.” His gaze locked on hers, the darkening light in his eyes
adding an intimate message of his own. She recognized the signs of
a man used to making easy conquests. Her own reaction was an
instinctive desire to rise to the challenge of being the one who
held the lead rope.
“Better bring your checkbook,” she
replied. “Once you see what the Triple C has to offer, you’ll be
glad to pay the high price.”
Max Rutledge barked out a laugh. “By
God, Boone, if you’ve got a brain in your head, you’ll marry this
gal.”
“Don’t mind him,” Boone said to Laura,
a tiny flicker of irritation showing in his expression. “My father
is a little brash, but he has good taste.”
“But taste is always a matter of
personal choice, isn’t it?” Laura smiled to let Boone know she
didn’t take his father’s comment at all seriously.
“You young people these days,” Max
grumbled, “you’re a lotta talk and little action.”
“Don’t rush things, Max,” Boone replied
without pulling his gaze from Laura. “You don’t want to scare her
off.”
“I have a feeling it would take a lot
to scare this one,” Max stated, sizing her up again with another
sweeping look before firing a glare at his tall son. “And it sure
as hell would take more than you.”
A smile continued to curve Boone’s
mouth, but Laura observed the tightening of suppressed anger in it
as he sliced a look at his father. “You
could scare her, though. There aren’t many women willing to
tolerate meddling in-laws.”
The friction between father and son was
obvious, and Laura suspected it was long standing. Considering that
her own relationship with her mother was far from perfect, Laura
could sympathize with Boone.
Seeking to smooth away the awkwardness
of the exchange and its undertones of bitterness, Laura issued a
practiced laugh, a soft and tinkly sound, and sent a twinkling
glance at Boone. “Ahh, isn’t the generation gap a
pain?”
Gone was that sexy flirting of a man
who had made a habit of directing it at any attractive woman within
range of his vision. In its place was a searing warmth that made
Laura wonder if she was the first to ever be the recipient. She
experienced a little surge of triumph as she felt him slipping
around her finger.
“A royal pain,” Boone agreed, regarding
her with a new and more intimate interest.
Laura didn’t need to glance at the man
in the wheelchair to be aware that he was observing the two of them
with a good deal of satisfaction.
“There you are, Laura,”
The femininely soft drawl was instantly
familiar. Laura turned, watching as Tara Calder moved toward them
with her typical gliding grace. She was struck again by the woman’s
incredible beauty, a beauty that was stunning and absolutely
ageless. Tara’s only concession to her advancing years was a
dramatic streak of white in her otherwise midnight dark hair.
Whether the streak was nature’s doing or mere artifice, not even
Laura knew.
“I looked everywhere for you. What on
earth are you doing out—” Tara broke off the question the instant
she noticed the wheelchair-bound man. “Max Rutledge. I don’t
believe it.” Altering her course, she crossed to his side, first
bending to air-kiss his cheeks, then crouching down next to him,
the fullness of her gown’s skirt poofing about her. “I certainly
never expected to run across you here in Rome. I won’t bother to
ask how you are. You’re looking as robust as ever.”
“I look like hell, but you are still
the most charming liar I have ever known,” Max declared in a voice
that was dry and mocking.
Tara laughed, low and musical, and
briefly pressed a hand on his arm. “My daddy told me a long time
ago that when you come across something sour, just pile on a lot of
sugar.” With a fluid move, she stood erect and turned to Boone.
“My, but you have grown into a handsome rogue, Boone. How do you
manage to put up with this grumpy old bear?”
“He doesn’t have a choice,” Max
inserted, but Tara gave no sign that she had heard his somewhat
caustic remark.
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 when 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?”
“For me to fly to London and have
dinner with him later this week.”
“How wonderful. It’s little more than a
two-hour flight from here. We can arrive in the early afternoon,
which will give you plenty of time to get ready,” she stated, as
always taking charge. “First thing in the morning, I’ll notify our
pilot of our plans and arrange for reservations at Claridges. Or
would you rather stay at the Lanesborough?”
“You’re assuming that I accepted the
invitation,” Laura replied lightly.
Tara gave her a startled look. “You
did, didn’t you?”
“You sound so shocked.” Laura couldn’t
help but laugh. “Have you suddenly decided to become a
matchmaker?”
“Hardly,” Tara scoffed. “Actually, I
was thinking that a quick trip to England would provide the perfect
opportunity to see if Mr. Dunshill could arrange for us to view the
portrait of Lady Crawford. Did you speak to him at all after
dinner?”
“No.” Laura was a bit confused by the
disappointment she felt over that. Several times she had caught
Sebastian Dunshill looking her way, but he’d made no effort to seek
her out. That failure prompted Laura to dig in her heels and refuse
to make the next move. Laura knew her pride had been stung. Men had
always pursued her.
“Neither did I,” Tara admitted. “I’ll
call the contessa in the morning and find
out where he’s staying. Or . . . do I need to bother?” She glanced
expectantly at Laura. “Did you accept Boone’s dinner invitation or
not?”
“Actually, I told him I would call him
tomorrow after I talked to you. So my answer was a tentative ‘yes.’
”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
Tara continued to study her. “I had the impression earlier that you
found him attractive.”
“I do. In fact, I’m looking forward to
having dinner with him.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. Boone Rutledge is
unquestionably a rogue. In the last few years, he’s gained the
reputation of playing the field, although I suspect Max might be
the cause for that,” Tara added thoughtfully.
It was the kind of remark guaranteed to
pique Laura’s curiosity. “Why do you say that?”
“I suppose because Max has been so
openly critical of nearly every woman Boone has seen. And when Max
doesn’t like someone, he can make things very uncomfortable for
Boone, and painfully humiliating for the object of his scorn.” She
sent Laura a smiling look of approval. “Fortunately, that’s
something you don’t have to be concerned about. In one short
meeting you managed to completely captivate Max. What exactly did
you say to him before I arrived?”
Laura smiled, feeling just a bit smug.
“The kind of things you taught me. Something respectful yet laced
with a careful touch of sass.”
Tara’s soft laugh was rich with
amusement. “I should have guessed you would instantly pick up on
that. Above all else, Max Rutledge despises weakness.” She ran a
thoughtful glance over Laura. “You have an innate ability to make a
quick read of a person. It’s quite likely a knack you inherited
from Chase. It certainly can’t be taught—not by me or anyone
else.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Laura
idly watched the other traffic zipping through the
streets.
“It could prove to be an invaluable
asset to the Rutledges,” Tara mused. “Max doesn’t do as much
business entertaining as he should. You could easily change that,
though. And the education you could obtain in the machinations of
big business would be priceless.”
“Matchmaking again?” Laura
teased.
“No, merely fantasizing. And perhaps
doing a bit of reminiscing, too,” she added with a hint of
melancholy in her voice. “I always knew your father and I together
could achieve great things. There really wasn’t any limit to the
possibilities we had. I confess, when I imagine you and Boone
together, I see a bit of Ty and me. Heaven knows, you are too much
like me to ever be content merely becoming some man’s wife and the
mother of his children. Obviously, you can always have a career of
your own, completely separate from whatever your husband may do.
But it can be infinitely more stimulating when the two are
combined.”
Laura listened, aware that there was
invariably wisdom in Tara’s counsel. But this time Tara’s words
seemed only to remind her how unsettled her future was. Sooner or
later, this tour of Europe would come to a close, and she had yet
to decide what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. The
income from her trust fund meant she didn’t have any financial
concerns. At the same time, Laura knew she wouldn’t be satisfied
for long flitting from one party scene to another. A tension wound
through her, making her edgy and restless.
When the car rolled to a stop in front
of their hotel, Laura swung her legs out of the car before the
doorman had her door fully opened. Ignoring his outstretched hand,
she climbed out of the car unassisted and waited by the steps for
Tara to join her. She watched with impatience while Tara paused to
rearrange the drape of her satin stole.
Headlights caught Laura in their wide
beams as a low-slung convertible halted behind their hired car, the
sound of its motor reducing to a powerful purr. Laura glanced at
the red Porsche, welcoming the distraction of its arrival. An
instant later she had her first clear look at the driver’s face
when he agilely levered himself out of the car. A deep, heady
satisfaction quivered through her at the sight of Sebastian
Dunshill.