The Rocky Mountain Heiress Collection (82 page)

He looked at her. “I must admit you’re not at all what I was expecting when I turned my attention to the sky tonight. Thank you for a most entertaining, albeit painful evening.” He gave Charlotte a wink. “Beginning with your performance on the staircase and ending just before my face was pummeled.”

“You’re a cad.”

The Englishman gave her a scathing look. “If you were fully grown, I’d kiss you and prove it so.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not at all sure I like you, Martin.”

He shrugged. “There are times when I don’t much like Martin either, but what can I do? He’s my brother.” And with that, he left Charlotte standing on the sidewalk.

“What in the world did that mean?” she muttered as she made her way back across the street and into Grandfather’s carriage.

“Did things go well?” Gennie asked as the carriage lurched forward.

“I suppose so. He accepted my apology.”

Gennie patted her arm. “Of course he did, darling. He’s a gentleman.”

Charlotte didn’t have the heart to tell her that Martin Hambly—or possibly his brother, Alex—did not appear to be anything of the sort.

The house was blessedly dark when Alex turned onto Grosvenor Square, a testament to just how long he’d paced the streets circling Hyde Park and the surrounding area, waiting for either his brother to appear or his anger to disappear. Of all the women who might have fallen into his arms, why had it been her?

Edwin Beck had been itching to punch a Hambly for years. At least since the day Martin won Edwin’s favorite polo pony in a race Edwin claimed was fixed. It wasn’t, of course, but the younger Beck brother had never been a good sport or a good loser. That Alex had been the one to offer an excuse for fisticuffs irked him almost as much as the slight to the Hambly name.

The only bright spot in the evening was the fact that Beck and everyone else thought Martin had been the one to land on his trousers. That alone would someday be worth at least a smile. Not that he wished his brother ill, for he did not. Martin had been through enough, while Alex had, somehow, returned from the war unscathed both physically and mentally.

When he allowed it, Alex wondered why, as twins, he had not shared equally in the suffering that plagued Martin. He paid his penance for returning whole by taking Martin’s place at society functions, as the older Hambly twin no longer handled crowds or strangers well. And always, when playing his brother, Alex was a perfect gentleman.

Which begged the question of why tonight this slip of a girl had caused him to do what he’d never once done in public since returning from Africa: misbehave. He’d contemplate that question someday.

Someday but not tonight, for once again his twin had disappeared. And though Martin usually returned home on his own, he rarely reappeared without some sort of unexplained injury or loss of coin. Then there were the times when only the considerable donations made by Father kept Martin from landing in jail.

If Alex didn’t love his brother dearly, he might hate him for the trouble he caused.

He spied Martin emerging from the fog up ahead. “Perfect.”

Biting back a greeting lest he chase Martin away, Alex clenched his fists and walked on. With each step, his mirror image—minus the swollen eye—came closer. Apparently he’d been slumming, for Martin’s usual gentleman’s attire had been substituted for something the stable hands would have cast aside. And yet Alex could only feel relief that once again Martin Hambly had come home relatively unscathed from whatever nightmare precipitated tonight’s excursion.

“Finally the good brother comes home looking like the bad.” Martin Hambly’s laughter and his footsteps bounded toward Alex across the cobblestones. “What’s the matter? Can’t bother to speak to me?”

How the Lord could create two such similar people who were so very different was one of life’s unanswerable questions. Even before the war and their experiences in Africa separated them, Martin had never
been mistaken for Alex once one of them opened his mouth to speak. Where Martin had been friendly and outgoing, it had always been Alex’s lot to hang back and allow his brother the spotlight. Not only did Martin prefer it, so did Alex. The arrangement worked for both of them.

Until the war.

“Hello, Martin,” he said wearily. The gate swung open, and Alex offered a nod and a quick word of thanks to the smiling servant. “Coming in or just passing by?” he said when he noted Martin had paused just outside.

“Still deciding.” He cast furtive glances, first to the right and then the left. “I’m not certain it’s safe.”

A weariness had settled all the way to his bones, and Alex had less patience for his twin than usual. “I doubt it is. Father’s had more than his share of the Yorkshire pudding, and you know how that affects him. I’m sure Mother’s beside herself, listening to him moan from the bellyache. Still, I recommend you come inside the gate. It’s safer inside than out.”

Martin inched forward enough for the servant to slam the gate shut and lock it tight. “Thank you,” Alex told the fellow as he skittered away. He waited just a moment before giving his brother a curt nod. “Good night, then.”

Alex had almost reached the stairs when something—or someone—hit him between the shoulders. He landed hard on the ground and then rolled away just as Martin pounced. Alex fought to stand, his brother’s hand around his throat. Enraged by an enemy only he could see, Martin fought like a madman.

After a few glancing blows and one hard punch to the midsection, Alex had had enough. “Stop it, Martin,” he demanded, but his words and, apparently, his identity went unheeded as the future earl kept
swinging. It was a pattern all too familiar and yet one Alex had little patience for that night.

Especially when his brother, who could come out of this odd rage at any moment, actually drew blood.

Finally Alex bested him with a blow that sent Martin staggering backward against the garden wall. His head hit first and then his body crumpled. Before Alex could reach his brother, he saw the elder twin struggle to a sitting position and swipe at a dark smear of blood on his forehead. Alex found a handkerchief in Martin’s pocket and held it against the source of the bleeding.

“The soldiers,” Martin said in a gasp of air. “They’re coming for us. To kill us.”

Not again
.

“Be still,” Alex told his brother. “Exertion will make things worse.”

For possibly the first time in his adult life, Martin complied. He lay very still and appeared to study the sky while Alex continued to press on the wound.

“They’re beautiful.” His brother’s eyes found Alex. “Never understood why you so fancied the stars. But look.” He attempted to lift his hand.

Alex obliged by glancing up in the direction Martin pointed. Streaking across the eastern sky was what he’d been waiting to see all evening: Jacob’s Comet.

“It has a tail,” Martin whispered.

“That’s because it’s a comet.”

“See, that’s where we differ,” Martin said in a long breath. “I wouldn’t have known it was …”

“A comet.” Alex pressed harder. “I warrant we differ in more than just the study of astronomy.” He searched Martin’s face, trying to ignore
the fact it was the same one he saw daily in the mirror. “You do understand there’s no one trying to kill us, don’t you, Martin?”

“Of course.” Martin’s laughter held no humor. “It isn’t you they’re after.” He met Alex’s stare, his eyes vacant and his expression blank. All familiar signs of the angst that plagued him. “They want me.”

Alex sighed as he handed the handkerchief to Martin then settled back on the ground beside him. Overhead a canopy of stars peered through wisps of clouds, which ringed a pale moon. He climbed to his feet and offered Martin help in standing, steadying him when he faltered. “Let me help you to bed.”

A statement Martin neither acknowledged nor likely heard as he stumbled inside. He rarely did.

June 10, 1887
Earls Court, London

Charlotte turned her face to the rare London sun and allowed the warm light to create patterns beneath her eyelids. Had she possessed her canvas and pigments, she might have attempted to paint the colors she saw, the shifting swirls of red, amber, and periwinkle. Today, however, she’d set her paints aside to endure a performance of Colonel Cody’s show.

She wished she were sitting with Grandfather in his library, quizzing him on the well-worn book on commerce and economy she’d read into the wee hours. Wouldn’t Miss Pence be horrified to know Charlotte much preferred returning to her place in Adam Smith’s
The Wealth of Nations
rather than donning her corset to make yet another social appearance?

Were it not all the rage and quite the coup to garner an invitation to ride in the carriage during the performance, Charlotte would have declined. It was all a bunch of silliness to her, pretending to bring a bit
of the Old West to London. What sort of Old West Colonel Cody had seen, Charlotte couldn’t say. There was nothing wild about the West where she lived. For all its proximity to the prairie, Denver strongly resembled London in its modern conveniences. She’d found nothing much there to call exciting since Papa became enthralled with the country life and purchased that awful ranch.

But Gennie had embraced her adopted home in the West with great enthusiasm, and because she loved it, she thought it a great adventure to accept Colonel Cody’s offer to participate in a dramatization. Their coach was to be set upon by actors pretending to be ruffians and rescued by the great Buffalo Bill himself.

Charlotte’s gaze swept the close confines of the carriage and recognized a prominent politician and at least two members of Queen Victoria’s extended family. All wore expectant smiles and uniforms decorated with medals and sashes.

Gussie would have exclaimed her pleasure to the rafters had she been included. Charlotte, however, seemed to be the only one who wished the ordeal would hurry to an end.

“You know,” she whispered to Gennie, “I’m sure any number of people would love to have my seat. Why don’t I offer it up to someone who will appreciate the honor?”

Gennie shot her a look that told Charlotte exactly what she thought of the idea. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You know your father made me promise to keep you in my sight at all times since the
incident.
”

Charlotte swiveled to face her. “Why did you cable him? You knew he’d be upset.”

Her stepmother met Charlotte’s stare. “And you know I withhold nothing from my husband, especially when it concerns the family.” She
paused. “Why do you think we visited the House of Worth, Charlotte? It certainly was not so you could flaunt your as-yet-untamed nature by such a display. No, your father and I hope your wedding dress and trousseau will be used sooner rather than later. You
do
want that, don’t you?”

She did, but only if she could manage an arrangement whereby she was wed but not shackled. “Yes, I suppose.”

Gennie patted her hand. “Then you must continue to take training with Miss Pence and learn as best you can the behavior of a lady.”

Sighing, Charlotte leaned back against the stiff springs of the ancient coach. “Yes, of course, I’m such a source of scandal.”

“Watch your tone, young lady.” Gennie leaned in closer.

Charlotte shrugged. “I was only doing what you told me and moving discreetly toward the window to get some air.”

Gennie stiffened. “I do not recall telling you to fall out that window and into the arms of the Hambly heir.”

Charlotte’s brows rose in spite of her vow to keep her countenance neutral. “How do you know I fell?”

Her stepmother’s chuckle held no humor. “Even you wouldn’t go so far as to jump, Charlotte.”