“How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at the low-cut bodice of her gown, pulling it higher. “I feel naked.”

Olivia laughed, brushed Claire’s hands away and urged the bodice back down. “You look beautiful. And remember, you’re not Claire Orwell—you’re the brazen Duchess of Beaumont.”

“That’s true. I’m sure the duchess has no qualms about displaying her décolletage.”

“None whatsoever.” Olivia’s smile became wicked when she said, “I’ve heard it whispered that since Charmaine Beaumont’s husband—the pompous old duke—died five years ago, she has taken any number of handsome lovers. Are you planning to add a few to her list?”

“Only one,” said Claire without hesitation, the image of the dark stranger she’d caught sight of this afternoon flashing into her mind. She stated the unguarded truth. “I would like—just once in my life—to have a grand passion. To know what it’s like to make love with a man who can sweep me off my feet and dazzle me. I shall do the duchess proud. I assume Her Grace can choose any man she wants. So I fully intend to pick the most sought after man in Saratoga.” She paused and added, “And then seduce him.”

“Seduce him? How?” asked Olivia.

Claire smiled, catlike. “Why, by ignoring him, of course.”

Also by NAN RYAN

CHIEFTAIN

NAUGHTY MARIETTA

THE SCANDALOUS MISS HOWARD

THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN

THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES

WANTING YOU

Duchess for a Day
Nan Ryan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Contents

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

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

One

London, Wednesday June 26, 1895

Newgate Prison

6:00 p.m. British Summertime

At shortly after the hour, a stern-faced turnkey dropped a ladder down from his perch high atop the catwalk. He turned and handed a frightened Claire Orwell down that ladder and into the infamous prison’s crowded Common Cell.

Claire’s presence caused an immediate stir. The criminals snapped to attention. Bloodshot eyes popped open and clung to the blond, willowy young woman.

“Meet yer ’ospitable mates.” The gruff turnkey gave a nasty grin as the curious crowded closer. “Street thieves. Pickpockets. Footpads. Shoplifters. And whores. You’ll fit right in, eh?”

The turnkey kicked a sleeping derelict out of the way. The bony, sweat-soaked felon groaned, rolled over, belched loudly, then fell back to snoring. Sickened by the pungent scent of stale vomit emanating from the prostrate creature, Claire made a face of disgust.

The turnkey laughed again. “Not to fret. T’aint nothin’ ye won’t get used to, Queenie.”

Claire felt her stomach roll.

“’ere, dearie, sit by me.” This from a diseased-looking woman with brittle, dyed-black hair and grimy clothes.

The woman yanked her soiled skirts up around bruised thighs and batted her matted eyelashes. Claire shuddered as the others hooted and whistled, obviously enjoying the look of repugnance on her face.

A chill skipped up her spine. “I beg you, sir, allow me to speak to a barrister at once. You cannot imprison me before I’ve even been accused. A cell at police headquarters if you must, but don’t leave me down here. I’ve done nothing wrong. I am innocent of any wrongdoing.”

“Aye, that’s what they all say,” was his curt reply. He adjusted his black uniform coat with its two rows of brass buttons, shoved his billed cap forward on his broad forehead and, none too gently, propelled Claire forward. “A few nights down here, Miss Sticky Fingers, and you’ll think twice ’fore ye go stealin’ from yer betters again.”

Claire said nothing more. It was no use. He wouldn’t listen. No one would listen. She had spent the whole long day fruitlessly attempting to persuade the authorities that she had done nothing wrong. Now the terrible thought struck her that no one would know she was imprisoned here save the vengeful, titled knave who had lied to put her here.

Claire had to let someone know what had happened. Surely even prisoners were allowed to send messages, to have visitors, to retain counsel.

She firmly set her jaw as the turnkey, roughly gripping her upper arm, thrust her on through the motley horde of criminals lying about in clumps on the dirty dungeon floor. All were watching her every move, muttering, making lewd gestures and grinning slyly. Claire artfully dodged dirty hands reaching out to grab at her long, flowing skirts. She made eye contact with no one.

Newgate was everything she’d heard it was.

And more.

A filthy hellhole into which the very dregs of humanity had been cast and forgotten. A dank, putrid place filled with scum and riffraff and dangerous criminals of both sexes. A dungeon where the only light came from small, dirty windows high above the catwalk.

Shadows were deepening with the close of the day. Claire anxiously looked about for a place to sit apart from the other prisoners. There was no such place.

“Make yerself at ’ome,” said the turnkey, finally releasing Claire’s arm.

Claire frowned and exhaled heavily. Then she squared her slender shoulders. With single-minded determination, she made her slow, sure way toward the cell’s western perimeter where fewer prisoners were gathered. The turnkey followed close on her heels.

Claire heard the big warder behind her say, “Move it, Green Tooth. We ’ave a new guest checkin’ into our luxurious ’ohel. Scoot yer bony arse over and give the little lady some room to breathe.”

Claire glanced down at the poor creature he had addressed. A stick-thin, graying, stringy-haired old crone who was badly in need of dental work and a fresh suit of clothing. The woman’s thin face was wrinkled and dirty, her teeth rotted and blackened, but her eyes were bright and amazingly alert.

The old woman known to the criminal class as Green Tooth hurriedly moved out of the way. But she didn’t take her eyes off the new female prisoner.

“What are you looking at, old woman?” Claire snapped, hoping to assert a firm authority and clearly demonstrate a lack of fear she didn’t feel. “Stop staring! Keep away from me. I mean it.”

The old harridan sank back into the shadows against the wall. But she continued to covertly stare at Claire.

Claire released a slow, shallow breath.

She turned about and sat down. She leaned against the wall, raised her knees, and wrapped her arms around them. She let her head fall back and rest against the rough brick. Warily, she looked around the teeming, reeking hellhole.

The prisoners were continuing to ogle and point and whisper. Claire felt goose bumps pop up on her arms and the fine hair rise at her nape. She was in a squalid pit surrounded by the dregs of humanity and darkness would soon fall.

She lifted her eyes to the catwalk above.

The burly turnkey who had escorted her down into the pit stood clutching the railing, looking down on the prisoners. A younger warder walked patrol around the catwalk.

Claire was relieved to see them there. They or their replacements would be on patrol throughout the evening, making certain there was no trouble. They wouldn’t allow any real mischief to take place. She would be safe enough.

As darkness settled over the city of London the only light in the Common Cell of Newgate prison were the wall torches flickering on redbrick walls blackened by years of soot.

Claire didn’t move as the others roused to eat the evening meal. While the ravenous prisoners tore at the stale bread and wolfed down the watery soup with loud slurping gusto, Claire made a face and closed her eyes. The smells and the sounds continued to assault her senses, but she didn’t have to look at the human slime.

“Best ’ave a spot ’o yer soup,” came Green Tooth’s voice from out of the shadows.

Claire opened her eyes and her head snapped around. She glared at the dirty old woman. “I am not hungry. Stop bothering me.”

Green Tooth lifted her own tin bowl and took a long final drink of the watery soup. She set the empty bowl down, wiped her mouth on a dirty sleeve, and informed Claire, “Need to keep yer strength up if you’ve any ’opes of stayin’ alive down ’ere.”

“I won’t be staying long,” Claire stated firmly. “I’m innocent and I—”

“’Course ye are,” said the old crone, interrupting. “Ain’t we all. Not a guilty soul in ’ere. Not a one.”

“Yes, well, I am innocent and I’ll be out of here by morning.”

“Not bloody likely,” said Green Tooth. “Innocent or no, it’ll be weeks, p’rhaps months ’fore any court ’ears yer case.”

“No, it will not,” Claire said, dismissing her. “Now kindly stop bothering me.”

Green Tooth said, “I’m tryin’ to ’elp ye.”

“I need no help,” Claire said. “Not another word out of you, do you hear!”

Green Tooth fell silent, but she continued to carefully study Claire. She couldn’t take her eyes off her. There was something hauntingly familiar about this young woman. That hair, the porcelain skin, those vivid violet eyes, the graceful curve of her throat. Surely a direct link to someone from the past. The name she couldn’t quite bring to bear. She searched her memory.

Could she be? No, too young. But blood told…The daughter. She had to be the daughter.

Eyes closed, Claire sat on the hard stone floor and silently lectured herself. She couldn’t let this hideous turn of events best her. She had to be strong and resourceful. She had to keep her wits about her and figure a way out of this terrible predicament. She was, she knew, in serious trouble.

Who would take her word over that of Lord Wardley Nardees?

No one.

She faced this outrageous charge on her own. All alone.

It wasn’t the first time Claire had been alone. She was used to it. Had been used to it since losing both parents when she was a girl of eighteen. Shortly after their deaths she had accepted the proposal of an old family friend. Dear, stalwart, solicitous Keith Orwell. He would have gladly taken care of her for the rest of her life, but tragedy soon struck again.

Only four years after they’d wed, her kindhearted husband had died suddenly of apoplexy and she was widowed at age twenty-two. Orwell had left no money, so there’d been little time to grieve his passing. Claire had had to immediately find a way to support herself.

Well educated, she had promptly become governess to a fine family’s two well-behaved boys. She’d spent five pleasant years in their employ ending with her young wards leaving for boarding school. She was then chosen to be governess to the wealthy Lord Wardley Nardees’s three unruly children.

Claire shuddered now at the recollection of what had happened in the baron’s huge mansion only last night.

She opened her eyes and again looked above. She felt a small degree of comfort in seeing the turnkey continuing to patrol on the catwalk. But as she watched, he suddenly stopped and moved directly to the rope ladder on which she had descended into the bowels of the Common Cell.

Her heart sank when he loudly announced to the prisoners below, “Raisin’ the ladder, ye miserable scabs! Jest ye try and get out ’o the hole in the middle of the night!” He bent and swiftly drew the ladder up out of reach, rung by rung, and Claire saw her only connection with the world above taken away.

No sooner had the ladder been lifted than the turnkey moved around the catwalk extinguishing most of the wall torches. In minutes the Common Cell was cast into deep dark shadows.

She was to spend the long night in this pit at the mercy of dangerous criminals.

Nothing to worry about, she told herself. The turnkey was patrolling again. He would keep a close eye on the dungeon. She should try to relax and get some much needed rest. Tomorrow she would figure a way out of this travesty.

A quarter past midnight.

Claire was wide awake. Unfortunately the lone turnkey was not. He was no longer patrolling. He was snoring, dead to the world, somewhere out of sight above.

As the hour grew later the hellhole began stirring to life after hours of relative quiet. The new activity greatly unnerved Claire. She was not naive. She was fully aware that she had attracted the unwanted attention of the male denizens and the soulless whores. All had cast lascivious glances at her throughout the evening. All were dangerous. All were free to do as they pleased because the sleeping turnkey was not doing his job. She was helpless against them.

Claire’s anxiety grew when a half dozen of the menacing villains began to gravitate steadily closer. She was paralyzed with fear when a big, strapping female squatted down before her, roughly grabbed Claire’s left ankle and dragged her away from the wall.

“Come to me, beauty,” said the woman, a leer on her chubby face.

Claire kicked wildly at her. “Stop!” she cried, her hips and shoulder blades bumping against the stone floor. “Leave me alone, let me be!”

The fat female smiled in mock surrender and, releasing Claire’s ankle, rose to her feet. Claire scrambled to sit up. She held up her hands defensively as her heart pounded in her ears. She frantically looked around for an escape route. Even if she made it past the evil creatures now circling her, she couldn’t get out of this snake pit.

“I’m first,” announced a cadaverous man with open sores on his face and old scabs decorating his ropy forearms. Shoving the obese prostitute out of the way, he began unbuttoning his filthy trousers as he licked his droopy lower lip.

“The ’ell you are!” snapped a tall, thin woman with greasy corkscrew curls and a long nasty scar slashing down her filthy face. She easily shoved the thin man out of her way. Yanking her tattered skirts up past her knobby knees, she stated, “This one’s mine.”

She’d hardly gotten the words out before a big, muscular brute with a sweat-drenched bare chest and unshaven face stepped in, swung a quick right, and knocked the thin whore flat on her back.

“Stay away from me!” Claire warned as the reeking, half-naked man sank to his knees and reached for her.

Claire’s heart stopped.

“You ’eard the lady,” came a low feminine voice from out of the darkness.

Claire blinked as Green Tooth, roused from a fitful slumber by all the commotion, swiftly emerged from the shadows and pressed the tip of a long sharp piece of glass directly against the man’s juggler vein. Firmly clutching the crude weapon by its handle fashioned of used twine, she said quietly, “Move back or get yer throat slit, gov.”

The big man, his calloused hand already clutching at Claire’s shirtwaist bodice, laughed off Green Tooth’s threat. Bent on having the pale, clean beauty, he ripped Claire’s bodice and she screamed.

“Now I will kill ye!” Green Tooth coolly promised. She jabbed the weapon’s sharp tip into his glistening throat and drew blood.

He yelped in pain, released his hold on Claire’s bodice, and rolled away, cursing. Green Tooth stepped directly in front of Claire, thrust the bloody glass weapon forward toward the others and said, “The same goes for the rest of ye. Touch one ’air on ’er ’ead and ye won’t live to see daylight.”

Two

No one doubted Green Tooth’s threat.

They cursed her and vowed to get even and promised, come daylight, they’d tell the turnkey she had a weapon. Then they laughed and jeered and accused her of being a crazy old hag. But all of them slowly backed away.

For several long minutes the slight old crone continued to stay there unmoving, her stance denoting total authority and an absence of fear. Her thin arm extended, jaw set, she had the crude weapon gripped tightly in her hand and thrust forward.

She finally lowered the weapon and began to sink back into the shadows. Claire, clutching at her torn bodice, hurriedly rose to her feet and laid a hand on the old woman’s arm.

“Thank you. You saved me! I’m very grateful to you. What would I have done if you hadn’t intervened?”

Green Tooth brushed Claire’s hand from her arm. “I knew ye’d be causin’ trouble in ’ere,” she said, shaking her gray head.

Without another word, she sat back down on the stone floor, frowning when Claire sank down close beside her.

“I never meant to cause any trouble,” Claire defended herself. “I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong down here.”

“None of us do, lassie,” said Green tooth tiredly. “I told you, we’re all innocent ’ere.”

“But you don’t understand, my employer, Lord Nardees, grabbed me in the middle of the night and—”

“It’s the same old story,” Green Tooth interrupted, “’ve ’eard it all before.”

“Yes, I know, but I—”

“I ’ave to get me rest,” Green Tooth said, closing her eyes, shutting Claire out.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Claire said and fell silent.

Exhausted, nerves raw, afraid as she’d never been before in her life, Claire longed to unburden herself, to confide in someone who would listen and learn the truth.

But no one would believe her if she did.

She sat there in the darkness, berating herself for accepting the position of governess to the powerful Lord Nardees’s three spoiled children.

She had gone to Stonehaven in mid-June, only two short weeks ago.

Late last night, the portly Lord Nardees had pounded on her third floor door, awakening her from a deep slumber. She’d lunged up in bed, sleepy and confused. Before she could rise, the lord, dressed in white cotton attire that looked like a physician’s protective gown, stalked hurriedly into her room and told her that she had to come with him at once. Supposing something untoward had happened to one of the children, she had thrown on a robe and anxiously rushed after him.

“What it is, milord?” she asked, alarmed, as together they dashed down the wide upstairs corridor.

“Shhh,” he cautioned. “We must be quiet.”

Claire said no more, but dutifully swept into the room when he opened the door at the end of the hallway. He hastily followed. Once inside she looked around.

No one was there. No sick child.

The room was empty. But it was well lighted, every lamp blazing. The only furniture was a physician’s examining couch, which sat at the very center of the room. A white sheet was draped over it. Beside the couch, on a small utility table, was a white shaving mug and brush and a pair of scissors.

And, gleaming in the lamplight, lay a silver, fully opened straight-edged razor.

Instantly alarmed, Claire turned to give the lord a questioning look. She was horrified to find that he was now stark naked, the white uniform discarded and lying on the carpeted floor. Beneath his flabby overhanging belly, his male member was fully erect.

“Lord Nardees, how dare you!” she exclaimed in shock and outrage. “Cover yourself at once!”

She made a move toward the closed door. But the lord stood before it, blocking her way, his beady eyes gleaming and a drool of spittle slipping down from the left side of his mouth.

“My dear,” he murmured, stepping close, “since the first moment I saw you, I’ve wanted you for my mistress.”

And with that declaration, the naked nobleman had swiftly caught a stunned Claire up in his arms, pressed her against his big belly and tried to kiss her. Horrified and repulsed, she turned her face away and began to struggle to free herself.

“Let me go, damn you! Stop this at once!” she demanded, hitting his beefy arms and broad back with doubled up fists.

“Ah, yes, fight me a little while I rub myself against you, sweet beauty! I like my lovers to be fiery.” The eager lord shoved Claire’s robe off her right shoulder, yanked the yoke of her nightgown open down her chest and buried his wet, fleshy lips in the curve of her neck and shoulder.

“Let go of me, you miserable swine, or I shall scream so loudly your wife will come running.”

Sucking eagerly on the tender flesh of her exposed throat, Lord Nardees ignored her threat. Claire was well aware that his homely, lazy wife was probably snoring soundly in their suite on the mansion’s first floor and would not hear her screams. Claire continued to beat on the baron’s bare back and tried to kick his shins. Vainly, she struggled to free herself from the excited, perspiring man.

Finally, having no other recourse, she turned her face inward and bit his jowls. Hard. Drawing blood. Shocked and in pain, he automatically raised his head and loosened his hold. Claire seized the opportunity and viciously kneed him in the groin. He released her and grabbing himself, sank to his knees, keening in agony there before the closed door.

Claire knew she had to get out of that room and out of that house. Finding strength she didn’t know she possessed, she shoved him over onto his back, grabbed him behind the knees, and dragged him away from the door. She darted around him, opened the door and fled down the hall to her room. Heart pounding, she hurriedly dressed and began packing.

She wasn’t sure what the thwarted lord would do next, but she had no intention of staying in his home long enough to find out. After only a few short minutes spent collecting her belongings, Claire was ready to make her escape.

But she was too late.

The door to her room was now locked and barred from the outside. Claire ground her teeth in frustration. The angry baron had already summoned his minions to confine her.

She dropped her valise and hurried to the tall leaded windows that faced the estate’s rolling back gardens. She opened one of the windows and looked down. She had never realized how high off the ground this third floor room was. There was no balcony on which to step outside. No trellis on which to climb down. It was a sheer drop of forty feet to the ground below. If she jumped she would likely break a leg. Even if she didn’t, guards patrolled the vast rear grounds at night. She’d never get past them.

She was trapped.

Throughout the long night Claire paced, worried and wondered what would happen to her.

Come the morning she found out.

While the entire staff watched and whispered, Claire was taken from the baron’s house by two uniformed policemen. Lord Nardees had accused her of stealing some of his wife’s valuable jewelry and had alerted the authorities.

At police headquarters Claire had vowed her innocence, but to no avail. Her repeated requests for counsel were refused. After the long tiring day of futilely demanding that a barrister be appointed for her, she was thrown into Newgate prison’s Common Cell with a stern reminder that stealing from one of England’s titled noblemen would surely get her several long years in prison.

Now in the prison’s darkness, Claire swallowed hard and fought back the tears that clogged her tight throat. The terrible truth dawned that she might never get out of this dungeon.

Dawn was not far off when Green Tooth slowly turned her head, looked at the fair, blond young woman and saw that she was sleeping.

Finally.

Green Tooth glanced warily around at the rest of the prisoners to make sure all were asleep. Satisfied they were, she reached down and dug deep into her worn left shoe and pried from its sole a shiny gold coin. A coin she’d treasured for years.

She laid the coin in her lap and reached into the pocket of her filthy skirt. She withdrew a small pad of paper and a stubby lead pencil.

In minutes she was up and silently crossing the Common Cell. She waved a thin arm until she attracted the attention of the head turnkey who was back on his perch above. She motioned to him. He frowned, shook his head, but dropped the ladder over and came down it.

“Need a favor, gov,” Green Tooth whispered and handed the guard a folded note and the gold coin.

The turnkey glanced at the note, bit the coin to check its authenticity, and nodded in affirmation.

Three

Alas, it wasn’t weeks or months until Claire’s arraignment. It was later that very same morning.

Nine sharp.

Thursday, the twenty-seventh of June, 1895.

Claire’s case was first on the docket. If indicted—which seemed assured—she would be convicted and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison.

The honorable Percival Knowlton sat on the bench above in his colorful flowing judge’s robes and curly white powdered wig. The prosecutor, Cecil Twiggs, a slight man with thinning, sandy hair and sallow complexion, was there to represent the Queen.

Claire stood beside him as Twiggs stated the charges. “Your honor, the defendant, Mrs. Claire Orwell, betrayed the trust and kindness of her employer, Lord Wardley Nardees. Mrs. Orwell was employed…”

The arraignment, a predetermined farce, had begun.

Once the charges had been fully read, the elderly judge sat back in his chair, reached up under his white wig and rubbed a spot on his temple.

He looked at Claire. “Who speaks for the defendant?”

Rising to her feet, Claire looked around, searching in vain for the aging hack barrister the crown had appointed as her counsel. She turned back to address the judge.

“No one, I fear, milord.”

At that moment a large hand came to rest on her shoulder. She turned and looked up to see a giant of a man, resplendent in legal raiment bearing the Old Queen’s own colors. The powdered wig only added to his towering height.

“I kindly beg to differ.” The giant’s voice was low and surprisingly soft. “I speak for the accused, your worship.”

Cecil Twiggs paled and the slim prosecution brief slipped from his fingers. He bent and picked it up, his hand visibly shaking.

The judge sat upright, imperious in his tall-backed leather chair. He adjusted his spectacles, leaned forward and asked, “To what happy circumstance do we have the honor of the Queen’s own Counsel gracing our humble criminal court? Welcome, Lord Northway.”

Lord Northway thanked the judge and smiled at the awed Claire. He was an impressive man in both stature and manner and well known for his keen legal mind.

Lord Northway’s father, Henderson Northway, had been elevated by Queen Victoria forty-five years ago for the outstanding legal, diplomatic and political advice he had given as the Queen’s Counsel on affairs both domestic and foreign. Most notable was his opinion that the Queen’s highly opposed recognition of the Republic of Texas would, if done, be unchallenged.

The grateful Queen had rewarded him with a peerage.

Claire was as puzzled as the learned judge and the nervous prosecution that Lord Northway had come to her defense.

From his bench above, Judge Knowlton nodded toward Twiggs. “State the charge.”

“Grand theft, milord.” Twiggs opened the brief. “To be specific, jewelry belonging to Lord Nardees’s wife, valued by these appraisals in the amount of three thousand pounds.”

“Any witness besides the good baron?” asked the judge, a noticeable frown on his face.

Twiggs shook his head.

“What say you, Lord Northway? State your case.”

“No case, milord, but a few questions for the crown, perhaps.”

“We are honored to take questions of the Queen’s Counsel.” The judge waved a permissive hand.

“Thank you, milord.” The tall barrister turned to Cecil Twiggs. “These appraisals you have before you in the amount of three thousand pounds?”

“Yes,” Twiggs eagerly responded.

“How many separate appraisals and who made the appraisals?”

“There are six separate appraisals all made by Lloyd’s of London, of course.”

The quality and power of his voice demanding total attention, Lord Northway promptly pointed out that Claire Orwell’s accuser had not filed any claims with Lloyd’s of London.

“Your honor, Joseph Phillips, Esquire, of Lloyd’s of London waits just outside. He will testify to the fact that no claims have been made by Lord Nardees. May I add that Lloyd’s of London has insured the lord’s belongings for thirty-five years.” Lord Northway turned to Cecil Twiggs. “Over the last ten years, how many charges has Lord Nardees brought against his servants?”

Twiggs blanched, looking to the bench for help and direction.

“Answer,” said the judge with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Twiggs spread the brief before him on the prosecution table. “Perhaps four accusations.”

“Perhaps six,” Lord Northway softly corrected.

“Possible,” said Twiggs. “I have only—”

“Lord Northway, are you calling Lord Nardees a liar?” asked the judge. “That’s your defense?”

“Not at all, your honor. I’m simply pointing out that perhaps a mistake has been made. Honorable people can disagree and—”

“Approach the bench,” the judge interrupted.

Lord Northway again stated, “Nardees has filed no claims on past charges. Perhaps the items Lord Nardees thought were stolen have only been misplaced. And subsequently found.” Lord Northway paused and drew himself up to his full, imposing height. “Are we to send this poor young woman—” he nodded to Claire “—who has no history of committing any crimes, to twenty-five years and ruin her life—or more accurately, end her life? She may not survive…” Again he paused, then said, “I respectably ask for all charges to be dismissed.”

The judge looked intently at Lord Northway. “I will rule later today.”

At 6:00 p.m. the judge told the prosecutor that he had dismissed the charges. He also considered the failure on the part of Lord Nardees to file insurance claims. He told the barristers he was going to deny a true bill and that Claire Orwell was to be set free. Claire and the barristers rose to their feet. The judge asked Lord Northway to stay. Claire turned to thank her gallant defender.

Lord Northway smiled warmly and said, “If you’ll wait just outside, I must speak with you before you go. I won’t be long.”

Claire nodded and walked out with the prosecutor.

“Tell me, old man,” the judge beseeched when the two were alone, “what in the name of God brings you to defend this poor woman?”

Lord Northway smiled, reached into his weskit pocket and extracted a large gold hunter-case watch. He gave the stem a slight twist and the case opened, revealing a yellowing enameled miniature.

The judge gasped audibly.

“Yes,” acknowledged Lord Northway, “an exact likeness of Claire Orwell.”

“Painted years before Claire was born,” the judge said.

Lord Northway nodded. “My father handed me this watch on his deathbed.” He looked at the faded miniature. “She was the love of his life.”

“I see,” the judge sat back in his chair.

“Father instructed me to help her daughter, Claire, if ever she needed me.”

“How did you hear about her being in trouble?”

“A timely missive from a miscreant in Newgate known as Green Tooth,” said Lord Northway.

Claire looked up, smiled and rose from the bench in the corridor as Lord Northway approached. Still puzzled that he had come to her defense, she was even more puzzled when the stately lord handed her an envelope.

“My dear,” he said in that rich baritone voice, “I’ve a bit of good news for you.”

Claire listened and learned that she was being offered the opportunity to sail to America to open up the Saratoga Springs, New York, summer house of Britain’s flamboyant Duchess of Beaumont. The young, blond widow was one of Britain’s more colorful royals, a woman who cared not one whit what the gossips said about her.

Claire had read of the duchess’s exploits and her photograph had often appeared in the London Times.

“Your duties,” said Lord Northway, “if you choose to accept the position, will be to hire a small staff and have the Saratoga residence made ready for the arrival of the duchess herself. She’ll be coming to the Springs in mid-August for the summer racing season.

“It is,” said Northway, “entirely up to you. If you wish to accept this offer, all the necessary arrangements will be made for you.”

“Yes, of course, I accept!” said Claire, excited. “I can think of nothing I’d like better than to…to…” She stopped speaking and frowned suddenly. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t leave the poor old woman known as Green Tooth behind. She owed the woman her life. She couldn’t be ungrateful and turn her back on the poor creature.

Claire looked up at the tall, imposing man and said, “On one condition, milord.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve a friend who must accompany me to America.”

His eyebrows raised. “A male?”

“No, female.”

“I see no difficulty. Your friend can serve in some capacity as part of the staff.”

“Actually, it’s not quite that simple,” Claire said. She took a deep breath and informed him, “She’s presently a prisoner in Newgate. But she’s good-hearted. She saved me from a terrible physical attack and I will take responsibility for her.”

“What’s her crime?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I would guess petty theft or some such minor charge. I beg you, Lord Northway, find a way to free the poor woman and allow me to take her with me.”

Lord Northway reluctantly agreed to look into the charges and see what he could do. The astonished Green Tooth was freed that same afternoon.

The next morning Claire went directly to the bank and withdrew what meager funds she’d managed to save over the years. Then she requested entrance to her safe-deposit box. She took the box into a small private room, opened it and lifted from it a small velvet drawstring bag.

Claire loosened the tasseled drawstrings and looked inside. She smiled, as she always did, when admiring the sparkling treasures inside. After only a few seconds, she reluctantly drew the strings tight once more.

Then she lifted her full skirts and pinned the velvet pouch in among the folds of her full petticoats. She dropped her skirts, patted the concealed treasure, and left the bank with a spring to her step.

With the money she’d withdrawn, Claire promptly sent the woman who had saved her life to the dentist and to have her hair cut and buy some new clothes. And Claire bought her frail friend a fine-looking hickory walking cane with a gleaming silver head.

Days later Claire Orwell and Olivia Sutton—Olivia Sutton looking nothing like the unkempt woman dubbed Green Tooth and Claire vowing she’d have Olivia speaking like a proper lady by the time they reached New York—happily set sail for America on a bright, clear June morning.

Four

Virginia City, Nevada

Friday, July 5, 1895

Strong alpine sunlight streamed in through the open bedroom windows of an imposing three-story mansion perched on the cliffs high above the little mining city.

The sunshine had slowly marched across the spacious upstairs room until finally, at midmorning, it reached the bed. And the bed’s occupants.

A man and a woman.

The man groaned when the penetrating light shone through his closed eyelids, disturbing him, annoying him. Without opening his eyes, he grabbed a feather pillow, stuck his dark head under it, muttered a curse and promptly fell back to sleep.

The woman slowly awakened, stretched and raised up onto an elbow. Shoving her tousled dark hair out of her eyes, she yawned sleepily, then began to smile like the cat that got the cream. She gazed at the ruggedly handsome man stretched out naked on his belly beside her.

The darkness of his lean, bare body was in striking contrast to the whiteness of the silky sheets. Admiring him, she let her lazy gaze travel downward from his wide, sculpted shoulders and over the long, deeply clefted back to his trim waist. Her eyes brightened when they reached his firm buttocks, the smooth flesh of the rounded cheeks as deeply tanned as his leanly muscled arms. The sight of those strong arms and powerful thighs made her heart flutter pleasantly.

Recalling last’s night tempestuous loving, she sighed with pleasure, laid back down, and was soon asleep again.

Another hour passed before the man began to stir. Slowly he pulled his head out from under the pillow, lifted it and looked warily around. He saw the sleeping brunette beauty and made a face. He had forgotten she was here. He wished that she weren’t. Wished now that he hadn’t insisted she come home with him last night. Then again, he wasn’t sure he had. It might have been her idea.

Hank Cassidy made a face.

He tried to remember exactly what had happened at last night’s rowdy Fourth of July celebration. He vividly recalled the earlier part of the evening. The food and fireworks and the six-shooters discharging in the air. The music and the street dance and pretty little Patricia Ann Vance, the young woman he had escorted to the festivities.

Hank turned his head, looked again at the naked woman beside him. She wasn’t Patricia Ann. Patricia Ann was petite and had auburn hair and fair skin. This woman was tall and voluptuous and her hair and skin were almost as dark as his own.

Hank felt his head began to mildly throb. Then it dawned on him. He had, at the good-natured dares of his boisterous buddies and over Patricia Ann’s strong objections, made several visits to the makeshift outdoor bar for shots of rotgut whiskey. It was coming back to him now. He’d had one too many bourbons and Patricia Ann got huffy and warned as they danced, “Henry Columbus Cassidy, so help me if you have one more drink, I am leaving!”

“Well don’t let us keep you,” said a seductive long-legged beauty with dark hair, deftly stepping between him and the furious Patricia Ann to offer him a drink.

And herself.

Hank couldn’t remember seeing Patricia Ann after that. He did remember drinking and dancing and laughing with this brazen beauty. And, he vaguely recalled, much later in the evening, the two of them moving their little party on up the hill to the privacy of his home. Articles of discarded clothing had left a telltale trail from the room’s closed door to the bed.

He glanced again at the woman. In last night’s haste to get undressed and into bed, she had missed one sheer stocking. It still enclosed her long left leg enticingly. A saucy black lace garter rested just above her knee.

Hank eased over onto his back and scratched his stubbled jaw in puzzlement. What the hell was her name? As he recalled she was visiting from California; he’d never seen her before last night. They had not been formally introduced, but surely she’d told him her name at some point in the evening. Nonetheless, he couldn’t bring it to mind. Whoever she was, it was time she left.

He had a train to catch.

Hank drew a deep breath, reached out, touched the woman’s shoulder and gave her a firm shake. “Darlin’, time for us to wake up.”

Her dark eyes slowly opened. She saw him and began to smile. “Good morning, Hank, my love.”

“Mornin’…ah…honey.” He turned away, sat up and threw his long legs over the edge of the mattress. “Get dressed and I’ll have Brady drive you home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” she said, hastily sitting up and stripping off her lone stocking and black garter. Before Hank could rise to his feet, she scrambled across the mattress and looped the stocking around his waist from behind. Playfully biting his left ear, she murmured, “Have you forgotten what you promised last night, Hank?”

Hank screwed up his face. What could he have possibly promised this woman whose name he did not know? Had he mentioned Saratoga to her? Surely not. “No, of course I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then you’ll take me with you to Saratoga Springs?” she shrieked happily, releasing the sheer stocking. It whispered down to Hank’s lap and fell to the floor. She wrapped her arms around him and, lowering her face to press butterfly kisses to his tanned shoulder, said, “I can be ready in no time and—”

“Hold it, baby,” Hank interrupted, freeing himself from her arms. He stood up, lowered his hands to modestly cup himself, then turned to face her. “Now we both had a little too much to drink last night and we had us some fun together and I like you a whole lot, really I do. But we’ll have to continue this party when I return.”

“No!” she firmly protested. “I want to go with you,” she whined, desperate to make him want her so much he’d give in and take her to Saratoga.

He was everything she’d ever wanted—handsome and charming and fun and virile and the thrilling lover of her wildest dreams. And he was, she had heard the minute she arrived in Virginia City, one of the richest men in America.

“Now listen…ah…I…” Hank shook his head. “All right, I admit it. I can’t recall your name, you’ll have to remind me.”

“Paula. Paula Gentry,” she said with a hurt look. “How could you possibly forget?”

“I humbly apologize, Miss Gentry. I’m not very good at names.” He smiled disarmingly at her. “Now, please, get dressed and when I get back to Virginia City in a couple of months, you and I will—”

“A couple of months? No! I will not get dressed!” she declared. She sat back on her bare heels and crossed her arms over her chest. “Not if you won’t take me with you.”

“Be reasonable, Miss Gentry. We’ve only just met. And as I apparently mentioned last night, I leave for Saratoga Springs today, but it is strictly a business trip. I wouldn’t have time to entertain you.”

“I could entertain myself and in the evenings we could—”

“You are not going anywhere but home,” Hank said. He dropped his hands to his sides and turned away.

Paula was up off the bed in a flash. She grabbed his arm and anxiously stepped in front of him. “Very well. If you must go, you must, but I’ll see to it that you won’t forget me while you’re away.” She spread hands on the steely muscles of his chest, then smiled devilishly as she rubbed warming circles around the flat brown nipples. At the same time she pressed her pelvis against his and began slowly gyrating her hips. “You want to make your train? Then you’d better take what I’m offering because I’m not letting you leave until you carry me back to the bed and make love to me.”

Half annoyed, half aroused, Hank lifted a hand, slid long fingers into her lustrous dark hair, clasped a generous handful, tightened his grip and urged her head back. He was both irritated and intrigued as he lowered his head until his lips were an inch from hers.

He said, “I’m not carrying you back to bed, Miss Gentry. You want me, you’ll take me standing right here or not at all.”

“Oh, Hank,” she sighed, breathlessly, “yes, yes, kiss me, darling.”

“No time for kisses,” he said, “ten minutes is all we have.”

Paula shrieked with excitement when he put his hands around the backs of her thighs and easily lifted her from the floor. He locked long arms around her thighs and raised her higher. Her bare toes dug into his knees. She giggled with delight and braced her hands on his shoulders. With her pelvis now pressed against his hair-covered chest, she already appeared dizzy with desire.

She anxiously clasped his handsome head in her hands, pushed it back, looked into his sky-blue eyes, and began to wiggle and hunch her back, bending and sliding lower so that her breasts were at his face. She held her breath as she eagerly brushed her heavy left breast against his lips.

“Kiss it, Hank,” she begged. “Please. Lick it a little and then—”

She ahhhed with pleasure when his mouth captured the nipple and he raked his teeth over it, then sucked greedily.

On fire, so aroused she could hardly keep from crying out, Paula Gentry learned that making love while standing in the middle of a room with the summer sunlight spilling in and the sounds of people talking and laughing on the street below was pleasurable beyond belief.

She wasn’t sure if she was a contortionist or if he was or if they both were; all she knew was that this incredibly sexual man managed to get her legs wrapped around his waist and a hand between their pressing bodies to coax and tease her burning flesh until she was dripping wet while his heated mouth continued to dazzle her by feasting hungrily on her breasts.

Doubting he could penetrate her without his mouth releasing her aching nipple, she gave a shout of joy when, as if he’d read her mind, he did just that.

While he expertly lowered her down onto the surging tip of his hard, thrusting flesh, he bowed his back so that his lips continued to cling to her stiffened nipple, giving her what she desired.

It was rapture.

His pulsing erection was only just barely inside her, making her yearn for more, making her look eagerly forward to the incredible instant when he would force her down onto it and fill her completely. It was a splendid kind of torturous teasing, a preview of the pleasure to come. For a thrilling moment they stayed just like that until finally, unable to wait one more second, Paula at last urged his head up, put her lips to his ear and whispered, “You won’t ever forget this moment, Hank, nor will I.” And she slithered down onto him, until she was fully impaled upon him.

Hank moved his bare feet wider apart to brace himself, then stood there in the bright Nevada sunlight, hands filled with the twin cheeks of her bottom, controlling her, while he rhythmically thrust into her. Paula gave as good as she got, opening fully to him, sucking him in, squeezing him tightly, gripping his ribs with her knees.

Locked in lust as they were, they began to reel around the spacious room. She moaning, he groaning, they did a dance of desire that found them first tangled in the heavy drapery blowing in the open windows while deep masculine laughter rose from the street below. Seconds later they were half leaning against a heavy drum table. Then they found themselves balanced against the high back of an easy chair. Finally, they landed roughly up against the wall, Paula’s bare backside pressed into the lush flocked wallpaper, Hank hammering her hard.

Ten minutes after he’d first lifted her from the floor, both exploded in wrenching orgasm.

Five

At straight-up noon the handsome, thirty-two-year-old Hank Cassidy stepped onto his private rail car—alone—for the journey across the country. The muscular, rough-around-the-edges, hardworking Westerner who had made tens of millions in the mines was better known as Nevada’s young Silver King.

Hank looked the part of royalty on this sunny summer day. With his smoothly shaven face bronzed by the Nevada sun and wind and glowing with good health, his midnight hair slightly damp from his bath, Hank was impeccably dressed in buff-colored custom-tailored trousers and sky-blue linen shirt. He had the self-assured manner and sleek, self-satisfied appearance of a man who had been born to the purple.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Hank Cassidy came from modest means. He never knew his mother. She died giving birth to him. When he was seventeen his quiet, frugal father, a lifelong miner who rarely talked or smiled, was killed in an explosion deep underground. To Hank’s surprise, his undemonstrative father had managed to save a small sum of money and left it to his only son.

Hank had invested every cent of his meager inheritance in what everyone told him was a worthless hole in the mountain. He hadn’t listened. He’d bought the long-boarded-up quarry from an old miner who was a pallbearer at his father’s funeral.

Hank christened his mine the Black Cat and immediately went to work. He spent years laboring deep in the darkness, searching for buried veins, patiently coaxing the precious metal out of stubborn solid rock. The mine hardly yielded enough silver to pay his hands.

Hank didn’t give up.

Four long years after his first day in the Black Cat, Hank and his employees hit the mother lode. Overnight, young Hank Cassidy was a millionaire. He bought more mines. He made more millions. He continued to work alongside his men, sweating and straining and toiling and, as he worked, filling the cavern with the sound of his rich laughter. He encouraged the miners to joke around and make play out of work as much as possible.

His men loved him.

Hank paid his workers far above the average wage and supported their widows when things went wrong below.

Soon every miner within hundreds of miles had heard of Hank Cassidy and all wanted to work for the young, likable Silver King.

Hank’s mining empire grew and finally he came up out of the darkness into the daylight to enjoy his riches. He had a huge three-story mansion built on the bluffs above Virginia City. He purchased, sight unseen and fully staffed, a stately home on New York City’s Fifth Avenue. He ordered a private rail car from the Pullman company. He commissioned the building of a yacht to be harbored in San Francisco with a full crew at the ready for whenever he felt like a cruise.

A generous man, he also lavished expensive gifts on his trusted employees. Especially on their delighted wives. Hank liked to say that they were the only wives to whom he would be giving presents. He had no plans to ever have one of his own.

No one doubted he meant it. Everyone who knew the handsome, footloose, cavalier Silver King agreed that marriage was not in Cassidy’s cards, to the disappointment of many a young lady.

A lover of fast horses, Hank was leaving today for Saratoga Springs where he would spend the summer racing season. Prized Thoroughbreds from his Kentucky farm were being shipped to Saratoga to compete at the historic old track.

The blooded horses would be transported in special rail cars, escorted by Hank’s loyal friend and winning horse trainer, Fox Connor.

Once Hank reached Saratoga, he would spend the warm, pleasant days watching his Thoroughbreds go up against some stiff competition. And the cool, mountain nights dining and dancing and taking strolls with the fairest of the Eastern beauties.

Life was good indeed for the Nevada Silver King.

Now as Hank settled comfortably in a big easy chair in the plush private rail car, he felt the vibration of the wheels beginning to turn on the tracks, heard the engine’s whistle sound a loud warning blast.

Hank smiled, took a Cuban cigar from a nearby humidor and sniffed its fragrance, nodding his dark head in approval. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, clamping it firmly between his even white teeth, then lifted his feet up onto an ottoman. He reached for a match, struck it and lighted his expensive cigar. He dropped the smoking match into a crystal ashtray and took a long, slow pull.

Hank exhaled with pleasure, blowing the smoke out as he turned his head and glanced out the window. The train was slowly moving now, leaving the station where dozens of well-wishers had gathered to bid him goodbye. A half-dozen pretty women had surged forward to hug him and whisper, “You’ll miss me, Hank. You’ll be lonely way off over there in Saratoga.” His answer to each had been noncommittal—a gentle squeeze, a nod of the head, and no promises.

Hank Cassidy knew he wouldn’t be lonely.

The summertime population of the Springs swelled with all sorts of diverse and interesting people. Millionaires, gamblers, respectable family folk, politicians and famous actors and actresses could always be found at the upstate resort. Saratoga Springs was a favorite gathering spot for wealthy men and beautiful women. The cream of Eastern society would be in residence for the season.

Engraved invitations to the many private dinners and parties would be collecting in a silver bowl there in the foyer of his reserved hotel accommodations. The upper crust had warmly accepted him since his first visit to the Springs. Especially the ladies. And he had learned, on his very first visit to Saratoga, that some of those elegant, expensively gowned ladies were not ladies at all once those gowns came off.

Claire Orwell experienced a tingling excitement when the locomotive began to slow as the train chugged closer to the depot at Saratoga Springs, New York.

The weariness of the long ocean voyage and the anxiety of the switch from ship to train in bustling New York City had miraculously disappeared.

She was no longer exhausted, but instead filled with a great surge of energy. And, she felt optimistic and hopeful in a way she had not felt since she was a young girl with her whole life ahead of her.

Her sense of excitement escalated when the train screeched to a stop. “Olivia—” she gently shook her companion “—wake up. We’re here! We’re at Saratoga.”

Olivia sat up, yawned, grabbed her silver-headed cane, then reached for the new hat she’d bought back in London. She clamped it on her head. “How do I look?”

Claire reached up and straightened the fashionable straw hat, pulling the brim forward a little, then carefully smoothing a wispy lock of gray hair back from Olivia’s face. “Like an elegant, well-bred lady,” Claire said with a conspiratorial smile.

Olivia’s eyes sparkled.

Both women were smiling when they stepped down from the train onto the platform outside the passenger depot. A building befitting a resort favored by the fashionable set, the little depot was of red brick with elaborate iron trimmings.

Claire took a deep breath, grabbed Olivia’s hand and hurried toward the depot door.

Hank Cassidy stepped down from his private rail car at the train’s rear. He caught a fleeting glance of pale blond hair, gleaming golden in the sunlight. That golden head abruptly turned and Hank saw her face. He smiled foolishly, admiring her. He started to call out, stopped himself, but anxiously stepped down and started toward her.

But the platform was crowded with arriving passengers and friends and family who had come to welcome the travelers. He quickly lost sight of the golden-haired beauty.

Hank uttered an oath under his breath, feeling a sense of loss, then immediately laughed at himself for his foolishness. No need to hurry after her. Obviously, she would be staying at the Springs for the season. They were sure to cross paths at some point in time.

Claire, with Olivia in tow, was swept along with the crowd into the depot with its muted interior of black walnut. The two women fought their way through the crush of travelers and out the depot’s side doors.

Directly in front of the station was an open square adorned with splashing fountains and trees. And parked near the redbrick depot were landaus and phaetons and barouches. Hotel porters shouted and an omnibus driver was calling for passengers desiring transportation.

Claire stepped forward, raised a gloved hand, and called out to a hack driver. Minutes later she and Olivia were driven directly to the long-shuttered estate of Britain’s merry widow, the Duchess of Beaumont.

The impressive estate was secluded on a heavily timbered rise of land a quarter of a mile east of Saratoga. Claire and Olivia exchanged glances of awe when the carriage rolled up before the white stone mansion rising from the leafy forest and surrounded by landscaped gardens.

“I understand only a caretaker lives here full-time,” Claire said, alighting from the carriage, gazing at the mansion’s many windows, all of which had the shades securely drawn. “I imagine we have our work cut out for us.”

“We can handle it,” assured Olivia.

The hack driver left them standing outside the mansion, valises at their feet.

“Shall we go inside and find out what must be done?” asked Claire.

“After you,” said Olivia and lifted her valise.

Midway up the front walk, both abruptly stopped when the aged caretaker came out of the mansion’s front door. Thin, stooped, he looked as if a puff of wind would blow him down. And he was, they quickly learned, half blind and hard of hearing.

Blinking in the dappled sunlight and easing himself down the mansion’s veranda steps, he grimaced as though every bone in his body was aching.

“You must be Walker,” Claire said, smiling, and hurried to him, her hand thrust out.

The thirty-three-year-old Duchess of Beaumont had not been to Saratoga in years. And, like Claire, she was a tall, slender woman with pale golden hair. Squinting, the nearsighted caretaker saw Claire’s light hair and mistook her for the duchess.

“Your Grace,” he said and attempted a creaking bow.

“No, no, Walker. You see, the duchess has not yet—”

“Eh, Your Grace?” he said, cupping a hand to his ear. “Speak up, please.”

Claire gave Olivia a helpless look. Olivia stepped forward. Raising her voice, she attempted to set the old man straight. “Walker, the Duchess of Beaumont will not be arriving until later in the month. This is Claire Orwell and I am Olivia Sutton. The duchess sent us on ahead to—”

Hearing only a word here and there of what Olivia was saying, the caretaker listened, frowning as if in pain, and before she had finished speaking, he interrupted.

“Come along, Your Grace, you must get in out of the harsh sunlight lest you blister.”

Claire tried again, “No, Walker, you’ve misunderstood, I’m not the duchess. My friend, Olivia Sutton, and I have come to ready the house for…” She patiently explained that she and Olivia had been sent ahead to open and staff the house for the duchess’s impending arrival.

When finally she concluded, Claire gave him an expectant look, hopeful that he had understood.

He smiled, nodded, and said, “How many years since you were here last, Your Grace? Five? Ten?”

Claire started to speak, but Olivia touched her arm and stopped her. “Let it go for now,” she said, shrugging. “We’ll clear it up later.” To the old man she shouted, “Thank you, Walker. We can manage from here. You’re dismissed. Go take a nap. A nice, long nap.” She gave her cane to Claire, raised her hands, folded them against her cheek and closed her eyes for a second.

When she opened her eyes the old man turned to Claire, half bowed once again, and said, “If you need me, Your Grace, I’ll be in my quarters out back.”

Six

Once inside the mansion’s shadowy drawing room, Olivia and Claire exchanged looks of dismay. They had been told that an in-town service had an ongoing contract to clean the house thoroughly at least once every two weeks. The service had apparently been derelict in their duties. Sheets blanketed the fine furniture, but the heavy drapery was covered with dust and the entire place smelled musty.

It was obvious that no one had been there for weeks, maybe months. Olivia took off her hat and tossed it on a sheet-draped chair. She and Claire immediately went about yanking the curtains apart and throwing open the windows to admit the fresh mountain air.

“Not to worry,” Olivia assured Claire “We’ll have this place sparkling clean within forty-eight hours.”

Claire nodded and smiled. “And neither of us will so much as pick up a feather duster!”

“Let the servants handle it,” said Olivia in her best impersonation of a high-toned lady of leisure.

They laughed merrily.

When they’d sobered a bit, they explored the mansion, each deciding they’d choose a bedroom. Olivia picked one on the ground floor near the back of the house. They then ventured upstairs. At the top of the curving staircase they opened a set of tall white double doors into a large, opulent suite. A cozy sitting room with a white marble fireplace and covered sofas was open to the raised bedroom, which was reached by climbing three wide white marble steps.

Directly off the bedroom, tall glass-paned doors led onto a balcony overlooking lush gardens.

“The duchess’s suite,” Claire stated the obvious, stepping out onto the balcony, charmed by the total privacy the well-planned garden and tall sheltering trees afforded.

Olivia stepped up beside her. “But the duchess is not here.” She paused, waiting for Claire to respond. Claire remained silent. Olivia ventured, “The suite can be yours until she arrives.”

“Dare I?” Claire asked, eyebrows raised.

“Why not? Who’s to know?” Olivia turned away. “I’ll bring up your valises. Make yourself at home.”

“I believe I will,” Claire said, yanking the covering dust cloth from an upholstered chair, and running her hand over the plush white velvet.

Once their valises had been deposited in their respective rooms, Claire immediately sent Olivia forth to handle the hiring of a small staff of servants, as instructed.

And she set out to explore the picturesque resort.

The carriage moved slowly down traffic-choked, elm-shaded Broadway. Hank Cassidy, seated comfortably in the leather-cushioned back seat, nodded to the laughing, well-dressed people in horse-drawn vehicles parading down the avenue.

It was an afternoon ritual in Saratoga enjoyed by the summer set. They relished showing off their fine equipages. Surreys with fringe around the tops. Basket phaetons with high-stepping, bob-tailed hackneys. Heavy victorias with glittering silver monogrammed harnesses, two men in scarlet livery on their boxes, ladies behind with lacy parasols, sitting in richly upholstered seats.

Ah, it was great to be back in Saratoga.

Hank turned his attention to the pedestrians strolling along the sidewalks in front of the hotels. He paid little attention to the gentlemen in their tailored summer finery. His gaze naturally focused on the ladies in hats with parasols to match their dresses. Colorful dresses with all manner of feminine frills; pleats and ruffles and lace and ribbons and swelling puffed sleeves.

Hank was smiling with pleasure when suddenly he blinked and sat up straighter. A slender young woman stepped out of P. Durkee and Sons Stationers and Books and into the sunlight. Her pale hair blazed like spun gold and her face was as white and flawless as fine porcelain.

It was her!

The woman from the train depot—and she was every bit as breathtakingly beautiful as he’d thought when first he’d spotted her.

“Stop the carriage!” Hank called to the driver and didn’t wait for the man to obey.

He leaped down into the street and narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming four-in-hand. Cursing under his breath, looking anxiously for an opening in the traffic, Hank found himself wedged between the four-in-hand and a big landau filled with laughing people calling out to him.

By the time he managed to get around the landau to the safety of the sidewalk, the golden-haired goddess was gone. Disappointed, Hank looked up the street and down, then dashed into the stationers.

To the clerk behind the counter, he said, “A woman with gold hair was just in here. Do you know where she went? Who she was?”

The clerk shook his head. “She looked at the books, but purchased nothing and—”

“Any idea who she is?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” Hank exhaled with frustration. “Which books? Were there any special ones that she—?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, there was a book that seemed to catch her fancy,” said the clerk, heading for a shelf near the back. He took down a handsome, leather-bound book, held it up, and announced, “This is it. The Prisoner of Zenda by Anthony Hope. It was published just last year and has sold quite well. The lady picked this book up, thumbed slowly though it, then placed it back on the shelf.”

“I’ll take it,” said Hank. “Gift wrap it.”

“Right away, sir,” said the clerk. “I hope you find her.”

“I will.”

The wrapped book under his arm, Hank exited the store. He stood outside for a long moment, carefully scanning both sides of the street.

But she was gone.

He returned to the carriage, jumped inside and settled in for the short ride to his hotel.

The carriage soon reached the five-story United States Hotel with its soaring pillars and Victorian scrollwork and wide, sweeping veranda. On that veranda stood a thousand white wicker rocking chairs, more than half of them filled with hotel guests watching the parade of people on Broadway on this sunny July afternoon.

Hank didn’t disembark in front of the hotel. His carriage drove on and once past the hotel, immediately turned into a side street. It then pulled over to the curb just outside the hotel’s private cottages. The cottages were suites of coveted rooms at the back where the giant hotel was U-shaped. Private verandas looked out on landscaped gardens and big trees and well-tended flower beds.

Such accommodation suited his desire for privacy. Unlike the hotel proper where it was necessary to go through the guest-filled lobby and then into an elevator to reach a room, he could enter the cottage through the outside entrance at any hour of the day or night and be seen by no one.

Hank bounded out of the carriage, stopped and stood for a minute speaking to the driver. He turned and hurried up the steps, unlocked the cottage door, and went inside. The scent of fresh-cut flowers greeted him as he stepped into the marble-floored foyer. He smiled when he saw the many vellum envelopes resting in a silver bowl on a small walnut table. He dropped the book he’d bought onto the table and scooped up the envelopes. He turned and walked into the parlor with its black walnut furniture, lush carpets and thick Brussels lace curtains over the tall windows.

On an end table by a big easy chair, a bottle of fine champagne was cooling in an ice-filled silver bucket along with a note of welcome from the hotel staff. Two sparkling crystal flutes stood beside the bucket. While the driver and a hotel porter unloaded his luggage, carrying the many valises into the master suite, Hank popped the champagne’s cork.

Foolishly wishing that the golden-haired angel was here to drink the bubbly with him, he filled both glasses and sank down into an easy chair to begin sifting through the invitations.

Some were for next week and beyond. Some for tomorrow night. Some for tonight. Hank tossed aside all but those requesting his presence for this evening. There were six. Three were for late-night gatherings. Three were for dinner. He considered the dinner invitations, shrugged wide shoulders, closed his eyes and chose one at random.

Horace and Lillian Titus.

Dinner at eight.

Claire was enchanted with Saratoga Springs.

The pristine mountain hamlet was like a fabled fairyland with its grand hotels, quaint shops, beautiful parks and mineral fountains and handsomely dressed visitors.

She strolled leisurely up Broadway passing the Grand Union Hotel, Congress Inn and the Clarendon, each unique and magnificent and unlike anything she had seen back in London. As she approached another impressive building, the huge brick-and-stone United States Hotel, she glanced down the narrow street bordering its side.

And so it was that she was looking directly at a carriage when a tall, lean man bounded out of the back seat. He stood for a second on the sidewalk, smiling and gesturing as he spoke to his driver. Claire’s eyes widened and her lips parted.

Midnight hair glistening in the sunshine, broad shoulders appealingly straining the fine linen of his sky-blue shirt, buff-hued trousers draped just so on his slim hips and long legs, he was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on.

Unable to tear her gaze from the handsome stranger, Claire stood across the street and stared until he turned away, sprang agilely up a set of steps, unlocked a door and disappeared inside. Even then she continued to stay where she was, her rapt attention fixed on that door.

She wondered who he was and where he was from and if she would ever see him again. Her heart began to race. Of course she would see him again! He, like she, had come to Saratoga for the season. He was obviously a guest at the United States Hotel and she would very likely run into him there. All she had to do was go inside.

Beginning to smile with anticipation, Claire eagerly crossed the narrow street and hurried down the sidewalk until she reached the front of the hotel. She climbed the steps to the wide veranda where people were gathered to talk and laugh and enjoy refreshments served by uniformed waiters.

Claire crossed the veranda and went inside the vast, high-ceilinged lobby. Attempting to appear casual, she sauntered unhurriedly about, glancing at the milling guests, searching for the one who was sure to stand out from the crowd.

Nodding and smiling to people she’d never met, Claire would have, on any other occasion, noticed how incredibly friendly everyone seemed. But she was preoccupied. She was looking for the handsome, dark-haired man in the blue linen shirt.

After several fruitless minutes, Claire gave up the hunt. She was too late. He wouldn’t be coming to the lobby. He had obviously already checked in at the desk moments earlier and collected his key. No need to stay longer.

She made her unhurried way through the crowded lobby and out the tall doors onto the veranda. She was descending the front steps when a middle-aged, well-dressed woman came hurrying up the steps toward her.

Reaching her, the woman smiled and said, “Oh, Your Grace, we heard you were coming to Saratoga this summer. How thrilling to have the Duchess of Beaumont here for the season!” When Claire gave the woman a questioning look, she said, “Don’t you remember me? Lillian. Mrs. Lillian Titus. How wonderful to see you after all these years! My, my, you are lovelier than ever.”

Taken aback, Claire, when she was finally able to get a word in, said, “No, no. I’m afraid you…you’ve made a…you see, I’m not…I…” Claire stopped speaking. She paused for only a second, then said, “Why, yes, it has been quite a long time.”

“It must be at least seven or eight years,” declared Lillian. “Now Horace and I are giving a dinner party this very evening. You simply must come. Everyone will be there. Our cottage at eight sharp. Say you’ll join us, please, Your Grace.”

Claire smiled. “I’d be honored.”

Seven

Then and there the usually level-headed, rarely-take-a-chance Claire Orwell decided that for once in her life she would toss caution to the wind. Until just before Charmaine Beaumont arrived in Saratoga, she would be the Duchess of Beaumont! For a few golden days and nights, she would live the life of a wealthy, daring duchess amidst the Gilded Age glamour of Saratoga Springs.

Claire wasn’t worried that she’d be out of her element. She knew how the wealthy lived, how they behaved. Her dear deceased mother, before she was married, had for a short time been lady-in-waiting to the Queen, her title Woman of the Bedchamber. Her mother had treasured the invaluable experience and had shared many fond recollections.

Claire could hold her own around this wealthy crowd, could convince them that she was the duchess. And she intended to do just that.

Beginning this very evening she’d hobnob with America’s rich and powerful. She would drink chilled champagne and laugh merrily and flirt with the well-heeled gentlemen and dance until dawn and have not a care in the world.

Her cheeks flushed, Claire hurried back to the secluded estate to tell Olivia of her scheme.

The older woman met Claire at the front door and began, “I made great progress in town, Claire. By tomorrow morning we’ll have—”

Claire waved a silencing hand and interrupted, “Your news about the staff can wait, Olivia. Come out onto the veranda and sit down, please. I’ve something to tell you and it can’t wait another minute.”

Curious, Olivia stepped outside. She obediently took the rocking chair Claire indicated. When she was seated, Claire, continuing to stand, told of her planned deception. Surprised, but fully approving of such a lark, Olivia listened as Claire talked excitedly of her intentions.

“I honestly believe that we can fool them,” Claire stated emphatically. “The duchess has not been to the Springs in seven or eight years. Many of the people who are here this summer have never even met her. The others have had plenty of time to forget exactly how she looks.”

“And she is tall and slender like you and has pale blond hair,” Olivia offered, nodding.

“Exactly. It should be relatively easy to convince everyone that I am indeed the Duchess of Beaumont. I ran into a middle-aged woman—a Mrs. Lillian Titus—at the United States Hotel this afternoon. She mistook me for the duchess and invited me to a dinner party at her home this evening. Said she’d send a carriage round to collect me. That’s what gave me the idea for this fling of fancy.”

“I’ve seen photographs of Charmaine Beaumont,” Olivia said. “There’s a resemblance perhaps, but you’re much prettier than she.”

Claire smiled. “You are prejudiced. Besides, if that is true—which I doubt—everyone will suppose that I got better looking as I fully matured. The duchess is thirty-three, an age when most women are at the top of their form, are they not?”

“You don’t look thirty-three, child. More like twenty-three.”

The twenty-seven-year-old Claire smiled again and said, “Well of course I look young. We noble ladies take good care of ourselves.” She laughed then and, impulsively sinking to her knees before the seated Olivia, took the older woman’s frail hands in hers, squeezed them affectionately, and said, “Oh, Olivia, I know what I’m planning to do is wrong, even unforgivable. But I just don’t care. I’ve made up my mind. I am going to be happy! I’m going to have a gay time and enjoy every minute of every day. I’m going to have pretty clothes and do just as I please as if I were the real duchess.”

“But how, Claire? We haven’t the money to—”

“We will have,” Claire again squeezed Olivia’s hands, then released them and shot to her feet. She looked about to make sure Walker was nowhere in sight. Then she grinned impishly as she lifted her skirts and unpinned the purple velvet bag concealed in her petticoats. Sinking again to her knees, she poured out the bag’s contents onto the veranda’s smooth wooden floor.

Olivia rocked forward and her pale gray eyes widened. Flashing and glittering in the fading sunlight were several pieces of valuable jewelry. Claire lifted an exquisite emerald-and-diamond necklace and handed it to the stunned Olivia.

The necklace resting in her palm, Olivia asked, eyebrows raised, “Claire Orwell, the baron’s…?”

“No, I did not steal the jewels. They were my mother’s. I have no idea where they came from, who gave them to her. I do know that my father could never have afforded the jewels and that my mother never once wore any of these exquisite pieces in our presence. I didn’t know she had them until she died. On her deathbed she whispered in my ear, directed me to the purple velvet bag. It was taped beneath her vanity. There was a sweet note to me inside saying she wanted me to have the jewels. I believe they are worth a tidy sum, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but you can’t be considering…”

“Ah, but I can. We will pawn the precious stones to finance our little adventure. There’s only one piece that I will not let go.” From the mound of flashing stones Claire carefully untangled a delicate golden chain. Suspended from the chain was a one-inch medallion cut from mother-of-pearl with a gold figure of a woman’s profile embossed on the front. The woman was Claire’s mother. Claire draped the chain around her neck and fastened it. Touching the medallion where it rested warmly between her breasts, she said, “There.”

The older woman was familiar with the unique medallion. Knew something of its prominence. But she kept her mouth shut.

“This piece I will keep,” Claire said. “The rest will provide us with some much-needed cash for our royal venture.”

Olivia’s eyes were now flashing like the jewels that were spread out before her. She said, “If you’ll trust me with some of the proceeds the jewels will bring, I’ll make our stash quickly grow.”

Taking the diamond-and-emerald necklace from Olivia and gathering up the glittering treasures, Claire began to smile knowingly. “Aha, so you’re a gambler?”

“And a good one, Your Grace.”

Both women laughed.

A band was playing an afternoon concert in the gardens behind his cottage when Hank went into the hallway with its row of bells used for summoning the chambermaid, waiter and valet. He rang for the valet, instructed the man to unpack and left.

He didn’t call for a carriage, but walked the short distance to the Saratoga racetrack. He was whistling merrily when he skirted the grandstands and went straight to the rows of stables behind.

The place was alive with activity. Owners, trainers and jockeys were gathered around the many stalls of the prized Thoroughbreds. Hank stopped to shake hands with some of the gentlemen. These men liked racing. They liked to win. They liked the competition. They particularly liked new owners to come to Saratoga and offer a challenge.

Hank was no exception.

“Why, if it isn’t Hank Cassidy, the Silver King,” said Logan B. Bristow, a real estate magnate from New Jersey and a proud Thoroughbred owner. The round-faced, short-of-stature Bristow laughed and teased, “You really think that gray nag of yours has a chance of beating my best three-year-old in the Travers Stakes?” He stepped forward and slapped Hank on the back.

“How you been, L.B.?” Hank smiled easily and shook Bristow’s hand. Before the other man could reply, Hank said, “I sure hate to see you lose your money, but that’s what’s going to happen if you pin your hopes on that badly outclassed plow horse you’re entering.” He inclined his head toward the sleek sorrel stallion in the stall directly behind Bristow.

Bristow laughed loudly as Hank walked on through the alley between the stalls, shaking hands here, exchanging pleasantries there, having a look at the competition.

A slimly built, silver-haired man stepped out of a hay-filled stall near the end of the lane. Seeing Hank, he began to smile broadly.

Hank hurried forward.

He caught the older man up in a bear hug and warmly embraced him. The sixty-two-year-old Fox Connor was more to Hank than simply the most talented horse trainer in America. He was that all right, but he was also a trusted friend and confidant, the man who knew Hank better than anyone else.

Wise, loyal, never judgmental, Fox Connor had been with Hank since the day Hank had bought his first racehorse a decade ago. The two had come to regard each other as family. Fox Connor had no family of his own. He hadn’t married and therefore had no children. Hank was like the son he’d never had. Fox took pride in Hank’s triumphs, found joy in sharing the young man’s life, looked forward eagerly to the day Hank married and had children who would hopefully call him Granddad.

“When did you get in?” Fox asked when Hank released him.

“An hour ago,” Hank said. “How did they make the trip?” he asked, referring to the dozen valuable Thoroughbreds Fox had escorted up from Kentucky.

“Black Satin has a sore muscle, but he should be fine in a couple of days. Red Eye Gravy wouldn’t eat any oats this morning, was listless, but he’s already feeling better. Tempest, Eastern Dancer, and the rest seem to be in excellent shape. All had good workouts this morning.”

“Silver Dollar’s okay?” Hank inquired about the big silver-coated speedster he hoped would take the Travers Stakes.

“He was in fine form for this morning’s exercise,” Fox assured Hank. “Ran the mile in one-fifty.”

Pleased, Hank stepped into the stall where Silver Dollar was stabled. The stallion nickered a greeting. Hank wrapped a long arm around the big Thoroughbred’s sleek neck and patted him affectionately.

“You gonna win the Travers Stakes for me, pal of mine?” he asked and the Thoroughbred pricked his ears and shook its great head. Hank laughed and pressed his cheek to the beast’s left jaw. “Yes, sir, you’re going to make me proud. I know you are.”

After carefully examining the horse, Hank exited the stall and motioned to a groom. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a bill, and handed it to the lad. “Let no one come near this silver stallion.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hank and Fox Connor left the stables together for the short walk back to town. At the hotel, Fox asked, “Any plans for this evening?”

Hank nodded. “A dinner party at Horace Titus’s house. You?”

Fox grinned. “You know me, Hank. I’ll dine at Canfield’s then play a little roulette or faro.”

“Might see you there later in the evening.

“I seriously doubt that. I would imagine there’ll be any number of eligible ladies at the Tituses’ dinner party.” He gave Hank a knowing look.

Hank said nothing, but the thought occurred that his golden-haired angel might be among tonight’s guests. Lillian Titus had a special talent for attracting the most glamorous and interesting people to her parties.

“See you tomorrow, Fox,” Hank said and hurried toward the cottages.

Looking after him, Fox Connor chuckled, then turned and headed for the main hotel and his top floor suite.

At seven, Claire came down the stairs dressed for the dinner party. Olivia anxiously waited in the foyer.

“What do you think?” Claire asked, reaching the marble-floored foyer and turning slowly around.

Olivia gazed on Claire with a critical eye. Claire’s golden hair was attractively swept atop her head and held in place with invisible pins. The blond tresses blazed in the light of the chandelier overhead. Her cheeks were flushed and her violet eyes glittered with excitement. Her lips were perfectly tinted with a modest touch of rouge. Face and hair were perfect.

But the dress.

The color was right—violet faille that was the exact same hue as Claire’s beautiful eyes. But that was about the only good thing Olivia could say for it.

“Long sleeves in July? A throat-high yoke? A choking collar right up to your chin?” Olivia shook her head. “You look more a schoolmarm than a wealthy duchess.”

Claire sighed heavily. “I know, but this is the best I can do until I go shopping. I have nothing suitable for evening wear.”

“How long before you leave for the dinner party?”

“Mrs. Titus said they’d send a carriage round for me. Eight sharp.”

Olivia glanced at the tall grandfather clock standing in the foyer. “Then I’ve got an hour. You’re in luck, Duchess. I once worked in a gentlemen’s tailor shop on Savile Row. I get a needle in me hand and I can alter just about anything. Take off the dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

She threw herself into her task.

Within the hour, a lovely, lively Claire stood waiting in a shimmering dress of deep lavender faille. The gorgeous gown now had stylish short puff sleeves that appealingly caressed Claire’s ivory shoulders. Gone were the yoke and collar.

The hastily remodeled gown’s bodice was cut so low and Claire’s full breasts were pushed so high by a tight corset, the pale swell of her bosom was generously exposed.

“I believe I hear the carriage coming up the drive, Your Grace,” Olivia announced with a smile.

“How do I look now?” Claire asked, nervously tugging at her low-cut bodice, pulling it higher. “I feel naked.”

Olivia laughed, brushed Claire’s hands away, and urged the bodice back down. “You look beautiful. And remember, you’re not Claire Orwell, you’re the brazen Duchess of Beaumont.”

“That’s true. I’m sure the duchess has no qualms about displaying her décolletage.”

“None, whatsoever.” Olivia’s smile became wicked when she said, “I’ve heard it whispered that since Charmaine Beaumont’s husband—the over-weight, pompous old duke—died five years ago, she has taken any number of handsome lovers. Are you planning to add a few to her list?”

“Only one,” said Claire without hesitation, the image of the dark stranger she’d caught sight of this afternoon flashing into her mind. She stated the unguarded truth, “I would like—just once in my life—to have a grand passion. To know what it’s like to make love with a man who can sweep me off my feet and dazzle me. My late husband was a good, kind man, but ours was never a love match and there was no real ardor.” Claire shrugged bare ivory shoulders, smiled slyly and declared, “I shall do the duchess proud. I assume Her Grace can choose any man she wants. So I fully intend to pick the most sought-after man in Saratoga.” She paused and added, “And then seduce him.”

“Seduce him? How?” asked Olivia.

Claire smiled catlike. “Why, by ignoring him, of course.”

Eight

The most sought-after man in Saratoga was the good-looking, fun-loving Nevadan, Hank Cassidy. The wealthy young Silver King whose mines produced more than ten thousand dollars a day. A man so darkly handsome and blatantly male he awakened intense romantic longings in females from sixteen to sixty.

Hank’s afternoon arrival at the resort had caused as much of a stir as that of the Duchess of Beaumont. News quickly spread that he was back and had checked into one of the coveted cottages at the United States Hotel. Within an hour of his arrival, it was whispered that he had accepted an invitation to Lillian Titus’s dinner party. It was further whispered that the flamboyant duchess would be in attendance, as well.

Those who had not been invited to Lillian’s gathering felt slighted. Competing hostesses were disappointed that Lillian had snagged both the Silver King and the Duchess of Beaumont.

Hank’s intent was to put in a short, obligatory appearance at the dinner party where the stellar guest list would include the likes of Morgans and Vanderbilts and Rockerfellers. And, according to his talkative hotel valet, a beautiful widowed duchess.

He’d paid little attention to the gossip. Titles did not impress him. He wouldn’t have cared if the Old Queen herself showed up at the Springs unless she brought along a string of racehorses. Let the other guests fawn over the visiting duchess, making fools of themselves.

Not him.

It was five minutes of eight when Hank, impeccably dressed in dark tuxedo, snowy white shirt and black tie, arrived at the Tituses’ mansion with a promise to himself that he would stay for one short hour, no more. As soon as dinner was over, he would make his excuses and leave.

“My dear Hank,” Lillian Titus gushed, gazing up at him as a young, impressionable girl might. “Horace and I are delighted that you could join us this evening.”

“Thanks for having me, Mrs. Titus,” Hank replied.

The plump, happy hostess wrapped a possessive arm around Hank’s and maneuvered him about the drawing room, introducing him to those he didn’t know, reuniting him with old acquaintances from summers past.

When finally she released her death grip on his arm, Hank exhaled with relief and milled about. He hardly noticed the longing looks he drew from the ladies. He was used to such frank appraisals. Unfortunately, he saw no one here with whom he’d like to get better acquainted. He hoped dinner would soon be announced.

It was coming up on 8:30. What were they waiting on?

A glass of port in his hand, Hank was standing across the large parlor, his back to the room, when the last guest finally arrived. He paid no attention to the buzz of excitement that swept through the crowd. He was talking to a fellow Thoroughbred owner when Lillian Titus stepped up and interrupted him in midsentence.

“Excuse me, Hank,” Lillian said with a smile. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Hank slowly turned.

And found himself face-to-face with the elusive golden-haired woman he had not been able to get out of his mind. His heart skipped two beats. Then began pounding furiously. She was even lovelier than he had thought. Those luxurious golden locks were dressed appealingly atop her head. Her beautiful, unblemished skin appeared to glow in the soft light.

Her eyes, an incredible violet hue and seductively shaded by long, thick lashes, were large and luminously expressive. Her half-petulant lips looked soft and sweet. He immediately wanted to kiss them along with her beautiful bare shoulders and elegant throat.

She was tall and willowy, at least five-eight or nine, with hips that were lush, feminine and gently rounded. Her violet-hued gown was so tight it thrust her rounded breasts blatantly upward. The pale swell of her bosom made his mouth water and his knees grow weak.

She stood there looking cool, unruffled, totally serene. Yet he would have bet every Thoroughbred he owned that she was fiery, tempestuous and passionate. Without so much as moving or saying a word, she exuded a healthy sexuality and wholesome sense of herself as a desirable woman.

Hank wanted her instantly.

“Hank, dear,” Lillian Titus was saying, “may I present the Duchess of Beaumont. She just arrived this afternoon and will be with us through the season.” She turned to Claire, “Your Grace, Mr. Hank Cassidy of Nevada.”

Claire took one look at Hank and recognized him as the man she’d seen going into the hotel cottages this afternoon. She knew she had found the man she was going to seduce. The mere sight of him caused a fluttering sensation in her stomach and an aching tightness in her breasts.

He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet. He was also tanned, muscular and fit. His hair was coal black, thick and gleaming with blue highlights under the glow of the chandelier. She had the strongest urge to reach up and run her hands through those silky raven locks.

His face was beautiful, but strong. Hooded eyes of striking summer blue were focused on her and deep in their depths flashed unmistakable sensual fire and unspoken challenge. His nose was straight and proud. His mouth was wide, generous, with warm, sensual lips that likely knew the art of kissing.

He was staring at her and Claire caught the slight dilating of his eyes and the little smile that began to play around the corners of his mouth as if he knew something she didn’t. It made her uneasy. It made her curious.

He wore an elegant tuxedo with satin lapels and cummerbund that fitted his tall, lean body perfectly. The whiteness of his pleated shirt was striking against the darkness of his skin. He held a glass of port in his right hand and she noted that his fingers were long and tapered, the nails clean and cut short. She found herself wondering how it would feel to have that tanned hand touching her. Caressing her face. Stroking her shoulders.

Without so much as moving a muscle, his raw sexual power was obvious, almost tangible. There was absolutely no doubt in Claire’s mind that this was the man who could invoke a feverish passion in her.

Ah, yes here was her unsuspecting target. But she wouldn’t let him know it.

Not yet.

Smiling down at her, Hank was already counting the minutes until they could take their leave and he could take her in his arms. He saw no obstacle in his path. Like everyone else, he had heard the stories of the uninhibited duchess’s affairs. That she was a libertine suited him fine. He preferred women of experience. His only regret was that the two of them had to endure the boring dinner party when they could be back at her place or at the hotel cottages getting properly acquainted.

Hank took the soft hand the duchess offered and acknowledged her. She spoke his name and it sent tingles up his spine. But all too soon she freed her hand from his.

“You’ll excuse us, Hank,” said Lillian Titus. “The others are anxious to pay their respects to the duchess.”

Hank nodded. But he was surprised and oddly disappointed that the duchess turned away without a parting glance. All at once he had the uneasy feeling that she was not particularly interested in him.

Taken aback, he watched as she swept regally around the room, smiling at guests as she was introduced, warmly greeting those she had known from summer seasons past.

Hank never took his eyes off the vision in violet. His body tensed. Teeth clamped down, he silently willed her to turn and look at him. To give him some subtle sign. To let him know that she was aware of him.

It never happened. Not once did she so much as glance back in his direction.

Nonplussed, Hank was relieved when finally a smartly uniformed butler stepped into the open double doors of the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served.”

Hank felt a hand on his arm. “You’re the Silver King!” trilled a feminine voice and Hank reluctantly took his eyes off the duchess. A winsome redhead in a figure-hugging gown of emerald-green satin was smiling seductively at him. “You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Cassidy?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well, you should be,” she teased and her eyes sparkled. “I’m Caroline Whit. We met three years ago. I was here with my husband, Rodney. Ring a bell? Rodney Whit from Vermont.”

“Rodney Whit? Sure. Is he here this evening?”

“I hope not,” she said with a laugh. “I divorced him last winter. And please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not.” She leaned closer and whispered, “The only good thing I got from dear old Rodney was a love of racehorses. I understand they’re your passion, as well.”

“That’s why I’m in Saratoga,” he said.

“We have a lot in common, Hank. We’d better go in to dinner,” she said. “I hope you’re seated next to me.”

Hank gave no reply, but graciously escorted Caroline Whit into the candlelit dining room where the long, linen-draped table was set for fifty guests.

“Caroline, you’re at the far end of the table, to the right of my Horace,” said Lillian Titus, stepping forward to direct Caroline to her seat. “Horace finds you so entertaining, he insisted you be seated close to him.” Caroline Whit made an unsuccessful attempt to hide her disappointment.

“And you, Hank, I’ve placed you here next to the Duchess of Beaumont.” Lillian leaned close and whispered, “I’m counting on you to charm Her Grace so that she’ll enjoy herself this evening.”

Hank smiled. Nobody wanted the duchess to enjoy herself this evening more than he did.

Claire was enjoying herself.

Everyone had greeted her and accepted her as the Duchess of Beaumont. There had been no looks of doubt or probing questions or whispers behind raised hands. She could hardly keep from laughing out loud. She had—for now—been successful in her duplicity. She hoped Olivia was as successful bucking the tables as she was playing the belle of the ball.

Claire had also succeeded in concealing her fierce attraction to the handsome Hank Cassidy.

When Hank took his seat next to her, she didn’t turn and smile at him. Nor did she acknowledge his presence. Instead she pretended to be totally engrossed in conversation with the gentleman on her right, Parker Lawson of New York City. Lillian Titus had whispered in Claire’s ear that the blondly handsome Lawson, an eligible bachelor, was one of the heirs to the late Jay Gould’s vast fortune. Upon Gould’s death in ’92, Parker Lawson had become a very wealthy man.

But as she talked with him, Claire was vitally aware of Hank Cassidy. There was no doubt in her mind that this big, handsome Westerner knew how to please a lady. The prospect of making love to him made her wish that there was no need to wait. She wished that their heated, but impersonal affair could begin that very evening.

But she was too clever to let that happen. She could not let him know that she fully intended to entice him into her bed. Not yet. She would wait a week or two. And while she waited she would arouse his interest by feigning indifference.

Hank scowled when the duchess laughed merrily at something Lawson whispered to her. When finally Lawson was distracted by a lady seated on his right, Hank seized the opportunity.

“You’ll be here for the entire season?” he asked.

“That is my intention, Mr. Cassidy,” she said, then turned her attention to the bowl of vichyssoise before her.

“Call me Hank,” he coaxed. “And what do I call you?”

“Your Grace,” she said coolly.

She had set the tone and it did not change throughout the dinner. Hank broached every subject he thought might interest her. None did. He got clipped yes or no answers to any and all questions. And barely a nod of her golden head to any amusing story he shared. Nothing he said seemed to engage her. He tossed her many a signal. She swatted each one down without batting an eyelash.

Never had he tried so hard to charm a woman and failed so miserably. His ego was totally deflated. Damn her. He should dislike her for treating him badly. She was cold and rude and a terrible snob.

And he was captivated.

Claire knew her plan was working. And she was pleased.

She pretended, throughout dinner, to take little interest in him. In truth she clung to his every word, was amused by his entertaining tales, was warmed by his every smile and dreamed of the moment when he would come into her arms.

But she wouldn’t let it happen tonight. It was too soon. She’d make him wait.

When the seventh and final course was finished and the guests were directed back into the drawing room, Claire didn’t join them. Instead she bade her hosts good-night, explaining that she was still a trifle tired from the trip.

The carriage was promptly brought around. Parker Lawson, who’d been at her elbow from the minute they exited the dining room, suggested that he escort Claire back to her estate. She thanked him, but declined.

On Parker’s arm she descended the mansion’s front steps. He handed her up into the carriage and asked, “May I escort you to Congress Springs in the morning? Everyone will be there, you know.”

“You’re so kind, Parker. I’ve accepted an invitation to join a half-dozen of the ladies who are here this evening.”

“Then I will see you there?”

“I’m sure you will. And now, good night.”

“Good night, Your Grace,” he said and reluctantly backed away. Claire glanced past Parker to the lighted mansion. She smiled with satisfaction.

Hank Cassidy stood on the veranda in the moonlight, his muscular shoulder leaning against a pillar.

He didn’t look happy.

And that made the duchess very happy.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.