Adam and James entered Helena alone, intent on the simple mission of persuading Isolde to leave. She was staying with Harold and Molly Fisk, Adam discovered after they’d arrived. A sensible precaution, he thought. But, then, she always knew how to protect her interests.
That meant he’d have to deal with Isolde in a more civilized manner than he wished. His first impulse had been to tie her up, toss her into the stage for Salt Lake City, and have the driver see that she transferred at that point for the East. Knowing Isolde’s resilience, she’d no doubt be back on the return run, he ruefully acknowledged, so he’d have to make his position extremely clear this time.
Deathly clear.
After he and James settled in at the Planters House, they bathed and dressed. While Adam called on his wife at the Fisk mansion, James had his own agenda—gathering information on Ned Storham’s current whereabouts.
Both men wore their guns.
It was late morning and very warm, even up on the hill where the wealthy had built their homes. Adam’s face was grim as he walked up the brickwork path to the front door; the task of running Isolde out of the territory would have been more easily done in a private setting.
That was precisely why she was ensconced at the Fisks.
Molly came forward in a welcoming flurry of navy silk and rustling petticoats when Adam was announced, crossing the formidable space of the drawing room in a breathless rush.
“How absolutely wonderful to see you again. Wasn’t I just saying yesterday how splendid it would be if Adam were to come into town?” she exclaimed, turning to the other two occupants of the room for confirmation.
Henrietta flushed in her excitement and stammered an inaudible greeting.
Isolde calmly said, “How nice to see you again, Adam.”
“Come in, come in, dear boy,” Molly asserted, guiding Adam with a hand on his arm. “Can I get you tea?” One look at Adam’s expression, and she said, “Perhaps a bourbon and branch water? Is it too early?”
“A double, please.”
“Ice would be nice today, wouldn’t it?” she added, responding to his abrupt reply. “Sit down and I’ll have one for you in a jiffy.”
And after a fussing interval with a maidservant, she turned back to them all with a smile. “You must tell us about Saratoga,” she said as the maid handed Adam his bourbon. “I hear your racers won some very good money.” What she really meant was “Tell us about Lady Flora.” Isolde had already been quite explicit. But, of course, there were always two points of view.
“We went out to test Magnus and some of our other young ones, and they performed well,” Adam replied, wondering how long he could manage to be polite. Or if he even cared to.
“Harold says we’ll definitely go for the season next year. Henrietta’s dear papa always goes to the Spa; he says it’s a marvelous place to do business. And wasn’t it a shame about poor Frank Storham? They just buried him yesterday. Not that I had any fondness for the man,” she hastened on, “for he always drank more than was quite acceptable. But, well … he’s dead,” she maladroitly noted. “It does make one consider the frailty of life.”
“James mentioned his death to me,” Adam said. “The Storhams seem to put themselves in dangerous positions. And, then, Frank did always have an unsteady gun hand.” He spoke without inflection, his face a mask.
“Ned’s saying you killed him,” Isolde casually said, smiling at Adam over the rim of her teacup.
“Ned can say anything he pleases,” Adam replied, “but since he wasn’t in Saratoga, it would be difficult to take his accusation seriously.”
Now that he’d found love, he wondered how he could have suffered Isolde’s bland malice for so long. She was completely without compassion or feeling. He had no illusions about her friendship with Ned Storham. She and Ned in combination couldn’t be improved on for cold-blooded greed.
“Who would possibly believe Ned Storham anyway?” Henrietta hotly interjected. “He’s an uncouth bully. Auntie won’t have him in the house,” she declared.
“How sweet,” Isolde cooed. “The darling girl is defending you, Adam. Another conquest?” she queried, her voice fragrant with spite.
“I’m afraid Henrietta’s right,” Molly affirmed, stepping in to mitigate Isolde’s contentious venom. “I’ve told Harold he can’t invite the man to the house, regardless that Ned Storham has large deposits in Harold’s bank. He’s much too vulgar.”
Henrietta smiled at Isolde with a stabbing triumph.
“He must be a very tedious man,” Isolde coolly said, “but, then, so many are rough-and-tumble out here. Will dear Henrietta be coming out at court anywhere?” she deftly went on, plunging her retaliating stiletto with precision. “I know how difficult it can sometimes be to find a sponsor.” What was left unsaid was the contrast between the parvenu nature of Henrietta’s American fortune and Isolde’s ancient ducal lineage.
“I’ll be coming out in London,” Henrietta proudly retorted, the subtlety of Isolde’s thrust lost upon her. She was proud of her father’s money, and it wasn’t new to her, for he’d had it as long as she could remember. “I’m just eighteen.”
Adam smiled faintly. Henrietta’s riposte was masterful. He supposed Isolde, at twenty-seven, did seem aged from her vantage point, he thought, recalling Henrietta’s flirtatious comments on the attraction of “older” men.
“How bright the world looks at eighteen,” Molly tactfully declared, mildly unnerved by the hostility in the air. She’d forgotten how antipathetic the Serres’ marriage was. “I imagine we all remember those blissful days.”
“I hadn’t met you yet,” Isolde said to Adam, her gaze icy.
Deciding not to respond in kind, Adam neutrally said, “I don’t think I even saw France for most of my eighteenth year.”
“Which accounts for your interesting barbarism.” Isolde’s voice was sugar sweet.
“What part of it do you find interesting, madame?” Adam coolly inquired, the sudden snapping of his temper almost audible in his chill rebuke. Draining his bourbon, he set his glass down, stood abruptly, and turning to his hostess, said in a voice so cold, “Would you please excuse my wife and me? We have business to discuss, and my time is limited.”
Molly stood as if propelled from her chair, glanced at her niece, who understood that tone of voice too and was already rising, and stammered, “Of course … I understand.… Henrietta, come.”
In seconds Adam was alone with his wife for the second time in a month.
His anger showed. In his clenched fists, in the heated depths of his eyes, in the rigidity of his spine as he stood limned by the pale light of the lace-curtained window behind him.
“Will you shoot me with that gun?” Isolde coldly asked, all pretense of civility gone, the hatred in her eyes flagrant.
“It’s a thought,” he bluntly said. “Several of my friends have persistently encouraged me.”
“James, I suppose, the hateful man. You won’t, of course. You’re too ethical.”
“At least one of us is.”
“Ethics are for bourgeoisie.”
“The Serres outrank your family, Isolde, and they’re aware of the term. But I didn’t come here to argue philosophy with you. I’m here to tell you to leave Montana and don’t come back.”
“I still have rights as your wife, Adam. It’s not going to be that easy. And I didn’t journey through this dusty, hot, miserable country to abruptly leave again. By the way, I took some of my things from the ranch last week. Apparently you haven’t been there for some time. Mrs. McLeod was difficult, as usual.”
“Cloudy misunderstands your charitable nature,” he sarcastically drawled. “I’m surprised she let you in the door.”
“I explained I wouldn’t be staying at the ranch.”
“Incentive, then, for her tolerance. But you won’t be staying in Helena either. I want you to return to Europe.”
“How authoritarian you’ve become. I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you. I have other plans.”
“Ned Storham can’t help you.”
“Perhaps I disagree.”
“He’ll be dead in a few days.”
“Or you will.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“But I am.”
He sighed, relaxing marginally, all this very old battle ground, none of it useful to the purpose of his visit. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I’m not here to negotiate or argue.” He paused for a moment, wanting to be certain she was listening, so there wouldn’t be any mistaking his message, and then, moving closer, he quietly said, “Either be on the stage for Salt Lake City tomorrow morning, or I’ll see that you are.”
She looked up at him with bland eyes. “You don’t frighten me.”
“That’s because I’ve always been too pleasant. I’m very serious now. Don’t discount my sense of purpose.”
“You’re not even going to offer me more money to leave you in peace with your new paramour?”
“No.” He was done buying, paying, cajoling, looking the other way, ignoring the fact that his life was passing by while other people were enjoying happiness. By the merest stroke of fate, because of a duty visit to Judge Parkman’s one night, he now had an opportunity to possess what other people possessed: a family, love, peace and contentment, happiness, perhaps more children if the spirits were kind. “No,” he firmly repeated, his hand unconsciously moving to his Colt. “Not a penny more.”
“You sound very dramatic.” Her ladylike pose hadn’t altered, her hands lightly clasped in her lap, her perfectly coiffed head tipped slightly to one side as though she were listening intently, the tips of her perfectly aligned shoes peeking out from beneath her rose-colored tea gown.
“If you’re not on the stage tomorrow, you’ll be the recipient of some real drama, Isolde. Be warned.”
“Such brute purpose, darling. Should I quiver in fear?”
His teeth shone briefly white in a grim smile. “Fine. Pleasant journey, Isolde.” And he walked from the room.
“We’ll see whose journey is more pleasant,” she softly said as the door closed behind him, and leaning over, she picked up her teacup with a satisfied smile.
When Adam exited the room, he found Molly waiting in the foyer, nervously wringing her hands. Her sigh of relief brought a genuine smile to Adam’s face.
“I wouldn’t do the deed here, Molly,” he pleasantly said. “Rest easy, although it’s damned tempting right now, considering she just told me she expects me dead in a few days.”
“Ned Storham’s deal with your wife,” Molly unreservedly declared. “I didn’t want to take her in, Adam. I hope you know that. But she’s your wife. I couldn’t say no.”
“I understand all the myriad ramifications, Molly. No need to apologize. I was wondering, though,” he went on, smiling down at her, “what your plans were for the evening.”
“What would you like my plans to be?” she asked with a smile of her own. She’d always had a soft spot in her heart for the rakish Comte de Chastellux, and if she’d been twenty years younger, she would have been tempted to forget her marriage vows for a night or two with the charming rogue.
“If you were to take a ride out to the hills west of town to view the sunset this evening before dinner, I feel sure Isolde would prefer staying home. Take Henrietta too.”
“How long should we be gone?”
“An hour should be enough.”
“I hear you’ve fallen in love at last,” she gently said.
“For once the gossip is right,” Adam admitted with a faint smile. “So I’m trying to set my life in order. I paid Isolde in Saratoga to leave the country. I was surprised to hear she’d come to Montana.”
“I imagine her pregnancy motivated her journey,” Molly matter of factly asserted.
“Is she telling everyone it’s mine? It’s not, of course. Should I place a disclaimer in the local paper?” he sarcastically murmured.
“No need, my boy,” Molly soothed. “She had a miscarriage.”
Ever suspicious of Isolde’s machinations, he asked, “Did she tell you that?”
“We’re not on such intimate terms, darling, but unlike your wife, who thinks servants are subhuman, my maids talk to me. I know everything that goes on in my household. Isolde was bleeding heavily when she arrived several days ago. But I’m informed now the countess’s health is fully restored.”
“It couldn’t be something else … I mean … how—”
“No,” Molly interjected, curtailing Adam’s embarrassed query. “I’m absolutely sure.” She smiled. “Would you like the details?”
“No,” he quickly replied, breaking into a beaming smile. “Jesus, Molly, do you know what you’ve just given me?”
“Freedom?” she archly said, her eyes amused. “A new—” her sentence ended in a startled gasp as Adam pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fisk,” he said with a wide grin as he steadied his hostess on her trembling legs. “I shall be eternally grateful,” he solemnly pronounced, the gravity of his declaration mitigated at the last by a throaty chuckle.
“Thought you should know,” Molly cheerfully noted. “Knew you’d be pleased. The countess has a real art of irritating.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Adam said, his grin irrepressible. “Why don’t I have you to lunch this afternoon to celebrate Isolde’s imminent departure? Say the Planters House at two?”
“I suppose this means I have to change my plans for Henrietta,” Molly teased.
“You’re welcome to bring her along.”
“Such pretense, Adam, from a man of your intelligence.”
“You didn’t really think you had a chance of implementing those plans, now, did you?” he softly queried.
Molly shrugged. “Harold told me I was crazy.”
Adam smiled. “He was right, darling. What about Ellis Green?” he playfully suggested. “He has plenty of money for Henrietta’s papa.”
“Maybe I should invite him to dinner.” Her statement was simultaneously thoughtful and teasing.
“But not tonight.”
“No. We’ll dine alone tonight. Harold prefers a quiet dinner.”
“That would work extremely well for me,” Adam murmured with a faint smile. “At two, then?” And bowing over her hand, he took his leave.
Before Harold Fisk went home from the bank that day for his midday meal, he tracked Adam down. When he’d run into James earlier that morning, he’d learned Adam was in town. He found James and Adam inspecting the condition of a stout carriage at the livery stable.
“Needing a stagecoach?” Harold queried, walking into the stall where the coach was parked.
“I hope so,” Adam said with a brief smile. “I saw Molly this morning.”
“And our houseguest, I’ll warrant.” Harold’s mouth was a straight, grim line.
“My condolences on having to put up with her.”
“Can’t say she’s very pleasant, but, then, she never was.”
“Isolde may be curtailing her visit,” James said.
“None of my business, I’m sure,” Harold quickly replied, then, swiftly glancing around as if spies were on his trail, he added, “Actually, she’s partly the reason I came looking for you. Just found out word of Ned Storham’s travel plans. Seems the two of them came up from Cheyenne together. Not a pretty picture,” he declared, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. His face was visibly flushed even in the cool, shaded stable interior. “You know everyone fights his own battles out here,” he prudently noted, “but I thought you’d like to know Ned’s on his way to the Musselshell.” He took another quick look around before he murmured, “No one will interfere and no one will miss him.”
“I appreciate the information, Harold,” Adam said, although he’d already received news of Ned’s direction from his men in Virginia City. But the offer of carte blanche was reassuring. Not that he couldn’t adequately defend his position, but it never hurt to have other influential men on your side.
“Seems to me your land claim is as legal as they get,” Harold emphatically stated. “Our damned governor couldn’t even get a private act of Congress passed.”
“My father had personal friends in Washington,” Adam noted. “He wanted my mother happy and her clan protected.”
“Well, just wanted to say good luck. The men with Ned are mostly scoundrels. They’ll run.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Adam said.
“And our weapon arsenal is first-rate,” James added.
“Good … good … glad to hear it.” Banker Fisk was noticeably agitated. Ned Storham had a great deal of money in his bank too, and it wouldn’t look right—his choosing sides. There were those who privately looked askance at Adam’s half-blood heritage, although none of them would openly acknowledge their feelings. The Comte de Chastellux was too powerful. “You know Judge Parkman will cover you if any Storham heirs make trouble.”
Adam smiled. “So he said. I received a message at the hotel. Thank you, Harold.” He put out his hand, genuinely appreciative of Harold’s efforts when he had many other wealthy depositors to appease.
“I’ll be saying good-bye, then. Bring Lady Flora to dinner—later.” He nervously smiled.
“Our pleasure,” Adam replied. “Maybe Flora can win some more of our money.”
“Only yours, Adam,” the banker said with a chuckle. “She plays too rich for my blood.”
Flora and her father rode into Helena at midafternoon. They’d kept a steady pace from the camp on the Yellowstone, stopping to sleep for only a few hours the previous night. Henry, Alan, and Douglas followed, the entire party dust-covered and warm—the fall day cloudless and bright with sunshine.
Flora drew eyes as she passed down the street, dressed as she was in trousers and a tailored shirt. Women rarely rode astride; female legs were generally concealed beneath voluminous skirts, and an armed woman was unusual enough to elicit stares. The fact that the leather of Flora’s rifle and pistol holsters had a well-worn sheen only added fascination.
The wide brim of her flat-crowned western hat shaded her face, but her beauty was unmistakable, as was her luxurious auburn hair tied with a narrow black ribbon at the nape of her neck. Even had she not been dressed and armed like a man, her splendid looks would have drawn attention.
Some townspeople recognized her from her previous visit. Helena society was small. Others who stopped to gaze at her from the sidewalks bordering the main street wondered who she was. Her name passed from those who knew to those who didn’t, the flurry of question and answer, tittle and tattle, following in her wake as the party from the Yellowstone rode down the sloping street to the livery stable.
“That’s Lady Flora … her father’s riding beside her … an earl from England … they travel all over the world.”
“Ellis Green was sweet on her.”
“She took the count from Aspen Valley for two hundred thousand at Harold Fisk’s one night … five-card draw … plays poker like a man.”
“Don’t look like a man.”
“Count didn’t think so either, rumor has it.”
Tucked between the Miners’ Bank and the new law offices of Cordell Harper, Letitia Granville’s millinery shop had a bow window with a clear view of the street. And since Cordell’s voice carried through the open doorway as he stood outside his office with his law clerk, Letitia and her two customers took note of the horsemen riding by.
“Damn, she’s a beauty. She could have any man in the territory, even if she weren’t titled and rich as Croesus.” Coming from Cordell Harper, who had the most avaricious mind in town, the compliment suggested the infinite measure of Flora’s beauty. “Howdy, Lady Flora!” he shouted. “Hey, over here! How-de-do!”
When Flora turned with a smile, Letitia’s customer seated at the small mirrored table momentarily stiffened, and her pale-blue eyes narrowed into grim slits. A second later the Comtesse de Chastellux untied the pink silk bow of the bonnet she’d been trying on, lifted it from her blond curls, and, handing it to the plump proprietor hovering over her, coolly said, “Charge it to my husband and send it to the Fisks.” Putting her mauve velvet toque back on, she swiftly adjusted the languid fall of feathers, cast a practiced glance into the mirror to see that the tilt of the bonnet was properly perched over the curls on her forehead, and rising, walked from the shop without a word.
“Did you see that?” Letitia whispered to the principal’s wife, keeping one eye on Isolde’s departing form. “Her husband’s lover …” The milliner’s rotund form quivered with excitement.
“I saw the count and Lady Flora dancing together the night they met at Judge Parkman’s in Virginia City,” Effie Humphries fervently declared, “and I swear, Letitia dear, those two raised the temperature in the room a good thirty degrees. Every lady there had to dab the sweat from her upper lip when they walked outside.”
“I heard the stories of what happened then!” Mrs. Granville’s voice was breathy with scandal. “Where do you think the countess is going?”
“If we’re careful to stay out of sight,” the principal’s wife whispered, putting her finger to her mouth in warning and indicating the doorway with a nod of her head, “we can watch.”
Isolde paused on the sidewalk for the brief time necessary to survey the street in the direction Flora had ridden, her nostrils flaring at the sight of the riders dismounting at the livery stable. As if scenting her prey, she drew in a breath, smiled, and moved determinedly in their direction.
“Why don’t you go ahead to the Planters House?” the earl said to Flora as he began unbuckling his saddlebags. “We’ll be along shortly.”
“I won’t even politely demur,” Flora replied with a faint smile. “A soft bed sounds heavenly after a day in the saddle.”
“Maybe you could order some lunch for us,” her father suggested, lifting his saddlebag free. “And something cool and wet,” he added with a grin.
“Done,” Flora responded with a nod. “Do you think Adam’s still here?” she asked. Although his trail led them to Helena, once in town, it was impossible to follow.
“I’ll find out,” her father assured her. “Go, now. It’s been a long ride.”
She had the loose-gaited stride of a horseman, Isolde disdainfully noted, taking in Flora’s long-legged tread as she moved up the gentle rise toward the Planters House. Although with her mannish attire, it shouldn’t be surprising. Adam had been out in the wilderness too long, his wife spitefully thought, her stylish high heels delicately clicking down the wooden sidewalk. He’d lost his taste for femininity.
Or perhaps the earl’s daughter had found a new way to amuse him. Could it be Adam had tired of conventional females? Regardless of the reasons, Isolde tartly thought, she wanted the hussy—whatever her appeal—to understand that Isolde de Plesy de Chastellux would remain the Comtesse de Chastellux. Adam’s title was hers by marriage, and she wasn’t about to relinguish it simply because he’d taken a fancy to his newest bed warmer.
Isolde’s pale curls caught the sunlight, so Flora noticed her when she was still some distance away.
“Damnation!” Flora swore. Even though she knew Isolde was in the territory, what the hell were the odds she’d walk into her at this precise moment, on this afternoon in Helena? Damn! What bloody bad luck!
Just walk by, she cautioned herself. Ignore the countess. A modest number of pedestrians populated the immediate vicinity. Surely, under the circumstances, Isolde wouldn’t make a scene.
But she steeled herself.
Seconds later Isolde stood blocking her way, the width of her crinolined skirt a bar to Flora’s passage, her posture aggressive, her chill gaze taking in Flora’s unusual clothing. “Does he like you dressed like that?” the Comtesse de Chastellux scornfully inquired, insult in every syllable.
“Better than he likes you in any attire,” Flora calmly replied, although she experienced a sudden longing for her riding quirt to mitigate Isolde’s derisive sneer. “Now, why not stand aside?” she went on in a carefully neutral tone. “There’s no point in conversing. We’ve no grounds for agreement on anything.”
“We’re sharing the same man,” Isolde murmured with malicious sweetness, leaning slightly forward so her elegant skirt swayed like a silken pendulum. “Surely that’s common ground enough.”
“We’re not sharing anything except the air in Helena. You don’t have him to share.”
“A court might disagree.”
“But a court can’t give him back to you. Why not let him go?” Flora quietly suggested. “You don’t love him.”
“An inconsequential emotion,” Isolde replied with a contemptuous snap. “We’re irrevocably married.” And she noted with gratification the sudden flaring pain in Flora’s eyes.
“All good wishes, then, for a prosperous future,” Flora softly murmured, sensible of the futility of their conversation, beginning to move around Isolde’s spreading skirts.
Lifting her furled parasol, Isolde stopped her.
“You’ll never keep him,” the countess coldly said, holding the flat of the parasol against Flora’s waist. “Even if he survives Ned’s plans for revenge, he’ll tire of you, as he has all the others. Females have always kept him company—in great numbers. But, then, you knew that, didn’t you?” She smiled faintly at the distress she was causing. Flora had gone quite pale.
“We’re having a child,” Flora said into the small silence, wanting the cold, brutal woman to know, defending herself against Isolde’s cruelty with a brutality of her own.
“Really.” Not a flicker of emotion registered on the mannequinlike face. “It’s not a very original ploy.”
“It’s not a ploy at all, but a great miracle. I don’t expect you to understand.” And taking the wrapped silk of the parasol in a hard grip, Flora wrenched the ebony handle from Isolde’s gloved fingers.
A flinching shock suddenly displaced the countess’s haughty disdain. “Look,” Flora said with a small sigh of restraint. “Why not find someone else to harass? I don’t want Adam’s title. Mine is quite sufficient. You can remain the Comtesse de Chastellux with my blessing.” She placed the parasol against the brick wall of Sherman’s Emporium.
“While you publicly usurp my position, you impertinent jade!” Isolde spat. Finding herself braver as she snatched up her parasol, she heatedly added, “I’ll see that you rue the day you crossed my path. I’ll see that you’re cut from society.”
“Society rarely interests me,” Flora replied. “But when it does, rest assured, my fortune allows me continuing entrée. You certainly know that incontrovertible fact, Isolde. Money opens all doors. Oh, by the way,” Flora said with a grin as she began walking past Isolde, “my tits are getting bigger already.”
She shouldn’t have said it, she thought. She’d suppressed the flip remark several times in the last few seconds. It was unladylike, perhaps unkind, certainly too irreverent for such a seriously daunting occasion.
But then she saw Isolde’s expression alter to a vivid, lethal intensity, and she didn’t mind anymore that she’d been uncharitable.
“I should have had you killed in Saratoga,” Isolde said so softly, it sent a small chill down Flora’s spine.
Half turning back to the lady who was dressed for the Parisian drawing rooms and boulevards, Flora said, “Go home, Isolde. Go away.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “I won’t let you win. And I can kill you myself if I wish.”
There was a distinct sputtering sound behind her as she resumed her journey to the Planters House. A minor victory of sorts, Flora thought with a smile. How often, she wondered, had Isolde been left speechless?