The Emperor's New Clothes (8 page)

Silently, Tye handed her a handkerchief, and she nodded her thanks.

“Lordy, that's a shame.” Jack shook his head. “I hate to see anybody lose their land.”

“It's a shame, all right.” Tye studied her with an uncomfortable intensity, and she ignored him.

“But what can I do?” She fluttered her free hand. “I must sell, if only to get the financing I need to survive. I have no other choice.” Ophelia shook her head mournfully. “If only I knew the man I sold it to was of good, honest stock. A man worthy of the ancient, ex
tremely respectable and highly civilized title of Count of Brickwater.”

Tye frowned in confusion. “I thought it was Bridgewater.”

Damn. She nodded. “Of course.”

He shook his head in a puzzled gesture. “Didn't you just say Brickwater?”

“Surely not, but”—she sniffed again and dabbed at her eyes—“I might have. This whole topic is so dreadfully upsetting to even think about. I tend to get terribly, terribly confused. Why, sometimes I forget my own name.”

“There, there, darlin'.” Jack gazed at her with the lost expression of a man who is helpless in the face of a woman's tears. “I'm sure everything will work out.”

“Nothing will work out. It's hopeless.” She covered her face with the handkerchief and sobbed.

For a long moment her weeping was the only sound. Silence from the two men stretched on until she wondered how many more tears she could squeeze out. Honestly, how long would it take Jack to recognize the answer to her alleged dilemma and his own?

“Ophelia?” Jack's voice broke through her sobs.

“Yes?” She gazed at him with all the pathos in her arsenal.

“Would you consider selling…” Jack paused as if considering his words. “To an American?”

Triumph speared through her, and it was all she could do to keep it from showing on her face.

“What American?” she said, as if she didn't already know the answer.

A slow grin spread across Jack's face. “Me.”

“Jack!” Shock rang in Tye's voice.

“You!” Ophelia gasped. “Why, I couldn't possibly.”

Tye heaved a sigh of relief. “Damn right.”

Jack threw him a stern look. “Keep out of this, Tye.
I'm serious, Ophelia. I'd like the chance to buy your property.”

“You are a dear, dear man, but I can't imagine an American as the next count.” Ophelia shook her head. “Why, the scandal alone would be phenomenal.”

Jack set his lips in a firm line, the sure sign of a man who had his mind made up. “Think about it, Ophelia. I'd pay you a good price.”

“Jack, this is the stupidest thing I've ever heard.” Disbelief and exasperation underlay Tye's words. “You can't be serious. Why would you even consider leaving Wyoming for England?”

“What makes you think I'd leave?” Jack gazed at his nephew as if he had taken leave of his senses.

“Wouldn't you?” Confusion once more colored Tye's face, and Ophelia smiled to herself. She did so love it when this arrogant male didn't know what was going on.

“Of course not.” Jack laughed. “I'd get one of them English lawyers and a good manager to handle things for me. Lorelie and I would go over maybe once a year.” He leaned toward Ophelia. “She's never been abroad, and I've always promised to take her. And she'd be going as a countess.” He pulled his brows together. “She would be a countess, wouldn't she?”

Ophelia nodded. “Naturally.”

Jack grinned his satisfaction. “She'd have all the respectability and civilization any one woman could handle, and I'd hardly have to do much of anything except part with a bit of money.”

“I don't know, Jack.” She stared at him helplessly. “I'm not sure what to say. Or what to think, for that matter.”

“I think it's ridiculous,” Tye snapped.

“Why?” She gazed at him wide-eyed.

He clenched his teeth. “It just is, that's all.”

“I think it's a great idea,” Jack said with enthusiasm. “So, Ophelia, what do you say?”

“It's a very big decision. I'm really not…” She shrugged and gazed around as if the answer could be found somewhere out there in the Wyoming countryside. Abruptly, she squared her shoulders and stared Jack straight in the eye. “Very well. I'll sell.”

“I'll be damned.” Jack shook his head and laughed. “I'm going to be an English count.”

“More like a Wyoming jackass,” Tye muttered.

Ophelia turned to Tye and smiled sweetly, her voice meant for him alone. “One could say it's better to be a Wyoming jackass”—she dropped his sodden handkerchief in his lap—“than a lover in Venice. At least the animal doesn't have to depend on the fickle whims of moonlight to get what he wants.”

Tye stared as if he couldn't quite believe her words. Lovely self-satisfaction flooded her. Then a wicked smile quirked the corners of his lips and her heart sank. What was he up to now?

“I've never considered moonlight fickle.” His eyes simmered with a challenge or a threat or a promise, and she shivered with unwanted anticipation. “And I always get what I want.”

She drew a deep breath and matched his gaze with hers. “I shouldn't wager the ranch on it if I were you. Not this time.”

He laughed, and she tossed her head and turned to Jack. This was going far too well to waste time worrying about Tye Matthews. Besides, once she and Jack set a price for her mythical title and estate, and once she collected the money, she and Jenny would get out of Dead End so fast Tye wouldn't know what happened. Then she could firmly put behind her all his talk about lovers and moonlight and the crazy idea that she
actually wanted to kiss him. She sighed to herself.

She might have to shoot him after all.

 

Tye ignored much of the conversation between Ophelia and Jack on the drive back to the house. He had far too much to think about to pay attention to their enthusiastic discussions. He had a bad feeling about this. A real bad feeling.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Yet. But something was wrong. It wasn't simply Jack's determination to buy Ophelia's land and title, although the idea was probably one of the most asinine things he'd ever heard of.

It wasn't Ophelia's denial of their mutual attraction. Hell, she was only a woman and couldn't be expected to know her own mind. Even with her reluctance this morning, his confidence hadn't wavered as to his eventual conquest. She'd be in his bed before she knew it. And she'd love every minute of it.

He shook his head as if to jar odd, unsettling pieces of a unfamiliar puzzle into some kind of rational order. The answer seemed to beckon just beyond his reach. But his bad feeling was never wrong. And this was the strongest it had ever been.

Abruptly, one tiny piece snapped into place. He threw her a quick glance, then stared straight ahead. Lord, she was lovely. He was certain the body hidden beneath that prim, yellow dress was made for loving. And he'd already had a tempting glimpse of the passionate nature simmering just beneath that cool English exterior.

Could it be that her mind was really as convoluted as his aunt's? Or could there be another reason altogether? He clenched his jaw and thought long and
hard. Did it mean anything at all? Or did it mean everything?

What the hell was her dead husband's name anyway?

Jenny sighed with disgust and threw the riding habit on the bed. If she had to sew one more stitch, she'd go stark, raving mad. Besides, it wasn't fair, none of it. Ophelia was out having a good time touring the countryside with Big Jack, while Jenny was stuck here, ordered to stay in their rooms, no less, and forced to do menial, slave labor. All right, she conceded to herself, maybe it wasn't exactly slave labor, but the effect was the same nonetheless.

She glanced around Ophelia's room and sighed again. Jenny had already finished altering the riding habit, and had two more dresses to tackle, one for herself. She'd give her sister that much: At least Ophelia was sharing some of the countess's clothes. And she had to admit there were probably a lot worse things one could be doing than stitching the kind of luxurious fabrics with their fine workmanship that were found
in the countess's wardrobe. Even if she was bored to tears.

She pulled herself to her feet, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the innocent riding habit. There was no reason in the world why Ophelia got to be the countess and Jenny was stuck with the part of the maid. Certainly her sister was older and far more experienced with clever deceptions than she, but Jenny considered herself every bit the expert actress her sister was.

Impulsively, she gathered up the habit and stepped to a full-length mirror on an oak stand. She held the dress up before her and stared at the image. See? She glared at the Jenny facing her. She'd be just as good a countess, maybe even better. Of course, she couldn't ride any more than her sister could. She didn't know the first thing about socializing. And she had absolutely no experience with men. It seemed Ophelia was determined to keep her away from those interesting creatures. Jenny heaved another sigh. She might consider herself as good an actress as Ophelia, but she wasn't nearly as expert an out-and-out liar as her sister. She tossed the garment back on the bed. Maybe Ophelia was the best choice for this role after all.

Still, surely even maids had a bit of freedom once in a while. She grinned at the girl in the mirror. Ophelia wouldn't be back for hours. It would be a simple matter to slip out and explore this impressive house. Maybe even get outdoors and look around. What would be the harm in that? The reflected Jenny smiled in innocent agreement. Why, no harm at all.

Jenny's glance fell on a breakfast tray that had been left outside her door this morning. What a perfect excuse to go down to the kitchen. Besides, returning the breakfast dishes would be the polite thing to do, and
doing it herself would give her the opportunity to thank the cook in person. Jenny nodded, picked up the tray with one hand, pulled open the door with the other and stepped into the hall. She ignored the tiny twinge of guilt at disobeying her sister's specific orders to stay in her room. But Ophelia had to learn she could be trusted. After all, she was nearly seventeen, practically a grown woman.

Jenny tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder and strode down the corridor to a back stairway she had noted on their arrival. She stepped lightly down the darkened stairwell until it opened up into a sunlight-filled kitchen. Jenny blinked at the brightness and hesitated in the doorway.

“Come on in, child.” A cherry, buxom, silver-haired woman bustled up and took the tray from her hands. “Sit right down over here and let me have a look at you.”

Jenny stepped to a big wooden table and plunked down in the first available chair. The older woman placed the tray on a sideboard and cast her a welcoming grin.

“Well, just look at you. You are a pretty little thing.” The woman's gray eyes studied her with an intensity that would have made Jenny uncomfortable were it not for the warmth radiating from them. “You must be the countess's maid.”

“My name's Jenny.” She returned the friendly smile.

“I'm Alma.” The woman's voice was as robust as she was. “I'm the cook, housekeeper and just about everything else around here.”

“Really,” Jenny said in surprise. “I would think a house this big would need a whole staff of servants.”

“I am a whole staff.” Alma laughed, a big booming sound that seemed to echo in the room. “We have girls from town who come in now and then when needed,
but it's just Mr. Jack and Miz Lorelie here and they're pretty easy to take care of. It's not like there's a whole house full of folks.” A shadow passed over the housekeeper's face so swiftly Jenny thought she must be mistaken. “Course, with you and the countess staying here now, and all the entertaining that's planned, I'll be getting some help in this afternoon, but right now it's just me.”

She cocked a curious brow. “I hear you're what they call a ‘lady's maid'?”

“Yes indeed,” Jenny said with barely disguised regret that lingered in her words. She should have been the countess. “That's me, all right.”

Alma studied her. “How come you don't have one of those fancy accents like that employer of yours or Mr. Sedge?”

“Who's Mr. Sedge?”

“Mr. Sedge is from England too and a good friend of Mr. Tye's—he's Mr. Jack's and Miz Lorelie's nephew. Grew up right here in this house after his folks died. They treat him just like a son. He took the place of their own baby.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Sympathy stabbed through Jenny. “Their child died?”

Alma's voice was grim. “They lost her when she was two years old.” The shadow Jenny had noticed before flickered once again. Alma shook her head slightly as if to throw off sorrowful memories, and her smile returned. “But enough of that. You didn't answer my question.”

“Oh, about accents?” Jenny groaned to herself. Why hadn't she thought about that before she came downstairs? Her mind struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation. “I…um…I'm not from England originally,” she said with relief.

“Where are you from then?” Amusement twinkled in Alma's eyes. “Originally.”

“Oh, here and there.”

A frown creased Alma's ample forehead. “Where are your parents from?”

“Parents?” She shook her head. A half truth was better than nothing at all. “I don't have parents.” She thought for a moment. “They died. Quite tragically, when I was very young.”

“So you're an orphan.” Alma nodded, as if she'd expected such an answer, and clucked in sympathy. “That's a shame.”

“Isn't that the truth,” Jenny said mournfully, hiding her satisfaction at how well her charade was going. She was just as good an actress as Ophelia, and nearly as good a liar. And she could prove it too. “I was raised in an orphanage, but when they tried to send me to the workhouse, I ran away.” Jenny cast Alma a heartfelt glance. “Now, I have to make my own way in the world anyway I can. I'm all alone. It's so hard sometimes.”

“So how'd you hook up with the countess?”

“How?” How indeed? She groped for an answer. “Well, I can sew…and I found work with a seamstress…and met up with the countess, and…her maid…um…died and she hired me.” She finished with a sense of relief and a fair amount of pleasure. Maybe she was as good a liar as her sister after all. And just maybe she was better.

“Does that woman treat you all right?” Suspicion underlay Alma's words.

Shame stabbed through Jenny. Goodness, she'd probably given this nice lady the idea Ophelia was some kind of maid-killing ogre. And in fact, she could be quite beastly at times, even while claiming it was all with Jenny's interests at heart. Still, Jenny never doubted that Ophelia did the best she could for both
of them. Jenny nodded. “She's really very nice.”

“Good.” Alma beamed. “Now, I just finished baking some nice, fresh apple pies. How would you like a piece?”

Jenny's stomach rumbled in assent and her mouth watered. It had been a while since breakfast. She grinned. “I love apple pie.”

“Of course you do, child,” Alma said, as if there was no doubt whatsoever. She turned to a counter where a row of pies sat cooling, sliced a large piece, slid it on a plate and presented it to Jenny. “I make the best pie in Wyoming.”

Jenny stared at the huge portion before her. “I'll bet you do.”

Alma laughed, and Jenny dug in. The pie was as good as it looked. Jenny reveled in the succulent flavors, and Alma kept up a running stream of conversation. Before long, Jenny thought she knew all there was to know about Mr. and Mrs. Matthews and their nephew and the town and just about everything else. She was well into her second helping when a tiny blond woman fluttered into the room.

“Alma, we must discuss dinner tonight. We'll be having a dozen or so—oh.” The woman stopped short and stared at Jenny with a perplexed expression. “Who are you?”

Jenny struggled to get a word out around the pie stuffed in her mouth, but Alma leapt ahead. “This is Jenny, Miz Lorelie. She's the countess's maid.”

“Oh, I see.” Lorelie smiled a greeting. “I do hope her rooms are satisfactory. I don't mind telling you, we don't have many countesses here.” A thoughtful frown furrowed her forehead. “In fact, I don't believe we've ever had any at all. Have we, Alma?”

Alma shook her head. “Nope, this is the first.”

“I should like to think we'd get more, though. Dead
End—or rather, it's Empire City now—is such a lovely place.” Lorelie quirked a pale brow. “Don't you think so?”

“It's very nice,” Jenny choked out, and swallowed.

“I am sorry.” Lorelie shook her head. “How terribly thoughtless of me.”

Jenny glanced at Alma, who rolled her eyes at the ceiling. Jenny's words were cautious. “What are you sorry about?”

Lorelie's eyes widened with surprise. “Why, I asked you a question when your mouth was full. It was quite rude of me. Not at all civilized and hardly respectable.” She leaned toward Jenny in a confidential manner. “We are working very hard right now to become civilized.”

“So I hear,” Jenny said, stifling a giggle.

“It's quite important, you know,” Lorelie said. “Civilization. Although just between us, I've always rather liked the rugged ways we have out here. Still, it's no doubt time for a change. I was born in St. Louis. It's extremely civilized there.”

“I was in St. Louis once,” Jenny said.

“How lovely.” Lorelie's voice was bright, as if she'd just found a long-lost friend. “Then we have something in common. Did you like it?”

Jenny shrugged. “I don't remember much. I was just a baby.”

“I see.” Lorelie hesitated, a sad look in her eyes, as if remembering something she'd just as soon forget.

“I don't see why everyone wants all this respectability anyway,” Alma grumbled.

“Why, Alma,” Lorelie said. “You know as well as I do it's all part of progress.” Her voice held a chastising note. “We're going to be a state someday soon, and we'd hate to have the rest of the states looking down their noses at us.”

“Well, I think it's silly. Especially changing the town's name. Empire City.” Alma snorted her disdain. “It will always be Dead End to me.”

Lorelie sighed. “Yes, well, I agree with you there. It is so difficult to get used to new ideas. But I suppose it's the price one pays for progress.”

The kitchen door slammed open and a tall, lanky cowboy strode into the room. “Alma, I hear you've got some fresh pie and I—” He stopped short at the sight of Lorelie and snatched his hat from his head. “Beg pardon, Miz Lorelie, I didn't know you were in here.”

Lorelie waved off his apology. “Not at all, Zach. I was just having a pleasant talk with this nice young lady. Jenny, have you met Zach?”

“No,” Jenny said a bit breathlessly, and stared into eyes the color of the Wyoming sky, endless and bewitching, beneath an unruly shock of thick, black hair. She met his gaze, and a slow smile spread across his face. Heat crept up her cheeks, and she jerked her gaze away.

“Jenny,” Lorelie said. “This is Zachary Weston, one of our hands and quite a scamp. We've known him all his life, and he's still as ornery as when he was just a little tyke.”

“Miz Lorelie.” Zach groaned in obvious embarrassment and stalked over to the table. He cut a huge piece of pie, jammed half of it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I'm a grown man now. High time you stopped telling people what a cute kid I was.”

Alma chuckled. “He
was
a cute kid, though.”

He still was as far as Jenny could see. Of course, he wasn't a kid anymore. This was definitely a man. Why, he was at least eighteen. Tall and lean as if he'd grown too fast, with a smile that promised an easy laugh and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on but intrigued her nonetheless.

“Zach,” Lorelie said, “why don't you take Jenny out and show her around the ranch. Unless the countess needs you, Jenny.”

“I doubt it.” Jenny was not about to pass up this opportunity to taste a bit of freedom. Especially not with the interesting Mr. Weston by her side. “She's not even here right now.”

“That's right,” Alma said. “She's out with Mr. Jack and Mr. Tye.”

“Tyler's with them?” Lorelie said. Alma nodded, and Lorelie smiled with delight. “I see. Isn't that interesting?”

Alma cast her a warning glare. “Now, don't you go getting any big ideas about Mr. Tye and that foreigner. I know you're used to running his life, but settling down with a woman ain't something a family should be meddling with.”

“Pshaw.” Lorelie waved off the objection, and her eyes sparkled. “Settling down is the very sort of thing a family should meddle with. Why, it's what families are for.” A frown flitted across her face. “Although I daresay I'm not at all fond of the term meddling.”

“Well, how about interfering or butting in?” Sarcasm dripped off the housekeeper's words. “Or just plain sticking your nose in other people's business where it don't belong?”