defensive-mean he could get if he detected even the slightest empathy coming his way. He’d rather be hated than pitied.
Billy stepped out from behind the door, forcing the two men to look at him instead of Colt. Dredging up his manners, he asked pleasantly, “Can we help you with something, gentlemen?”
The taller of the two was Billy’s height but looked more Colt’s age, with chestnut hair cropped short andeyes about the same shade. He was still disconcerted by what he’d seen when he answered with the question, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to be Colt Thunder, would you?”
It was asked so hopefully Billy couldn’t help grinning. “Afraid not.”
The two redcoats glanced at each other, their discomfort palpable, but then the taller man said, “Didn’t think so, but—well, never mind, then.” He leaned to the side to get another glance at Colt before straightening and saying with more force, “We’ve a message for your mate, if he’s Mr. Thunder.”
Billy’s grin widened. He couldn’t resist repeating the way he knew Colt hated being addressed. “Mr. Thunder, they’re here for you.”
“I heard, but I’m not interested.”
Billy swung around, no longer amused, to see Colt shrugging into his shirt. Colt might not be interested, but Billy was damn curious, knowing full well who the message had to be from.
“Ah, come on, Colt, it’s just a message. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least hear it.”
Colt came forward, his expression inscrutable, though Billy recognized the subtle signs of impatience when he saw them. Colt hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, just tucking it into his pants. That both pants and shirt were black might account for the two Englishmen taking a wary step back when Colt filled the doorway, but it probably had more to do with his intimidating height and size.
“Let’s hear it,” he demanded curtly.
The taller fellow cleared his throat, still apparentlythe spokesman for the two. “Her Grace, the Duchess Dowager of Eaton, requests the honor of your—”
“The what?” Colt interrupted at the same time Billy swore, “Christ, an English duchess!”
Colt gave Billy a sharp look. “What the hell’s a duchess?”
“You mean you don’t…no, of course you wouldn’t…how could you—?”
“Just spit it out, kid, before you choke on it.”
Billy flushed, but he was too excited to be subdued. “A duchess is a member of the English nobility, the wife of a duke. The nobility of England have different degrees of importance—barons, earls, and such. A comparison would be your minor chiefs and war leaders. But you can’t get any more important than a duke or duchess, unless you’re a member of the royal family.”
Colt frowned, but directed the expression at the two messengers. “That right, what he says?”
“Close enough,” the spokesman replied, deciding estate size and degree of influence weren’t worth mentioning when all he wanted was to get out of there. “But as I was saying, Mr. Thunder, Her Grace requests the honor of your presence this noontime at the Mais—Maisy—”
“Maison Dorée,” his nondescript companion supplied in a whisper.
“Right you are, the Maison Dorée Restaurant.”
When the man finished, he smiled. Colt looked at Billy, who was grinning widely again. “She wants to meet you for lunch,” he explained.
“No,” Colt said simply and started to turn away.
“Wait, Mr. Thunder! In the event you declined the first invitation, I was instructed to extend another. Her Grace would be pleased to receive you in her suite at the Grand Hotel, at your convenience, of course.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not meeting the woman anywhere, at any time. Is that clear enough for you?”
Both men appeared shocked, but not by his refusal, as he found out when the spokesman said, “There are proper modes of address for a duchess, sir. You may refer to her as Her Grace, or Her Ladyship, or even Lady Fleming, but she is never
Billy stepped out from behind the door, forcing the two men to look at him instead of Colt. Dredging up his manners, he asked pleasantly, “Can we help you with something, gentlemen?”
The taller of the two was Billy’s height but looked more Colt’s age, with chestnut hair cropped short andeyes about the same shade. He was still disconcerted by what he’d seen when he answered with the question, “I say, you wouldn’t happen to be Colt Thunder, would you?”
It was asked so hopefully Billy couldn’t help grinning. “Afraid not.”
The two redcoats glanced at each other, their discomfort palpable, but then the taller man said, “Didn’t think so, but—well, never mind, then.” He leaned to the side to get another glance at Colt before straightening and saying with more force, “We’ve a message for your mate, if he’s Mr. Thunder.”
Billy’s grin widened. He couldn’t resist repeating the way he knew Colt hated being addressed. “Mr. Thunder, they’re here for you.”
“I heard, but I’m not interested.”
Billy swung around, no longer amused, to see Colt shrugging into his shirt. Colt might not be interested, but Billy was damn curious, knowing full well who the message had to be from.
“Ah, come on, Colt, it’s just a message. It wouldn’t hurt you to at least hear it.”
Colt came forward, his expression inscrutable, though Billy recognized the subtle signs of impatience when he saw them. Colt hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, just tucking it into his pants. That both pants and shirt were black might account for the two Englishmen taking a wary step back when Colt filled the doorway, but it probably had more to do with his intimidating height and size.
“Let’s hear it,” he demanded curtly.
The taller fellow cleared his throat, still apparentlythe spokesman for the two. “Her Grace, the Duchess Dowager of Eaton, requests the honor of your—”
“The what?” Colt interrupted at the same time Billy swore, “Christ, an English duchess!”
Colt gave Billy a sharp look. “What the hell’s a duchess?”
“You mean you don’t…no, of course you wouldn’t…how could you—?”
“Just spit it out, kid, before you choke on it.”
Billy flushed, but he was too excited to be subdued. “A duchess is a member of the English nobility, the wife of a duke. The nobility of England have different degrees of importance—barons, earls, and such. A comparison would be your minor chiefs and war leaders. But you can’t get any more important than a duke or duchess, unless you’re a member of the royal family.”
Colt frowned, but directed the expression at the two messengers. “That right, what he says?”
“Close enough,” the spokesman replied, deciding estate size and degree of influence weren’t worth mentioning when all he wanted was to get out of there. “But as I was saying, Mr. Thunder, Her Grace requests the honor of your presence this noontime at the Mais—Maisy—”
“Maison Dorée,” his nondescript companion supplied in a whisper.
“Right you are, the Maison Dorée Restaurant.”
When the man finished, he smiled. Colt looked at Billy, who was grinning widely again. “She wants to meet you for lunch,” he explained.
“No,” Colt said simply and started to turn away.
“Wait, Mr. Thunder! In the event you declined the first invitation, I was instructed to extend another. Her Grace would be pleased to receive you in her suite at the Grand Hotel, at your convenience, of course.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not meeting the woman anywhere, at any time. Is that clear enough for you?”
Both men appeared shocked, but not by his refusal, as he found out when the spokesman said, “There are proper modes of address for a duchess, sir. You may refer to her as Her Grace, or Her Ladyship, or even Lady Fleming, but she is never
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