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his ruffled hair. "Did we forget to pack my boots, chaps, and holster?"
    "I fear so, my lord," Manypenny replied without expression.
    Geoff's sculpted features relaxed into an appealing smile as he took in the sight of his manservant set against the backdrop of Cody, Wyoming. Manypenny was closer in height to seven feet than six, and he seemed to own an endless supply of dark suits, gray-striped vests, winged-collared shirts, and black ties. Today, in honor of his appearance outdoors, he had added a black wool overcoat and a black derby that looked as if it were squeezing his massive head.
    "My lord," he said now, in a rare volunteered statement, "I hope that you will not forego your personal style of dressing, which is flawless, in deference to your surroundings. To replace your wardrobe with—" He grimaced. "— chaps would be nothing less than tragic."
    Geoff tried to look serious as he nodded and replied, "Perhaps. At the moment, however, my wardrobe is the least of our concerns. I must seek out some advice about the local hotels before we're held up at gunpoint and stripped of our belongings." He inclined his head toward the group of surly characters gathering across the street to stare at them and their trunks.
    "If you don't find lodgings that meet with your approval, my lord, perhaps you would consider turning back...."
    "To London?" Geoff laughed at this notion. "Hardly. I'm made of sterner stuff than that—and so are you! Now then, I suggest that you have a seat while I go into this pub and have a word with the barman." He watched Manypenny perch on the edge of a large trunk, then walked the few yards to Purcell's Saloon.
    Now that they had reached Cody, Geoff was more aware than ever of the uncertainty of this undertaking. A vague sense of danger danced over his nerves, and he reveled in each erratic sensation. Each minute that lay ahead promised to be unlike any he'd experienced in the previous three decades; it was exactly what he'd longed for. Manypenny would be aghast to learn just how willing his master was to throw off his old ways, including every stitch of his splendid wardrobe.
    Stepping into the raucous, smoke-filled saloon, Geoff smiled with irony and thought, It's nothing like White's—thank God. He felt the keen scrutiny from other patrons and looked back calmly. At the bar, he ordered a whiskey and bided his time.
    "New in town?" the bartender inquired laconically.
    "Very observant of you," Geoff said with a smile. Extending his hand, he added, "My name is Geoffrey Weston. I've been admiring your town."
    "Glad to meetcha." They shook hands. "I'm Tom Purcell; this here's my saloon."
    From a nearby table someone hissed, "Geez-us! It's one of them sissy limeys!"
    Geoff finished his whiskey, then turned and stared evenly at the man who had spoken, immediately recognizing him by his reddening face. No further action seemed necessary, and Geoff's gaze wandered to another pair of eyes that he'd felt burning a hole through his back. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the least-likely cowboy imaginable. He turned back to the bartender.
    "Who, may I ask, is that very slight, bizarre-looking fellow seated in the corner?"
    Purcell bit back a grin. "Seems to be a relative of Ben Avery's who's passin' through. Ben's the big sandy-haired cowpuncher next to him; he has a fine ranch south of here. The cousin wants a card game."
    No sooner had Geoff digested this information than he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. Turning his head, he found himself looking down at the very person he and Purcell had been discussing. The fellow was even more peculiar-looking at close range. His head was dwarfed by a five-gallon white Stetson hat and a drooping mustache, and he wore an outlandish pair of angora chaps and oversized cowhide gloves.
    "Howdy, stranger!" the odd-looking cowboy said in a hoarse voice. "The name's Coyote Matt."
    Geoff blinked, but shook the glove extended toward him and felt the daintiness of the