Cachet

by Shannah Biondine

  "Maybe so. But banks get robbed, don't they?"

  Chapter 18

  Cameron had locked her in. Richelle tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. She crossed to the windows. The heavy wooden shutters had been nailed to the sashes. Her bedroom was a prison. What kind of world am I living in, she asked herself in disgust, when a man like my father gets sick and dies while an evil man like Cameron Nash is still alive and healthy?

  She had to do something. She couldn't stay there. What would Morgan do in this fix? She tried to think like he would, look for small details.

  At last she recalled something Elaine may have overlooked. Richelle lit the small bedside lamp and took it into her walk-in closet. The old attic scuttle was partially obscured by hatboxes on the shelf. Richelle went back to check her handbag. She had a reasonable sum in English currency. If she could get out....

  She slid the braided rug from beside her bed close to where Cameron had left her trunk. She heaved with all her might, flipping the trunk over until it rested on top of the rug. She dragged the rug across the floor into the closet and upended the trunk. Now she had a makeshift stepstool, just tall enough for her stand on and opened the scuttle. She took a deep breath, set a foot on the edge of the closet shelf, and hoisted herself into the attic.

  Grabbing a few garments from a crate of frontier goods, she stuffed them into a weathered satchel and wrapped herself in a moth-eaten old shawl. Then she silently tripped the latch and opened the casement window. It was an easy drop from the window ledge to the gable below. From there she worked her way around to the trellis at the northeast corner of the house. Always a stubborn child, she'd used this same escape route a dozen times when Elaine ordered her upstairs for the day. Always contrary, or maybe it was foolhardy—both adjectives Morgan had used to describe her.

  Morgan! Somehow she had to find him. But first she had get away to a safe place.

  * * *

  Two days later she stood on a sidewalk outside Washington. This quiet street of residential houses was the safest place she could think of to find asylum. The particular house she sought had been a dull green once, but had recently been painted light blue with white trim. Any doubts she'd found the right place evaporated as she watched a bull of a man talk to two dandies in business attire. The men nodded and the bull let them inside.

  She hitched up faded yellow calico skirts and boldly started up the front walk. "I need to see Sheila. She's my cousin."

  "Sure, like she's Tanya's aunt and Sophie's half sister." The voice was gruff as expected. He shifted his bulk to completely fill the door frame. "Sheila's got female relations coming out of the woodwork, if you'll excuse the pun. Why don't you go on back home, Dolly? Sin to Moses to let a little gal like you in here. You plain ain't the type."

  "I've come all the way from Philadelphia, and I'm not moving off this porch until you check with her. Tell her it's Richelle Hardwick."

  He disappeared, then came back to the door. "Sorry, Miss Richelle. She says I should send you in."

  Richelle picked up her satchel. "What's your name?"

  "Patrick."

  "You never saw Sheila's cousin Richelle around here, did you, Patrick? Never heard of her. There's a man with sandy hair and mud-brown eyes. He's medium height and has a Western drawl. If he comes here, you never heard of me. Same if the police come asking questions. You never heard of Richelle."

  "Right you are, Emma. Never heard of no Rachel."

  "Richelle," she corrected, noting the irony in the reversal.

  "Her neither."

  * * *

  Sheila's flaming coppery tresses had lost their brassiness. Silver threads were interwoven in them now and there were a few more lines in her face. She uncurled from the lap of a customer and crossed the large drawing room, stopping at the medallion-back sofa to whisper something to one of the strumpets before greeting her newest guest. Richelle quickly explained that she was in trouble and needed a place to stay for a time.

  "You can stay as long as you like," Sheila nodded, "but we'll have to talk later. Full house tonight." She beckoned to one of her girls. "Lorella, take my cousin up to Naughty Nan's old room and see that she's comfortable."

  Richelle bathed and put on a wrapper Lorella loaned her. The housemaid brought up a tray of cold food and lemonade. Richelle was exhausted and already in bed when Sheila knocked at her door. They sat on the bed while Richelle spun her sordid tale. She managed to keep her emotions in check until she spoke of Morgan.

  "I should have told him," she sobbed, "but I was so scared he'd hate me."

  "I don't hate you, Richelle. I don't see how anyone who knows you could believe you'd poison anyone," Sheila disagreed.

  Richelle wiped her eyes with a corner of the bedsheet. "I've been thinking he might have been willing to hear me out. Did I tell you he outsmarted some pirates?"

  "Yes, Sweetie."

  "I saw how shrewd he really is. He could help me with Elaine and Cameron. But he'll probably jump aboard the first ship headed for England when Cameron bludgeons him with the nasty truth."

  Sheila looked thoughtful. "Not necessarily. Leave the new husband to me. I wish your father had contacted me when you got back from Oregon. I've got friends in high places. One of them might be able to clear up the legal tangle."

  "God, I forgot! You do have friends, some of the most important men in the country." Relief swept over Richelle. "Maybe I'll finally be able to shake the Nash rotten luck."

  "Sounds like you already have." Sheila studied Richelle's wedding ring. "Your new man sounds like he's something."

  Now Richelle couldn't help smiling. "He showed me the magic. In bed."

  Sheila laughed and patted Richelle's shoulder. "In that case, we'll certainly have to reel him in. Get some rest. And keep your door locked. Never had to worry about my customers mistaking you for one of my doves before, but now you put half my stable to shame."

  Sleep sounded simple enough, particularly since Richelle was mentally and physically exhausted, but it was nearly impossible to ignore the squeaking bedsprings, groans, and ribald laughter seeping through the thin walls around her. She hugged her pillow and recalled nights with Morgan. She thought about his kiss, his hands on her body, the feel of his hard length sliding deep inside her. His taunts. His smile. His strength and fierce pride.

  Morgan!

  * * *

  He stretched out a bronzed forearm. "Here, Rachel." His fingers found only empty bedsheets. He sat up with a start. He'd told her never to leave the cabin without him! He struck a match and glanced around, blinking. Then he remembered. Rachel was in Philadelphia. He was in a hotel bed in New York. He must have been dreaming. You didn't dream her voice, his mind insisted. You heard her.

  Four days and nights they'd been apart, and, he'd been unable to stop thinking of her. Her image lived in his mind. But this was the first time he'd imagined her calling out to him. He roused again at dawn, unable to shake the eerie belief that she'd summoned him. He debated with himself while he washed and shaved. He'd tabled his business activities for over a month. He should make up for lost time by accomplishing something while he was here.

  But he'd have other chances at trade dealings. He had only this one chance as newlywed groom to Rachel. She needed him. He could neither shake nor ignore the persistent foreboding.

  He checked out and sent a message to Boyd. He advised that he planned to hook up with Rachel and assess her family situation. He'd arrange passage to England for them as soon as the health crisis had stabilized. He asked Boyd to keep new of the hasty marriage under wraps for the present. Morgan would make a formal announcement and host a celebration at the inn upon their return.

  It took a crowded train ride and a fight for a hack at the depot, but at last Morgan found himself on a quiet Philadelphia residential street. He stared out the carriage window, certain there was some mistake. The homes here were mansions. The cab pulled to halt before an elegant brick home with a large portico. Shutters covered t
he many windows on all three floors.

  "This can't be right," he muttered. He stepped out and compared the number Rachel had written on a scrap of paper to the brass numerals above the imposing oak door.

  The driver chuckled as he pulled the Englishman's trunk out of his luggage hold. "Some pretty big bugs live in this part of town. Said you were looking for Jeremiah Hardwick's, right? This is Hardwick House. Drove him to the Governor's Ball last year."

  Morgan paid the man and gaped at the wide steps and imposing front entrance. Chagrin flooded his memory of the argument he'd had with Rachel in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. He'd told her she neither needed nor could afford a porcelain lamp. She'd archly informed him she had money back in America. She'd insisted the same when offering to repay him for her passage home.

  Money back in America? The girl's home was a bleeding palace! But he'd been half right. She certainly couldn't need another lamp. There were probably two dozen inside. Along with cut crystal, silver coffeepots and teakettles, a cook and a maid or two, and a thousand other things he'd never have.

  He tried to reconcile this stately family home with everything he knew of the woman he'd married. The office clerk of Crowshaven. There had been subtle hints, he realized. Her insolent manner, the way he'd always chafed at her tone when she called him 'sir'. Her propensity for arguing, giving rather than meekly taking orders. He'd told himself it stemmed from the fact she was an American. But clearly no ordinary American, a filthy rich American! What in blazes could have possessed her to take up residence in his dreary cottage and hire on as an underpaid clerk?

  He decided to leave his trunk behind a bit of shrubbery. Whatever game Rachel had been playing, it was up now. She was bound to realize that the second she found him at her door. The possible explanations began to intrigue him. This he had to hear.

  A man answered the bell. "Somethin' we can do for you, chum?"

  Morgan felt an instant dislike for the arrogant bastard. He secretly hoped this was dear Jonas. He'd love knocking the grin off the bloke's smug face.

  "Morgan Tremayne," he announced without extending his right hand. "I've come for Rachel."

  "You mean Richelle," the man corrected. "Strange accent you got there. Irish?"

  "English. Would you be Jonas, by any chance?"

  "Nope. Cameron Nash."

  A woman stepped in front of Nash. "Richelle's not here." The woman wore black velvet. Her wary blue eyes studied Morgan with open curiosity from beneath a coiffure of fading blonde curls. "What's your interest in her, young man?"

  "Perhaps I might step inside. The matter's personal in nature. I'd rather not discuss it on your doorstep."

  The woman turned without a word and led him to a spacious drawing room. Morgan followed, gazing in awe at potted ferns and expensive furnishings. 'Money back in America' was fast becoming a phrase he detested.

  "I'm Elaine Hardwick," the matron informed him. "We're in mourning in this house, as you may have noticed. I lost my husband last month and I'm not receiving visitors. You'll understand if I don't offer you refreshments or take your coat. Why are you looking for my stepdaughter?"

  Morgan inwardly winced at the news about Hardwick's death. "My condolences, madam." He took her hand and bowed politely. A flicker of recognition lit her eyes as her gaze fell on his signet ring. She immediately disguised the reaction by coughing into a lace handkerchief.

  She's seen my ring before. So, Rachel's here

  Something peculiar was going on here. Morgan decided not to reveal the true nature of his relationship to the girl in question. He released the stepmother's fingers and put a wistful note in his voice. "I met her aboard a vessel out of London for New York. I was quite frankly enchanted, and persuaded her to give me her family's address. I concluded my business in New York and hoped to call on her. May I speak with her?"

  "I haven't seen the girl in over a year."

  Now his brows drew into a perplexed frown. "That's odd. We docked in New York a week ago. I thought surely she'd come directly here, particularly as her father had summoned her. Due to his ill health, now that I recall."

  Elaine never faltered. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. My husband passed very quickly. He didn't have time to summon his daughter from overseas. If she contacts me, I'll tell her you came by. However, I feel compelled to tell you that there's little hope for a courtship. She's likely gone back out West. She has a beau, a Mr. Nelson, in Carson City."

  The fellow Nash hung on every word. He was too well dressed and openly intrusive to be a servant. Morgan turned back toward the wide marble foyer. "Thank you for your courtesy. I can see myself out."

  Starting back toward the foyer, he spotted a blur of color in the next room. He strode into the formal dining room before either of his hosts could stop him. He stared up at the large portrait dominating one wall. "Aye, that's the girl I met! A beau, you said? More's the pity."

  He left the house and slung his trunk over one shoulder, deep in thought as he moved slowly along the sidewalk. He'd know Rachel anywhere. She'd been younger in the portrait, but the soft brown eyes, thick auburn tresses, and tempting lips the artist had captured on canvas definitely belonged to the woman he called wife. Why wasn't she in the house? And why had the stepmother denied having seen her? There was something else that didn't fit, also. Something teasing the back of Morgan's mind that he couldn't quite grasp.

  He scanned the portrait again with his mind's eye. Now it came to him. At the bottom of the carved cherry frame was a brass nameplate reading: RICHELLE.

  Originally he'd assumed Nash had mistaken his pronunciation of her name due to his English accent. The man had even commented on it. But now Morgan realized the name wasn't just pronounced differently. It was spelled differently. Her signature on notes in the office, the lease on his cottage, even on the marriage license Haversham had given him. He set his trunk down and dug inside for the bit of parchment. He was right. The license said the Biblical name, Rachel. He blinked as the inescapable conclusion formed in his mind.

  The one thing the wench had always done perfectly was spell!

  So 'Rachel' was an assumed name. Used not by accident or oversight. The girl had deliberately changed both the spelling and pronunciation of her name. Stubbornly avoided talk of her past and her family. Pretended to be a destitute widow. But what he still couldn't fathom was why.

  "Say, you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

  Morgan had been so lost in his musings, he actually jumped. A elderly fellow with rheumy eyes peered from behind a rosebush.

  "Aye," Morgan answered. "Do you know her? Know where she's gone?"

  "Was told to be on the lookout for an Englishman with dark hair and a mustache. You're toting that trunk, got the look. Talk funny. Would that be you?"

  Morgan nodded. "Who told you to watch for me? Ra—Richelle?"

  The man glanced in both directions before he answered. "Some skinny gimp I never saw before came to my door. Told me to watch for you and ask you something."

  "What?"

  "Why you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

  Morgan's cheeks flushed. He felt like an idiot, but he knew he best be honest. "She's my wife. We married a few weeks ago. I was detained on business meant to join her at her father's house."

  "Right," the old man nodded. "Now I need to see a ring." Morgan raised his right hand for inspection. "Fair enough. Sheila's house in Washington." Morgan drew a blank. The man scowled. "Gentleman's sort of place, the gimp said."

  "Good God, not Cousin Sheila's? She's gone to the mad—" Morgan stopped himself before blurting out that embarrassment. "Thank you for the message."

  But he was talking to himself. The man was gone.

  Morgan struck out for the main thoroughfare. He'd find Cousin Sheila's and his runaway bride, if it took weeks and every last farthing he had. He'd find her. And when he did, he'd wring her lying, conniving, wealthy little American neck!

  Chapter 19

  Morgan thought he'd mentally prepared himse
lf for whatever might come, but he was wrong. The house of ill repute still astonished him. The huge front drawing room was all plush upholstery, Persian carpets and smoky mirrors. Illumination came from a crystal chandelier. He followed the burly doorman to an adjoining chamber, where a woman clad in a sparkling wrapper and little else sat smiling warmly at him from a card table.

  The full bosom, dark eyes and chestnut hair confirmed a strong family resemblance. "Morgan, my new English cousin! Sheila Reeves." She thrust out her hand in welcome. "Have a seat and I'll get you a brandy."

  "I want to see my wife."

  When he pointedly ignored her hand, she shrugged indifferently and moved to a sideboard, then calmly poured a splash of brandy into a glass. "Not one for social graces, huh?" She set the glass in front of him, offering a bountiful view of her cleavage in the process.

  The drink didn't soften Morgan's tone. "Your cousin owes me an explanation. I'm weary of playing round rosy. Fetch her now, or I'll get my trunk off your porch and my English ass out of this bordello and onto the next ship sailing for Europe."

  Sheila only smiled. Morgan noted with irritation that the sultry smile ran in Richelle's family, too. "She warned me you had a temper. She's not here at the moment. I sent her to a friend of mine. You're welcome to wait here in the meantime, and I can give you part of that explanation."

  "Good. Let's begin with the fact that I now know she's bloody wealthy and her name isn't Rachel. My partner gave her a clerking job, and she rented a cottage from me. Why would a rich American choose to live with common English folk? A social experiment?"

  "There's no nice way to say this, so I'm going to give it to you flat. My cousin stands accused of murder and there's a warrant for her arrest. Her father sent her to his sister's in London to keep Richelle out of jail while he tried to get the charges dropped. I gather the sister wasn't too keen on harboring a fugitive" Sheila shook her head. "I wish Jeremiah had told me about the legal charges. I know several important men in some high places. Richelle's gone to consult one now."