Cachet

by Shannah Biondine

  Richelle smiled in triumph. "Somersdale did, but has unknowingly sold it to me. I don't want Morgan to know that, however. I've got someone meeting with Arnold. He won't tell Morgan he ever held ownership. Maybe you could tell Morgan you met the new owner, who's aware of the Bargainer's reputation. Offer a commission if he'll arrange to rent grain storage to the area farmers. That's not a lie. I'd like him to get commitments from them. He can earn the granary back from me."

  "I never realized you had such a devious mind," Boyd said with a laugh. "I can make him curious enough to ride out."

  "When does he leave the house in the mornings, and where does he usually go? I don't want to run into him before the meeting."

  Boyd rose and tucked his chair back under the desk. "When he's not at the inn or livery, he comes here. He's due today, so if you don't wish to see him, you'd better go."

  "I don't want to discuss things until we can be alone. I'm staying in Newcastle. I'll be at the granary tomorrow afternoon. I'm relying on you to make sure he rides out there."

  "Oh, he'll be there, if I have to drag him behind his own horse."

  Chapter 26

  Richelle arrived at the mercantile to find the window shades pulled down and the sign on the front door showing CLOSED. She went around to the side entrance, where, as planned, Lorella had secretly turned the thumb-lock while pretending to browse. That door was unlocked, and Richelle entered the empty store without making a sound.

  She turned the window sign back to read OPEN and raised the shades, then unlocked the front door and purposely let it bang closed.

  "Mr. Somersdale, are you here?" she called in a clear voice.

  He scurried out from the back, hastily fumbling to smooth his shirtfront with one hand while the other raked over his balding pate. Lorella appeared right behind him, a grin playing across her lips. "Thanks for the special arrangements, Arnold."

  "I never said there'd be any—er," He glanced at Richelle, whose face was still obscured by the hood of her dark cloak. "May I be of assistance, mistress? This young lady was just—"

  Richelle snorted and tossed her head so her hood fell back. "It's plain enough what she was doing, and you, as well. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Somersdale, negotiating like that."

  "Wi-Widow Cordell!" Arnold stammered. "I wasn't aware you'd come back to us. Rumor had it you'd left Crowshaven for other climes."

  "I went back to America. My father took ill and passed away. I've come to discuss business with you." She lifted her eyebrows. "If you're quite finished."

  Somersdale mumbled something unintelligible and glared at Lorella, who appeared to be absently browsing about the mercantile once more.

  Richelle pulled the banker's documents from her bag. "I hold the promissory note on the inn and have a bill of sale you executed for the granary. The man from London was my agent. You've done business with me, Mr. Somersdale. You simply didn't realize it."

  He glanced at the papers in Richelle's hand. "Your father must have left you very well off. Congratulations. So you've come to buy up the town. Sorry, my enterprise isn't for sale."

  "Did Morgan know how close you were to destroying him?"

  Arnold snickered. "Still mooning after Tremayne, eh? What a waste! You can do better than that arrogant tippler. Particularly now that you've a substantial dowry. I might overlook our unsavory history and court you myself."

  "Did he know?" Richelle repeated in a hiss.

  "I doubt it."

  Richelle glanced down. The cloak still disguised her pregnancy. "I paid you a twenty percent profit on the granary. Quite a handsome return on an investment you held only a few months. You bought the inn's note at a discount. You've made the only profits you ever will from my husband's difficulties."

  "Husband?" Somersdale snorted in derision.

  "Morgan was gone for several months earlier this summer. He met up with me in London and we married aboard the ship to New York."

  "Ha! No wench has been able to get Tremayne to the altar, and you're not the first to try. You're hoping he'll wed you. That's why you've come back and begun tossing your inheritance about. Did you have to buy your late husband, as well?"

  Lorella moved faster than Richelle would have believed possible. One second the man stood erect. The next he was covering his genitals with both hands and gasping for breath.

  "You know his cachet, don't you, Arnold?" Richelle inquired, ignoring his obvious distress. "You must. His father was your business partner at one time. Andrew wore the signet before Morgan, and you've had dealings with both. Look at my wedding ring. Still doubt Morgan married me?" He couldn't even wheeze in answer.

  "If you ever cross Morgan again, the entire district will be informed of your activities with this young lady. I doubt that would increase your matronly trade. I trust we understand one another. Since you now know my housekeeper in the Biblical sense, she'll be a frequent customer. And you'll treat her with the utmost courtesy, won't you?" Arnold nodded. "I see no reason why any of us need mention the unfortunate incident today. But you have far more to lose, should it come to light, than she does."

  "I understand you, Rachel Tremayne," Arnold grimaced. "It appears we all underestimated you."

  "You underestimate many people," Richelle answered. Lorella winked at him, grinning suggestively. Richelle's voice was strong and steady. "Not a strong point for someone who claims to be a man of commerce. Afternoon, storekeeper."

  Lorella waited until they were back outside. "All right, I did your favor. Now why am I and everyone around here calling you 'Rachel'?"

  "It's a long story. It's just simpler to let them call me that than explain. And I like finding Morgan's the only one who knows my true name."

  They paid a farmer to give them a ride out of the village. The man pulled to a halt in front of their tavern in Newcastle, cursing and kicking at an underfed cur who came sniffing at his feet. "Who does he belong to?" Richelle asked. She reached a tentative hand to the dog. He sniffed cautiously before he let her stroke his matted fur.

  "Been hanging 'round here for weeks. Seen him last month when I was here for supplies. Best shoo him off before the innkeeper spots him."

  "It's all right." Richelle bent and patted her knees, clucking her tongue. The dog trotted a few feet away. "Come on, fellow!" Richelle spoke gently. "Lorella and I know what it's like being stranded where you don't belong. We're nice ladies. We won't hurt you."

  The dog edged closer. "Wouldn't trust him," the farmer cautioned. "Might have the foaming madness and turn on you."

  "He's just frightened and hungry. Do you see his eyes, Lorella? He has good eyes. He's a good dog. A little boy should have a dog."

  The driver accepted his pay and took off. With the man gone, the dog slunk closer and allowed Richelle to pet his head again. "Come on," she urged, grasping a tuft of fur behind one ear as she led him to the tavern door.

  "You expect to march him in there, just like that?" Lorella asked, rolling her eyes. "Well, why not? You've only changed your name to Rachel and had me tussle the owner of the general store. Let's take a hound to dinner!"

  Richelle had to smile. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. He'll only be here one night. We can hide him upstairs."

  "Diversion time again," Lorella sighed. "I distract the barkeep. You trot the furry fellow up."

  Lorella not only distracted the innkeeper, but got the male cook to slip her a plate of scraps. Richelle marveled at the girl's ability to get what she needed. She wished she could do the same. But she sat alone, brushing out her hair in a strange room, while the man she loved sat drinking in the Crowshaven pub.

  She placed a hand on her abdomen. No, not quite alone. She had a tiny companion to give her a good swift kick now and again...And I'm going to get your father back for you, if it's the last thing I do.

  * * *

  "Morgan! I was about to go hunt you down," Boyd announced as his partner entered the offices. "Ran into the new owner of the granary. The London investor
wasted little time in transferring it." Herding Morgan toward his rear private office, Boyd went on. "We've been made an interesting proposition. Sit down."

  Morgan scowled, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted to hear about was someone else running his granary. "It's late, Boyd. Chrissy's already gone home. She'll be expecting you for supper."

  "This won't take long," Boyd assured him. "Seems your reputation precedes you, my friend. The new owner asked if you'd lease out storage for a commission."

  "Piss on him! He bought it, let him lease it."

  Boyd ignored the hostility. "At this juncture we can hardly turn our noses up at any opportunity for income, can we? We both know that exercise in the Colonies cost us dearly. This could be a chance to make at least part of that back. You can easily fill that granary."

  Morgan looked incredulous. "Jesus! You've already committed me to this, haven't you?"

  "I merely promised you'd ride out for a meeting tomorrow at three. Won't hurt to at least discuss the matter. The owner's anxious to meet you."

  "Since when do you make promises for me? We've always made our decisions jointly. Except for when you hired that bloody Colonial clerk. I hate to remind you that the whole disaster can be laid at your feet," Morgan groused. "You've concluded I have to participate in this because I still owe you money."

  "Stop being such a stubborn ass," Boyd taunted. "I'm saying you should investigate the offer before rejecting it out of hand. Perhaps you two won't get on, or the commission won't be worth your trouble. On the surface, it sounded like a reasonable offer. I'm not complaining about what you owe me, but on the other hand, pride doesn't pay operating expenses."

  Morgan scowled. "Who the hell is this popinjay who thinks I'll lick his boots after he bought the place out from under me?"

  "Morgan, this is the..." Boyd counted on his fingers, "third owner since you held it. Your name's recounted as the only one to have success with it! You know the farmers. We have connections to help them sell their crops in Newcastle or Sheffield. Don't be so quick to resent someone who only thinks the best of you."

  "Something weird is going on, Boyd. I wondered if you'd heard anything." Morgan's expression abruptly changed. "Then again, mayhap it's foolish of me to even ask."

  "Heard anything about what?"

  "There's talk that chap from London also bought the note against the inn. I wondered why someone from London would come here and start nosing around. Is this a hint? Am I to be replaced as your partner? This commission—a bloody job, Boyd? Throwing a bone to me to assuage your guilt?"

  Boyd was incredulous. "Morgan, I think it's time you pulled yourself back out of the bottle. I can't believe you're implying I'd sneak behind your back."

  Gray eyes met blue in a level stare. "You're the one pushing me to meet with this new fellow."

  Boyd took a deep breath. "I can't say I like this coming from my oldest and dearest friend, Morgan. You're definitely not being replaced. I met the London investor briefly while he was here in town, the same as you did. You'd remember that if you hadn't been in a drunken stupor. And if I had that sort of capital, old friend—assuming we are still friends—I simply would have sunk it into this partnership. The pledge to the squire never would have been necessary."

  Morgan offered his right hand. "Sorry, Boyd. We're still friends, above all else. I seem to fancy evil spirits everywhere these days. Know you'd bail me out if you could. I'd do the same for you. Which means I'll have to consider this commission offer."

  Boyd clasped the outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "Morgan, I know you've been under a strain. Have you tried to contact Rachel's aunt? She may have news. Rachel was probably detained with the war on. There must be some good reason why she hasn't arrived yet."

  "I told you the reason! She's made her choice. I know you wish things—" Morgan stopped abruptly, realizing he sounded exactly like the woman in question. "Let it go, Boyd, please? We never allowed a female to come between us when we were bachelors. Certainly makes no sense now that you're a married gent."

  "So are you."

  Morgan's voice was heavy with sarcasm. "So I was told by the Justice of the Peace in Philadelphia. I hate to go to the granary, Boyd. Hate to face that I sold it ultimately for naught. I could have made a success of it."

  "You may yet." Boyd narrowed his eyes and spoke more sharply. "Didn't I see an envelope from America on your desk one day? I'm certain I did! Wasn't that from Rachel?" Morgan said nothing. "Odd," Boyd rambled on. "She never seemed the type to be obsessed with coin."

  "What are you prattling about now?"

  "Only that women fascinated by one's purse usually exhibit certain symptoms. Why didn't she try to wrangle a salary increase out of you, or refuse to pay rent once she'd been in the arms of her landlord? From everything you've told me and what I recall of her, Rachel seemed more like you—proud to make her own way. She must have known, as an only child, that she was destined to inherit one day. If she was willing to work and live a simple existence, why would she change so dramatically?"

  Morgan's voice was ragged with emotion. "It's difficult for me to discuss this, even with you. I can't explain, except she was like an entirely different woman over there. And I felt a thousand things at once. I was insane being around her. Now I'm more insane without her."

  "How do you mean, 'insane with her'?"

  "How would I mean that?" Morgan snapped. "All I wanted was to bed the wench, every damned minute, night and day! Didn't know whether to curse my erections or curse the loss of my virility when they subsided. Is that plain enough?"

  "All the more reason why I'd fight to get her back. There'd be no question in my mind if it were Chrissandra."

  "If it were Chrissandra, I'd help you go after her. But my wife's just one bizarre misadventure after another. It's so bloody complicated—"

  "And you like things that way!" Boyd chuckled, noting Morgan's inadvertent slip of the tongue regarding his marital status. "You're never happier than when things are nearly impossible. The challenge, Morgan! Rachel's perfect for you." Morgan gave him a skeptical look. "Damn it, she is! And when I see her again—as I suspect we both shall—I'll tell her so."

  Chapter 27

  At half-past two the next afternoon Morgan stood joking with the stable boys at the livery. He glanced down at his pocket watch and reluctantly mounted Phantom. If it weren't for his promise to Boyd, he wouldn't bother riding out to the granary. But he had to secretly admit he wasn't sure he would have been as understanding as Boyd had been lately if their situations had been reversed.

  Morgan knew he was a broken man since his return from the Colonies. He'd set to drinking during the return voyage and hadn't let up since. He moved out of his rooms at the inn, giving Emily and Thomas more space for guests, but at the cost of his own sanity.

  He dwelt alone in the cottage with his specters, and every evening thought of nothing but Richelle. Sometimes he started only needed a drink or two to blot out her image and fall asleep. Other days he began imbibing at noon, only to find she still tortured him into the wee hours that night. Then he needed a whole bottle or more to reach oblivion.

  He hadn't admitted it when Boyd questioned him, but he had received a letter from her. Weeks ago. He just hadn't opened the bloody thing. The fact she'd written could mean but one thing: she wasn't coming back here to England.

  He didn't need the pain of reading her vague excuses and explanations in black and white. He'd seen it coming. God knows, he'd seen it and been helpless against it. Yet for some inexplicable reason, he'd been unable to throw the damned envelope away. He carried it with him daily, in his inside coat pocket. Kept it next to his heart and secretly prayed the American civil war might yet change Richelle's mind.

  He passed a grove of trees where the crows had found the remains of a rabbit or squirrel. Some were on the ground picking at the carcass; others were in the treetops, squawking and cawing. He remembered the ride out here with Richelle tha
t Sunday afternoon. They'd talked about the birds...his plans...his dreams for the future and the village. The granary was gone now, and so was his Colonial. Life had a way of rubbing a man's nose in his failures, he mused.

  He frowned as he glimpsed a large canine loping across the track ahead. Accursed mutt was likely responsible for whatever the crows were feasting upon. The dog lowered its head and moved toward someone at the outer edge of Morgan's vision. The figure clapped its hands once. The hound obediently approached and sat down. Apparently the man who owned the hound also now owned the granary. No one else was in sight.

  Morgan glanced again at his watch. Just past three. This had to be his man. He pulled back on the reins and peered through the dust. There was no carriage or mount, but the figure moved to sit on the big flat rock. Morgan frowned again. The man was dressed oddly, in a long cloak or robe of some kind. It wasn't long past Michaelmas, and the weather had been mild. Hardly cold enough for a man to need a cloak.

  Drawing closer, he realized he wasn't looking at a man at all. He jerked Phantom to a halt and stared in disbelief. The woman reached down to pat the dog's large head. A cascade of auburn tresses spilled with the forward movement. A bit of gold on her left hand flashed in the late afternoon sun. Morgan's heart knew what his mind had only begun to grasp.

  "Richelle?"

  Instantly the auburn head came up, and Morgan felt the sharp stab of recognition hit him in the chest.

  "Morgan! I'm so glad you came. I wanted to talk to you alone before we go back to the village."

  "I'm not working for you."

  It wasn't at all what he'd intended to say, Morgan realized with dismay, but he'd been too stunned to think clearly. Boyd knew! He set me up for this, the smug son of a bitch!

  "I don't see why not. I worked for you."

  "You don't see!" he roared, sliding out of the saddle. He tossed the reins at the branches of a low bush. "You show up without warning, months after lying to me about being ill, and you don't see?"