Lady Fugitive (24 page)

'Rachel' was an assumed name. Used neither
by accident nor careless 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. An elderly fellow with rheumy eyes leaning on the handle of
a rake 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'd best be honest. "She's my wife. We married a few
weeks ago. I was detained on business, but always 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. "I believe I comprehend, and thank you for the
message."

But he was talking to himself. The old 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, all right. And when he did, he'd
wring her lying, conniving, wealthy little American neck!

Morgan thought he'd mentally prepared
himself 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 the 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'm now very much aware that 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 and labor as
an ordinary office clerk? 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. 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
influential men of rank. Richelle's gone to consult one now."

"Christ! The authorities think she
killed
someone?"

"A blackleg. A professional
gambler, I mean." Now Morgan nodded. "In Carson City, a Western
mining town in the Nevada territory. Rough sort of place."

"How could she be blamed for
something there? I thought she'd lived in Oregon."

"The land speculator who bought her
farm wired funds there. She went to collect the money and settle her husband's
gambling debt to the blackleg. She was the last person seen near the man's room
before his body was found. Somebody poisoned him."

Morgan rubbed his forehead, which
suddenly ached like the devil. "I never considered anything criminal.
Bloody hell.
A murderess!
"

Sheila instantly rounded on him. "You
can't believe for one minute she did it? The charges are based on
circumstantial evidence. It's a big mistake." Every trace of warmth
disappeared from the woman's eyes.

Morgan gave his head a negative shake.
"I'm quite certain she
didn't
. But it comes as a shock to learn
one's wife is wanted for a capital crime."

"Paper's here, Sheila." The
strapping doorman tossed it on the table in front of her.

The newspaper! Morgan nearly choked as
he realized he'd held the key in his own two hands just before they left the
ship. When he'd reshuffled their belongings after the privateers departed, he'd
found a newspaper below the almanac with Rachel's clothes. It had been an old
Philadelphia paper, but he'd perused it briefly, hoping to pick up some useful
information before visiting there. He'd seen an article about an Eastern
gambler poisoned by a young woman. That's where he'd first seen the name
Richelle.

"She wouldn't tell me much about
her family. Only got a few glimpses of her past. I thought it was because of
her husband's death. Do you know this fellow Jonas, her old suitor? How does he
figure in all this?"

"He was with her in Carson City.
Her father tried to locate him and get his statement."

"I received a message to come here.
Did Richelle summon me?"

Sheila reached over and squeezed his
knuckles. "
I
did, honey. She doesn't know you're here. I'm not
going to ruin that little surprise. She'll be very relieved you've come. She's
in love with you, and I'm so glad. She hated her first husband."

"Apparently with good reason."
Morgan realized she studied him with keen interest. "Why do I get the
feeling you want something, Miss Reeves?"

"Sheila. Plain old Sheila."
Her tone became all business. Morgan recognized it. He usually heard it from
men. About half a minute before they laid out some investment scheme he wanted
no part of.

"You've been to that house, so you've
seen for yourself Richelle isn't going to starve any time this century. Her
stepmother wants a chunk of what Jeremiah left to his daughter. That fortune
hunting witch and her lover made Richelle a prisoner in the house. She climbed
out an attic window and came to me, thank the Lord. You'll have to stay until
we can figure out what to do. Heard you're good with pirates."

Morgan chuckled. "I was lucky my
scheme worked."

Sheila's eyes twinkled. "I hadn't
seen Richelle in years. Not since she was a young girl. She appeared on my
porch spouting tales about a murder charge, being tricked into marriage on a
trade vessel, pirates, and relatives taking her hostage. Anybody else would say
the poor kid had been in the frontier sun too long, but I know my cousin. She's
never been one for flights of fancy."

Morgan swallowed. "I
did
trick her into marriage. She got word her father was ill, and I refused to let
her sail back alone. She won't face this new problem alone, either." He
tilted his glass in a salute. "I'm in your debt, madam."

Sheila handed him the bottle of brandy
and led him up the stairwell. "I put her in this room." She pointed
to a closed door. "Bath's a the end of the hall. Have a hot soak and
relax. My housemaid will fix you a plate and I'll have Patrick bring up your
trunk. Anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Before he could answer, doors opened and
several whores poked their heads into the hallway.

Sheila scowled, glancing at each in turn.
"This one's off limits. He's married to my cousin. They'll be staying here
a spell. I catch any of you within a foot of this Englishman, you lose your cut
for the month."

The harlots disappeared. "You
are
some handsome devil. I can't blame them. You're sure there's nothing I can do
for you while Richelle's gone?"

Morgan understood the subtle question.
"I'll likely never again find myself in such surroundings, and I've never
before been offered the premiere lady of such a house. I'm sure you'd make it a
memorable and discreet experience." Sheila's eyes flashed and she looked
as though about to reply, so he rushed ahead to finish. "But I love your
cousin, and I took vows to be faithful to her. Unless I hear from her lips that
she's released me from them, I mean to honor my word."

Sheila burst out laughing. "Guess I
won't be having Patrick throw you back out into the street. We'll talk again
after you've had a chance to discuss things with Richelle. And don't go ripping
my bed linens during those 'discussions,' cuz."

* * *

Richelle returned just after dusk.
Sheila's friend at the War Department had been sympathetic, but couldn't give
any positive assurances. Richelle felt ridiculous in the disguise Sheila had
persuaded her to wear: a garish red wig of fat sausage curls and flashy blue
satin gown. Richelle was only too glad to peel off the gaudy things in the
bathroom and sink into a tub of hot water. She scrubbed away the face paint and
pulled on her borrowed wrapper before ducking into her bedroom. She locked the
door and struck a match. Then burnt her fingers and dropped it as a deep
baritone voice came out of the darkness.

"Evening, love."

The words came from the chair beside the
window. Richelle made out a dark silhouette. Her heart was pounding. How had
the man gotten in? She'd needed her key.

"No greeting for your new
husband?"

"
Morgan?
" 

"Aye, and I'm waiting for a kiss
from my bride."

She forgot all about the lamp, dove
across the dark chamber and flung herself onto his lap. His torso was bare, his
breath smelled of liquor. Richelle thought she'd found heaven. She hugged him
fiercely and kissed him with an audible smack. "I was afraid I'd never see
you again!"

"You do have a nasty habit of
eluding me, Colonial. Perhaps we should become better acquainted. I'm the
innkeeper from Crowshaven, Morgan Tremayne. And you're the dissembling American
heiress who's been calling herself Rachel Cordell."

She dropped her arms from his neck.
"I can explain."

"I've been counting on that;
however, full details can wait. Now I want answers to a few basic questions.
This man they believe you poisoned, who was he to you?"

"A stranger. I never met him. I
arranged to meet with him in his hotel room, but he never arrived. I left the
money Cletus owed with a note. Later I found out he'd been killed and the desk
clerk placed me at the scene. Poison in his room's whiskey decanter."

Morgan's deep laughter stunned her.
"You think it's funny? Your wife being charged with murder amuses
you?"

"Nay, but poison in a whiskey
decanter is the
last
way you'd kill a man! You railed at me about men
making occasions to drink. You poured my brandy overboard. Poisoning a liquor
supply would hardly be your method of choice. I'm none too certain you'd
attempt a stabbing or blow to the head, either—the way you criticize males for
dueling and spilling blood." He took another sip of brandy. "You were
distressed when I beat those sailors."

"Well, yes, not that they didn't
deserve some punishment. Maybe from the captain."

"I'm not convinced you're at all
the murderous type."

"You believe me! You know I'm
innocent."

"Of course I do, my lady fugitive."

"God, I hoped...I should have told
you aboard the ship. I honestly did try to force myself, even though I was so
frightened and ashamed, but—"

"I interrupted you in mid-sentence.
I've been sitting here waiting for you, mulling things over. I had time to
remember the occasions. Plural. I believe you did indeed try more than once."

"Oh Morgan, are you horribly angry?
I was afraid you'd hate me."

"Hate you? I probably should, but
all I can think about is how I've missed you," he whispered, kissing away
the salty tears on her lips. "I know your sire was gone before you made it
home, and I'm sorry about that." His voice sounded rough and strained.
"Having seen his grand house, I understand why you spoke of annulling the
marriage. When I believed you a widow of limited means, I considered myself
worthy. Naturally, marriage to a struggling English merchant is out of the
question. Your use of an alias means the marriage probably isn't legal. So
there's no real harm done, other than damage to my pride."