Cachet (25 page)

"Oh, speaking of making it legal, it must have infuriated Elaine when you showed up and introduced yourself as my new husband. What did she say?"

He flushed. "I wasn't certain you'd admit me. The mansion put me off. I pretended to be a lovestruck suitor and claimed I'd just met you during the Atlantic crossing."

"My father's will has a condition that both Elaine and I must remarry to take control of the estate from Jeremiah's attorney. He's executor. I can take over my inheritance, but Elaine hasn't married Cameron yet. At least I don't think she has."

Morgan got up and began to dress. "Why would your father place such a stipulation in his will?"

"Elaine says it was the lawyer's idea. He persuaded Papa we need husbands managing things for us. I think my father may have had other reasons, but it doesn't matter. What am I going to do about Elaine and Cameron?"

"I've considered the problem. We can't delay any longer. I'm going to need you make up a ledger and business records that will make me look very prosperous. The Americans I meet must take me seriously. And you need some decent clothes. No more widow's weeds, and none of the garish strumpet attire. Get up, madam, you've got shopping to do."

The next few days were a flurry of activity. Richelle shopped and prepared the false business records while Morgan stayed up late playing poker in Sheila's private card room each night. He drank and laughed at the men's jokes, making sure he lost enough to blend in. He made careful mental notes of where political sympathies lay, which men had investors already lined up, and which knew others in positions of power. Several businessmen Morgan met had known Richelle's father personally or by reputation, and Morgan learned as much as he could.

He trudged upstairs late one night and to find Richelle had completed the sham record-keeping. Ledgers had been compiled on the holding company, freight service, warehouse, and Crowshaven Inn. Morgan's profit figures were inflated, and costs adjusted so the entire picture looked plausible, yet impressive. Richelle closed the books and slipped out of her dressing gown. He ignored her nudity and forced his mental focus back to business matters. He'd never had to battle to concentrate on trade and recordkeeping with any woman before her, but one glance at Richelle and numbers became a jumble. She'd had that effect from the first day, he recalled ruefully. He'd looked over those ledgers at the inn while she fumed at him and hadn't been able to add up a single column for thinking about the fire in her eyes.

"You're a very capable clerk," Morgan commented. "I still can't believe you worked for our holding company all those months."

"Some of the best months of my life," she yawned.

He gave her a weary grin as he sat to pull off his boots. "Boyd was proud of locating a clerk who already had rudimentary recordkeeping knowledge."

"Rudimentary," she repeated, with a snort that sounded suspiciously amused.

"I distinctly recall pointing out several errors during your first days."

Now a vixen's smile teased her lips. "You, Mr. Tremayne, were overbearing, disdainful, and convinced I couldn't know what I was doing. It would have made matters worse if you'd searched for errors in vain."

"You bloody little sneak! You deliberately planted mistakes in our books just to spite me?"

"I paid invoices and sorted papers for my father from an early age. He owned a factory that made wrought iron for balconies, gates, coach parts, and such. He had several dozen men employed there and always kept two sets of books. You didn't need to explain the concept to me."

Morgan frowned. "He had a highly successful business. Why would he need to falsify records?"

"Actually the false set showed a
lower
profit. They were for vendors or the occasional banker who wasn't inclined to be flexible on loan terms. The true set was kept in Papa's study at home."

"False name, artificial lowering of skills and ability, sham of poverty." Morgan sighed and peeled off his breeches. "I only just wed you. Already I see I must question even the smallest details, check everything about you very thoroughly." He untied his long hair and shook it out, piercing Richelle with a hot gaze.

"Everything?" she asked with mock innocence as she turned back the bedclothes to expose her unclad body to Morgan's gaze.

He blew out the lamp and joined her on the mattress. "Every damned inch of you."

* * *

Morgan was gone when she awakened the next morning. The records were gone from the table, as well. Richelle spent the morning in the garden, enjoying the spring weather. She went back to their room after lunch, to find Morgan naked and stretched out on the mattress, fingers laced behind his head. "You're blushing, Richelle," he announced as she locked the door.

"You're undressed."

He gave her a lecherous nod. "Men don't come to a house like this to keep their trousers on. I had an interesting meeting today." He sat up and watched her brush her hair. "We're going to visit a certain gentleman tomorrow. He's the last stop before we're finished here in Washington."

She halted in the midst of a brush stroke. "You know it's dangerous for me to leave this house."

His tone was reasonable. "I'm aware. You spent a year in Crowshaven and listen to my speech now every day. Can you imitate the Yorkshire accent? Well enough to sound English yourself?"

"I expect so," she answered slowly. "My parents had English accents, too. Though I don't remember my mother very well, my father hadn't lost his, even after all the years here in America."

He moved to the edge of the bed, close enough to reach out to finger her dark tresses. "That was very good, love. You'd never fool an Englishman, but I think the American will buy it. This fellow's very important. I'll do most of the talking, but if you're questioned, use the accent."

She turned around to confront him. "Just who is this important man?"

Morgan's eyes dropped to her breasts. She read his intention and stopped his hand before he could touch her. "I asked you a question, sir."

"He poses as a man of enterprise and trade, but he's actually in your government. A high-ranking official in law enforcement."

"
Have you lost your mind
? I'm not going within a mile of anyone remotely connected to law enforcement! Not with a warrant out against me!"

"Calm down, sweetness. If you walk in on my arm and are introduced as my prim little English bride, he'll have no reason to connect you to some incident over a thousand miles away."

She felt a rush of fear and dismay. He made these charades sound easy, but she'd tried wearing disguises in public and it wasn't easy at all. "I don't know if I can go through with it. It was one thing to let you hide me under a patchwork quilt. Quite another to look some man in the eye, knowing he can send me to prison."

He pulled her onto the mattress beside him. "Remember before our shipboard wedding, when you said I didn't look nervous? What did I tell you? The key is convincing yourself that your inner goal is the imperative. Focus on that and never stop believing it must be attained. That's how I view business transactions. Not as though I'm conquering an adversary. The men I deal with in Newcastle or Sheffield aren't adversaries. They're chaps I hope to encounter and deal with again and again."

"I'll be too nervous. One slip and I could end up in jail!"

His powerful arms closed around her. "The only prison for you is right here in my embrace. You have the Bargainer's word, Richelle. I'll never let you see the inside of a prison."

"How can you promise that? You're not a defense lawyer. You're not even an American citizen."

"But I'm acquainted now with several prominent men who
are
, Richelle. Here's what I want you to do tomorrow . . ."

They entered a dingy warehouse and met with a middle-aged man named Richardson, who listened quietly as Morgan explained that his wife had acquired a business in the States that they wished to sell. Their dilemma was what to do about reports that its current manager was dealing in arms for the Confederacy. "Naturally," Morgan finished, "you'll understand that this has distressed my lady wife beyond words. To have her good name in any way associated with such unconscionable acts."

Richelle brought out a handkerchief and covered her eyes at that point, just as Morgan had coached her to do. She made a sniffling sound. Their host cleared his throat. "Yes. If Carstairs sent you to me, this must be serious. He doesn't refer people here on a whim. I'm not a wholesale shipper, though that's what the sign on the warehouse door says."

Morgan nodded. "I was told you have certain connections."

Richardson's voice became authoritative. "I'm a Federal agent working for the Attorney General's office. If this fellow Nash is willfully supplying the Southerners, that could constitute an act of treason. It's worth investigating, assuming you can obtain hard evidence. We must have more than rumors. I need tangible proof."

"I can get it," Morgan stated. "We'll be reviewing the business records in preparation for the sale. Bills of lading, receipts, invoices, everything. We travel to Philadelphia this week."

"Good," Richardson affirmed, rising from behind his desk. "Wire me at this address." He handed Morgan a card. "I can obtain a warrant once I know there's hard evidence about Confederate dealings. You get us proof, he'll be arrested. Then your pretty wife can rest easy. Won't you, Mrs. Tremayne?"

Richelle's voice was heavily accented. "I don't think I shall be truly at ease until that horrid man is safely locked away. He's a traitor against your King Lincoln."

"
President
Lincoln, yes ma'am. We don't have kings here in America. But we take our leaders just as serious as if they were, you can bet on that."

They thanked him and left the office. Morgan gave Richelle a hearty embrace as they entered their waiting hack. "I knew you could do it, Colonial! King Lincoln!" They started back to the whorehouse.

"How do you know Cameron's arming the South?"

Morgan smiled. "Don't I learn everything possible about the people involved in my business transactions?"

"How would you learn something like that? He wouldn't post a circular bragging about it."

"Why do you suppose I've spent every evening playing poker? I detest the game. Apart for the bluff," he chided lightly. "Have a flair for that. You said both Nash brothers gambled. Stands to reason Cameron still does. All's connected, remember? Sooner or later I was bound to meet up with someone who'd played with Cameron Nash or heard about him. You'd be amazed what a man will boast about with liquor flowing."

The carriage pulled up in front of Sheila's. Richelle went inside, but Morgan paid the driver and hesitated at the front porch. Sheila's beefy doorman was seated on a wide bench, sipping from a dented tin flask.

"Care for a snort?"

Morgan nodded, took a swig and returned the flask before wiping his chin with a coat sleeve. "Where might a fellow find some real gaming in this town, Patrick? Serious money. The sort of gaming where bad debts can get a man's legs broken. I need to meet some unsavory gents—characters down about three notches from what parades through here."

"Cabby down the block will know where to find that sort of game," Patrick said, scowling. "But what am I supposed to tell the women? They're bound to ask where you went."

"A new flask says you don't know."

"You got any idea how many gents step onto this porch and try to buy my loyalty?" Patrick huffed, rising to flex his substantial pectoral muscles.

"Quite a few, I should imagine. I'm just the one who succeeded."

Chapter 21

Richelle paced the length of the polished kitchen wood floors, then turned and started back again. "I don't understand," she fumed at Sheila. "You pay that man to watch the door!"

"To watch who comes
in
through it," her cousin returned mildly. "So he's gone out for the evening, so what? Take a nice hot bath. You might even try sleeping in that bed, for a change."

"He doesn't know his way around Washington, Sheila! He could get lost or be attacked and robbed, or—"

"Are we talking about the same Englishman who tricked pirates and beat some ruffians until his knuckles bled? He can take care of himself. I tested him."

Richelle knew all about Sheila's infamous test. Many a customer never got a second visit to the brothel after failing it. "You didn't? Sheila, you knew I was married to that man!"

"All the more reason, Richelle. I had to know if he was half the champion you thought he was. Wasn't about to let him hang around if he didn't truly care for you."

"So he had to prove himself by turning down your tits on a platter? Or was it one of the others this time?"

Sheila ignored her cousin's anger. "He'd discovered you had money before he got here. Then he learned about the murder charge, but he stood by you. Some might say he's sticking with you because of the money. But I know men, Richelle, and that kind would take a free ride from any female in the crib. Morgan cares. What more do you want?"

"I want to go home." Richelle announced firmly. "And I want Lorella to come with me."

Sheila instantly regretted asking the young girl, one of her newest, to aid Richelle during her stay. The two girls were close in age, and Sheila had more than once seen them talking or laughing together. She'd been pleased at the time. Richelle could use a friend after all she'd suffered recently. But Sheila hadn't anticipated that friendship bond would lead to a financial loss to her business.