Authors: Shannah Biondine
Lady Fugitive
Lady Fugitive
by
Shannah Biondine
This work was originally
published as "Cachet"
Revised Edition Copyright ©
2013 Shannah Biondine
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
1
London, 1860
"I didn't kill him, Violet."
Richelle's voice shook as she read the
newspaper account aloud. "Grubstake Smith, Eastern gambler and financier,
was found poisoned in his hotel room in Carson City. The hotel desk clerk
placed a young brunette woman at the scene less than an hour before the body
was discovered. Slender, with a single braid reaching past her waist, the woman
has been identified as Richelle Nash, a newly-widowed matron from the Oregon
Territory. She'd come to Carson City to collect proceeds from the sale of the
Oregon farm. Authorities speculate the meeting to settle her late husband's
gambling debts went sour. Smith died from drinking tobacco-infused rubbing
alcohol switched in place of the whiskey in his room decanter."
She handed the folded paper to her aunt.
"I never even met Smith. I went to his room because Cletus died owing $500
from a poker game. I waited over an hour, then left the cash with a note. My
old friend Jonas was in Carson City with me. We had tickets for the afternoon
stage East. I never touched Smith's liquor supply."
"There's no mention of a note or
money," Violet pointed out.
"Probably because whoever
did
poison him stole the cash. What's robbery when you've already committed
murder?"
"What does Jeremiah intend to
do?"
"You know Papa. He promised he'd
straighten things out. Jonas knows I'm innocent, but we parted company in St.
Louis. If Papa can track him down and get his testimony, the marshal might
consider dropping charges. They only have circumstantial evidence. Jonas will
swear I never touched a bottle in that room."
"Knowing my brother, he'll have
investigators combing the country from one end to the other for your
friend."
"Yes, but America's a big country,
Aunt." Richelle forced a thin smile. "I pray Papa's men can clear me
soon. I'd love nothing better than to go home and be out of your way. But I
can't leave until Papa advises it's safe. And I can't be Richelle Nash anymore.
It's
Rachel
now. Rachel Cordell."
Violet returned the newspaper with a
shudder and poured herself another cup of tea. "I hate to ask," she
began delicately, "but what do you intend to do here in London? True, I
have guest quarters, but only a modest pension. And I suspect you'll find life
here with me very drab."
Rachel pulled a pouch from her handbag.
"Papa gave me some traveling money. You're welcome to whatever's left. I
haven't spent much."
Violet counted the folded notes.
"This will help for a time. However, you do realize what your father's
undertaken could take some months to conclude?" At her niece's nod, Violet
rose and headed for the staircase. "You had an excellent upbringing and
education. Perhaps you might consider employment as a governess or tutor for
one of London's better families."
Rachel started up the stairs. Violet
opened the door to the guest room and paused. "I'm giving a small
gathering tomorrow evening. There wasn't time to change my plans. Invitations
had gone out before I received your father's letter. We won't let on there's a
problem. Only that you've decided to visit me after your unfortunate
loss."
"Unfortunate?" the girl
repeated. "Hardly, Aunt. It was a blessing Cletus died. The answer to my
prayers."
"Don't talk like that, dear."
"I know it's not polite to speak
ill of the dead, but it wasn't polite for my father to give me to a man I
barely knew, either. I met Cletus only once before our wedding day. I never knew
him until he was my husband. Then I grew to hate him. Arranged marriages don't
always end up happy. Perhaps it's best not to speak of the past. Then I won't
have to pretend a sorrow I can't feel."
Rachel kissed her aunt and shut herself
away in the guest room. She was safe for now. There were no marshals or
handbills with her likeness on them here. No more newspaper reports. She was
safe. Tired. Banished.
The following evening the lamplighter
made his way down the street as Violet's town house filled with visitors.
Rachel stood in a corner of the tasteful drawing room, awed by the glittering
candlelight, softly murmuring cultured voices and muted laughter of Violet's
guests. She'd almost forgotten all this, so much time had she spent on the
frontier with its raw wood and coarse pioneer folk. She'd forgotten the feel of
taffeta, the taste of goose liver. Forgotten that warm gatherings and happy
times had once been part of her life.
Rachel watched Violet snag her banker
even as he crossed the marble foyer. Before he could hang up his hat, Violet
whispered something into his ear and together they moved with purpose to greet
a younger man. Then the trio disappeared into the small alcove Violet referred
to as her library.
Rachel circled the salon, nodding at her
aunt's guests. A short time later, while reaching for a champagne flute from a
silver tray, her gaze lit upon a sandy-haired man in his thirties. He appeared
to be staring directly at her.
Was he from a detective agency, or some
freelance agent who'd traced her from America? She'd used her alias while
traveling and changed her hairstyle. He still watched her from behind a group
of loud business types. She glanced toward the foyer, wonder how she might slip
past him.
She never got the chance. She'd no
sooner turned to set down her champagne glass when he approached her.
"Madam Cordell, I'm Boyd Atkinson, a colleague of your aunt's investment
banker. Mr. Soames seems to think you might be open to an offer of employment.
Might we talk a moment?"
Rachel indicated the adjoining sitting
room. She perched on the edge of the deep turquoise velvet sofa, eyes wary.
"An offer of employment, you said."
"Yes, I need a clerk for my holding
company in Yorkshire. I understand you're American and well educated. It's most
regrettable you find yourself in such doleful circumstances, but perhaps a
change of scene would help to cheer you."
"A change of scene." She was
repeating his words like a trained parrot, but she was helpless to stop. It was
either that or dissolve into hysterical laughter. Here she'd imagined being
dragged off to some London prison, and the man had only been considering her
for a job! He seemed nice enough. She forced herself to take a deep breath.
"I'm from Yorkshire, in the north.
My partner and I have a small firm. I've concluded we must abandon haphazard
reckoning for precise bookkeeping to improve our profits. A lick and a promise
just won't do in these changing times, you see." She nodded. "My
partner's forte is acquisition and financial negotiations. Administrative
matters fall to me. Neither of us has time for auditing and posting. Therefore,
I've decided to seek a clerk."
Rachel took a breath. "I've been
living out West the past several years, sir. Far removed from my father's
offices. The closest I've come to tallying anything lately was counting hen's
eggs."
He laughed aloud. Rachel found herself
warming to both the idea of the clerking post and the man himself. It was
impossible to dislike someone with such a pleasant smile. It crinkled the skin
around his clear blue eyes and lit up his whole face. "Still, you'd
outshine the locals. My neighbors are uneducated farmers for the most
part."
"But you seem educated."
"My partner and I were tutored by a
spinster as lads. The post would mean staying in our small village. I can't
offer much in wages, but there's a cottage I rent for my partner. It happens to
be vacant. The rent's modest and it's within walking distance of our
offices."
"A position and a place to stay?
I'd be foolish not to accept, wouldn't I?"
"I wouldn't leap to that
conclusion," he responded easily.
"But you hoped I would," she
teased gently. "I can see you're very much a man of trade. You're quite
persuasive, Mr. Atkinson."
"If only my partner had heard
that," he chuckled. "He asserts that he's the only one with a talent
for persuasion. I'm headed back Monday. You can think about it for a few
days."
Violet floated in and settled beside
Rachel, beaming at the young man. "Oh, do take the post, Rachel dear! I'll
write your father you've gone to Yorkshire. Working with merchants and trade.
I'm sure he'd approve. You'd be pioneering once again in a sense, you
see?"
It was over in a trice. Rachel gave young
Atkinson her verbal acceptance. He left soon afterward. The soiree ended before
midnight. Violet had gone to bed saying she was well pleased.
Rachel's mind raced as she brushed out
her hair and prepared for bed. She'd pictured her adulthood filled with
Independence Day picnics and lawn parties. She imagined playing hostess at home
on Sunday afternoons, working beside her father weekdays at the factory. She'd
have a husband and children, and they'd all live harmoniously with Jeremiah at
Hardwick House. Had that been so much to ask?
It must have been. Because when she
turned sixteen her father announced she was to marry one of his factory
workers. Papa had been drawn in by tales of virgin land out West and promises
his daughter would have a wonderful future as the wife of a young farmer in one
of the new territories. Though his daughter had cried and pleaded that she was
too young to marry, Jeremiah had seen her wed to Cletus Nash.
That hallmarked her descent into misery.
She'd left the brick mansion in
Philadelphia to cross the plains and head into the Oregon Territory. The first
year of her marriage had been spent in a Conestoga, then Cletus erected a
ramshackle farmhouse on their parcel. He'd somehow expected his crops to raise
and harvest themselves, while he squandered his time in fledgling saloons. He
soaked up liquor and fancied himself a gambler.
But he'd had very poor luck—which hadn't
deterred him from raising his bets or thinking he could beat the likes of
Grubstake Smith. There had been other fancy vests and card sharps. Too many to
count. Then Cletus caught pneumonia and left Rachel widowed.
The only thing she'd inherited from
Cletus was his rotten luck.
She'd wasted no time getting out of
Oregon. She wanted to forget the misery of those frontier years. Forget the
small marker at the edge of the fields and get home to Philadelphia and her
father. But the rotten luck that had dogged her husband was her legacy. She met
with a land speculator, signed papers and went to the bank. There was one last
detail, a gambling debt, then everything out West would be settled. But she'd
wound up accused of murder.