Lady Fugitive (23 page)

Two days later she stood on a sidewalk on
the outskirts of Washington, DC. 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, medium height. If he comes here looking, 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."

Richelle entered the whorehouse and
discovered 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 see how anyone who knows
you could believe you'd poison anyone," Sheila disagreed. "I don't
expect he'd take it so badly. Won't know if you don't tell him."

Richelle wiped her eyes with a corner of
the sheet. "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 bed sheets.
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 news 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 grandiose, veritable mansions. The
cab pulled to halt before an elegant brick home with a large portico. Shutters
covered the 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 place, 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 mind as he recalled
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 a few
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, for 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
unobtrusively 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."

An older 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 to 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 been here recently.

Something peculiar was going on. 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. I understand you're
not receiving, but if I might speak with her briefly?"

"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."

Before reaching the front door he
spotted a blur of color in the adjacent 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, too. 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 had appeared 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 groaned audibly as
the inescapable conclusion formed in his mind.

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