Lady Fugitive (26 page)

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 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
possibly 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?"

She shrugged with indifference. "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 three 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 fellow 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, 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 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
very 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 somberly
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?" she asked, studying his face closely.

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 play
where bad debts can get a man's legs broken. I need to meet some unsavory
gents—characters down three notches or more 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."

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 Morgan'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 turned up 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?"