Lady Fugitive (6 page)

"We should talk inside,"
Pamela pressed.

Rachel admitted her into the parlor.
"Let me guess. You're here to suggest I leave the holding company of my
own volition. Why would I do that, after coming clear from London to take the
clerking post?"

"Because you'll never have Morgan.
He'd consider you a temporary amusement, at best."

"As opposed to you, a permanent
affliction. You're an amazing creature, Miss Prine," Rachel observed.
"Anyone else would be too embarrassed to show her face here."

"I have nothing to be embarrassed
about," Pamela retorted. "I'm not the one without two coins to rub
together. I can make it worth your while to give up clerking."

"You'd pay me so your 'close personal
friend' doesn't have to? That's ludicrous."

"The arrangement here is what's
ludicrous! The men pay you, then you turn around and pay Morgan rent. Why
doesn't Morgan just pay himself? Unless it's for the sake of appearances."

"Appearances?" Rachel could
hardly believe her ears. First Arnold Somersdale. Now this idiot had all but
accused her of sleeping with her landlord! "Rental of this cottage was
included in the terms of my post. I'd have to pay to live somewhere."

"As if Boyd hasn't let this place to
you for a song," Pamela scoffed. "He hired you and made you Morgan's
tenant to spite me. Atkinson may think he's clever, but my father's one of the
wealthiest farmers in this region. We can undo what Boyd's done."

"Your father's money doesn't
interest me."

"You can't enjoy the drudgery of
that office. Or poking your nose into everyone else's business, creating
resentment wherever you go. You wouldn't abase yourself if you didn't need the
income." Pamela released a tinny laugh. "Name a sum. I'll pay your
fare back to London, or even America. The farther the better."

"Just like that?"

Pamela snapped her fingers. "Just
like that. Neither of us the loser. Women ought to run the world, don't you
think?"

"A provocative notion. But if you
already
had
power, you'd have no need for someone like Mr. Tremayne. You
know he's an arrogant, selfish boor. Not worth the struggle you're
waging."

"Not worth it?" Pamela
repeated, staring intently at Rachel's face. "You wouldn't say that
if—Well, well, well! Perhaps I was mistaken about you."

"Very mistaken, if you thought I'd
leave this village merely because my presence here makes you
uncomfortable."

"I see I must be painfully frank.
Morgan's asked me to marry him. Soon I'll be mistress of this house. Obviously
you'll have to depart. You should have taken my offer." Pamela rose and
headed for the door, pausing to give Rachel a meaningful look. "I shan't
repeat any of this to my future husband. He wouldn't be pleased to learn you
dislike him so. He might decide to terminate you right away. Wouldn't that be a
pity? You'd lose that traveling money. You had your chance." 

"Yes, my first morning here. I
should have hit you smack in the mouth with my broom."

Chrissandra appeared at noon as
promised. She and Rachel had devised a plan. Chrissandra and Boyd were to wed
in the spring. Boyd had arranged a crew of Sheffield masons to build a second
house on the Atkinson farmlands for the newlyweds, but work hadn't begun
because Boyd hadn't finalized the building drawings. Chrissy had persuaded
Rachel to help lure him away from the offices. Rachel announced he had a
visitor, and Boyd came into the outer reception area. Chrissy plied him with
her most dazzling smile. "The builders are waiting for us, Boyd. No more
excuses. We must review our plans for the new house today."

"Dearest, if it were any other
time, but I've an important errand in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne this afternoon."

Rachel jumped in. "Sir, couldn't it
wait until tomorrow? Perhaps I could—"

"That's very thoughtful, Rachel,
but I truly can't spare the time out of the office." He gave Chrissy a
look of reproach. "And I'm not pleased you've dragged my clerk into your
scheme, young lady."

Morgan slammed a desk drawer shut.
"It's a bloody henhouse in here! Man can't keep his thoughts together with
all the infernal racket.
I'll
take the packet to Newcastle. Boyd, take
this lady out for the afternoon so Madam Cordell can get back to work." He
tossed Rachel a glower even as he snatched Boyd's hat from its peg beside the
front door. "The masons are waiting."

"But Morgan, I need to review the
documents with Boswell."

"I can do it as easily, and mayhap
finish crafting a new delivery contract if I can put an end to this female
caterwauling. Get Chrissandra out to the farm and settle things. I'll do your
errand. It's not as though you don't cover for me often enough."

There was a silence after Boyd and
Chrissandra left, then Rachel heard a low sound she realized was Morgan
chuckling. She looked up at him. "He'll be out to skewer me when he
realizes we all conspired together. Chrissy told me he'd be stubborn about
it."

"And you sat there complaining…"

"I have a reputation to
uphold." He disappeared into Boyd's private room and returned with a thick
packet under one arm. "Get your shawl, Madam Cordell. We're bound for
Newcastle."

"Uh, no. With both you and Mr.
Atkinson away, I should stay here."

"You know, madam, I've never seen
your name chiseled above the door. Mine is, though. Which would seem to
indicate I'm in charge here."

He walked her to the livery stable and
had the stable boy hitch a pair of horses to a delivery wagon. They rode in
silence. Morgan pulled the rig to a halt before a large stone building. He
helped Rachel down and tied the reins to a lamppost. Rachel agreed to wait in
front as he disappeared through a pair of thick oak doors.

But it was dull just standing there, so
Rachel took to browsing along the lane. She paused to study a porcelain lamp
prominently displayed in one shop window. The milky porcelain of the lamp's
globe featured painted light pink roses and green tendrils. Rachel glanced
away. The lamp beckoned. She admired it once more, deciding it was truly
beautiful.

"What ye lookin' at, Dolly?"
The stranger's grimy fingertip left a smear on the window near Rachel's nose as
he pointed to the object inside. "That lamp there? Pretty piece, all
right."

"Here on your lonesome, lass?"
The dirty fellow beside her had an even filthier companion. He saw the look in
her eyes and laughed. "We're sweeps, Miss. Watch it, else you'll have soot
on your skirts." He glanced down and smirked. "Then again, no one
would notice, seein' as how they be the color of soot, anyways."

"Indeed. This young lady's in
mourning," Morgan supplied stiffly. 

 Rachel thought of the stranger he'd
tossed out of the office. She tucked her arm through his and offered a relieved
smile. "There you are, sir! I was admiring that lamp. Could we go inside?
I'd like to inquire what the shopkeeper's asking for it." 

The merchant beamed at them as they
crossed his threshold. "Can I be of assistance?"

"Yes, I was wondering how much
you're asking for—"

"Another time, madam." Morgan
pulled her back outside. "I told you to stay outside the office building.
Instead I find you half a block away, cozying up to scum off the street. Now
you want to dicker over a lamp. This isn't a shopping excursion."

"I know, Mr. Tremayne, but it
reminds me of my mother. She grew flowers like those in our garden. It's a
particularly beautiful lamp."

"There are lamps at the cottage. If
you need more light, buy yourself some candles." He started back up the
street, glanced over at their rig and horses, then headed for a pub across the
way.

Rachel spotted a wooden bench farther up
the sidewalk. She pulled away from him and plopped onto the bench, crossing her
legs. Her upper foot kicked at nothing. Morgan continued a few paces, then
doubled back to confront her.

"What's come over you?" he
demanded. "Did I destroy your hopes for the evening by running off your
sooty friends?"

"I want that lamp." She
enunciated each word with cold precision.

"You want that lamp." This was
repeated in a tone of incredulity she didn't appreciate one bit.

"Yes, Mr. Tremayne, I want that
lamp. And you are the most insensitive man I've ever met."

Christ, but the wench was stubborn,
Morgan told himself. "The little card by the base said he's asking roughly
the equivalent of twenty dollars in American money, Rachel. You can't afford
such frippery. You don't need the lamp, and you certainly can't afford
it."

"How do you know?" she snapped
without thinking. "It so happens my husband gave a land speculator an
option on our property in Oregon. After his death, I completed the sale. I have
money back in America. I'm not a total pauper, sir. If I were, I'd take
Pamela's offer and buy myself the lamp on my way out of Crowshaven. I'd be only
to happy to bid it—and you—a final farewell."

Tittering laughter from passing shoppers
made Rachel blush. She hadn't realized she'd spoken so loudly.

"Confounded females!" Morgan
growled low. He caught her fingers in his.  "If you've finished making a
public spectacle of us both, I'd like to show you something. Will you walk with
me, or must I drag you, like a spoiled child on her way to the woodshed?"

She rose and let him draw her to an open
area overlooking the Tyne river. He dropped her hand and rested both fists on
the stone embankment. He stared down at the water. 

"Forgive my presumption, Madam
Cordell. It appears I was mistaken about your finances. How would I know you
had funds back in America, or anything else, for that matter? You bite my head
off for asking about your private life. Reticence is one thing, but—"

She desperately needed to change the touchy
subject. "Forgive me, sir, but just what am I supposed to see? You said
you would show me something."

"Aye." He gestured
expansively. "Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. The activity along the river. England.
What we're about, Boyd and I." 

Rachel gazed across the embankment wall
and actually focused on the bustling scene before her. She'd been so angry she
hadn't noticed the city itself, reminiscent of her own beloved Philadelphia.
Small piers and moorings dotted the riverbanks. Men stooped their shoulders
beneath crates and barrels being loaded onto boats of varying sizes. A
fishmonger loudly hawked his wares, shouting to be heard above the din of
wagons and horse-drawn carts jostling to deliver or receive goods from the
skiffs and barges.

Morgan had told her Newcastle was a
direct trade point leading north into Scotland, but she was still surprised to
see knobby knees poking out beneath plaid kilts worn by a group of young
ruffians. They engaged in a verbal debate over ancestry and a possible blood
tie to a herd of sheep with a pair of Yorkshire farmers.

Reddening at the coarse language, she
ventured a sideways glance at Morgan to see his reaction, but he appeared to be
staring off at a large wagon being unloaded near a warehouse doorway.  Suddenly
he turned back to her. "What was that you said about Pamela?"

She'd forgotten she'd blurted the
woman's name in her fit of pique. "It's not important."

"It is to me. I don't like
conspiracies, Widow." He led her back to the pub and took a table by the
front window. A pitcher of ale and two tankards were plunked down by the
barkeep, who winked at Morgan as he hustled past.

Rachel's cheeks began to stain as she
realized the significance of that wink. She noted the facial expressions of the
other patrons. Her relationship to the handsome man with her had been misconstrued.
They think we're two lovers who've had a quarrel.
The little traitor
inside her had taken over the citadel and was shouting from the parapet.
Admit
it, you wish it were true! You wish you were lovers...who could kiss and make
up
. She glanced at his lips. Oh God!

The truth plowed over her like a runaway
stagecoach. How and when had she let this catastrophe befall her? She'd fallen
in love with him! The most insufferable, impossible man, and at a time in her
life when…No. It was unthinkable.

Abruptly she jumped to her feet.
"This isn't—It's not proper for me to be here. I should wait outside while
you have your ale."

He poured ale into both tankards without
glancing up at her. "Sit down and answer my question. What exactly did
Pamela offer you and when?"

She eased back onto the edge of her seat
and glanced down at the tabletop. "She offered traveling expenses back to
London. Or even America. But that was when—" She went a deeper scarlet.

"When what?"

She couldn't mention Pamela's suspicions
that they'd slept together. "After I found out about the letters. She came
to the cottage and I accused her outright of penning them. She wouldn't admit
she had. I wouldn't take the money she offered, so we reached a stalemate. She
told me about the betrothal."