Cachet (23 page)

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."

Starting back toward the foyer, he spotted a blur of color in the next 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, also. 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 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 blinked as the inescapable conclusion formed in his mind.

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

So 'Rachel' was an assumed name. Used not by accident or oversight. The girl had deliberately changed both the spelling and pronunciation of her name. Stubbornly avoided talk of her past and her family. Pretended to be a destitute widow. But what he still couldn't fathom was why.

"Say, you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

Morgan had been so lost in his musings, he actually jumped. A elderly fellow with rheumy eyes peered from behind a rosebush.

"Aye," Morgan answered. "Do you know her? Know where she's gone?"

"Was told to be on the lookout for an Englishman with dark hair and a mustache. You're toting that trunk, got the look. Talk funny. Would that be you?"

Morgan nodded. "Who told you to watch for me? Ra—Richelle?"

The man glanced in both directions before he answered. "Some skinny gimp I never saw before came to my door. Told me to watch for you and ask you something."

"What?"

"Why you looking for Hardwick's daughter?"

Morgan's cheeks flushed. He felt like an idiot, but he knew he best be honest. "She's my wife. We married a few weeks ago. I was detained on business meant to join her at her father's house."

"Right," the old man nodded. "Now I need to see a ring." Morgan raised his right hand for inspection. "Fair enough.
Sheila's house in Washington
." Morgan drew a blank. The man scowled. "Gentleman's sort of place, the gimp said."

"Good God, not
Cousin
Sheila's? She's gone to the mad—" Morgan stopped himself before blurting out that embarrassment. "Thank you for the message."

But he was talking to himself. The man was gone.

Morgan struck out for the main thoroughfare. He'd find Cousin Sheila's and his runaway bride, if it took weeks and every last farthing he had. He'd find her. And when he did, he'd wring her lying, conniving, wealthy little American neck!

Chapter 19

Morgan thought he'd mentally prepared himself for whatever might come, but he was wrong. The house of ill repute still astonished him. The huge front drawing room was all plush upholstery, Persian carpets and smoky mirrors. Illumination came from a crystal chandelier. He followed the burly doorman to an adjoining chamber, where a woman clad in a sparkling wrapper and little else sat smiling warmly at him from a card table.

The full bosom, dark eyes and chestnut hair confirmed a strong family resemblance. "Morgan, my new English cousin! Sheila Reeves." She thrust out her hand in welcome. "Have a seat and I'll get you a brandy."

"I want to see my wife."

When he pointedly ignored her hand, she shrugged indifferently and moved to a sideboard, then calmly poured a splash of brandy into a glass. "Not one for social graces, huh?" She set the glass in front of him, offering a bountiful view of her cleavage in the process.

The drink didn't soften Morgan's tone. "Your cousin owes me an explanation. I'm weary of playing round rosy. Fetch her now, or I'll get my trunk off your porch and my English ass out of this bordello and onto the next ship sailing for Europe."

Sheila only smiled. Morgan noted with irritation that the sultry smile ran in Richelle's family, too. "She warned me you had a temper. She's not here at the moment. I sent her to a friend of mine. You're welcome to wait here in the meantime, and I can give you part of that explanation."

"Good. Let's begin with the fact that I now know she's bloody wealthy and her name isn't Rachel. My partner gave her a clerking job, and she rented a cottage from me. Why would a rich American choose to live with common English folk? A social experiment?"

"There's no nice way to say this, so I'm going to give it to you flat. My cousin stands accused of murder and there's a warrant for her arrest. Her father sent her to his sister's in London to keep Richelle out of jail while he tried to get the charges dropped. I gather the sister wasn't too keen on harboring a fugitive" Sheila shook her head. "I wish Jeremiah had told me about the legal charges. I know several important men in some high places. Richelle's gone to consult one now."

"The authorities think she
killed
someone? Whom?"

"A blackleg. A professional gambler, I mean." Now Morgan nodded. "In Carson City, a Western mining town in the Nevada territory. Rough sort of place."

"How could she be blamed for something there? I thought she'd lived in Oregon."

"The land speculator who bought her farm wired funds there. She went to collect the money and settle her husband's gambling debt to the blackleg. She was the last person seen near the man's room before the body was found. Somebody poisoned him."

Morgan rubbed his eyes. "I never considered anything criminal. Bloody hell.
A murderess!
"

"You can't believe for one minute she did it? The charges are based on circumstantial evidence. It's a big mistake." Every trace of warmth disappeared from the woman's eyes.

Morgan gave his head a negative shake. "I'm quite certain she
didn't
. But it comes as a shock to learn one's wife is wanted for a capital crime."

"Paper's here, Sheila." The strapping doorman tossed it on the table in front of her.

The newspaper! Morgan nearly choked as he realized he'd held the key in his own two hands just before they left the ship. When he'd reshuffled their belongings after the privateers departed, he'd found a newspaper below the almanac with Rachel's clothes. It had been an old Philadelphia paper, but he'd perused it briefly, hoping to pick up some useful information before visiting there. He'd seen an article about an Eastern gambler poisoned by a young woman. That's where he'd first seen the name Richelle.

"She wouldn't tell me much about her family. Only got a few glimpses of her past. I thought it was because of her husband's death. Do you know this fellow Jonas, her old suitor? How does he figure in all this?"

"He was with her in Carson City. Her father tried to locate him and get his statement."

"I received a message to come here. Did Richelle summon me?"

Sheila reached over and squeezed his knuckles. "I did, honey. She doesn't know you're here. I'm not going to ruin that little surprise. She'll be very relieved you've come. She's in love with you, and I'm so glad. She hated her first husband."

"Apparently with good reason." Morgan realized she studied him with keen interest. "Why do I get the feeling you want something, Miss Reeves?"

"Sheila. Plain old Sheila." Her tone became all business. Morgan recognized it. He usually heard it from men. "You've been to that house, so you've seen for yourself Richelle isn't going to starve any time this century. Her stepmother wants part of what Jeremiah left his daughter. That fortune hunting witch and her lover made Richelle a prisoner in the house. She climbed out an attic window and came to me, thank the Lord. You'll have to stay until we can figure out what to do. Heard you're good with pirates."

Morgan chuckled. "I was lucky my scheme worked."

Sheila's eyes twinkled. "I hadn't seen Richelle in years. Not since she was a young girl. She appeared on my porch spouting tales about a murder charge, being tricked into marriage on a trade vessel, pirates, and relatives taking her hostage. Anybody else would say the kid had been in the frontier sun too long, but I know my cousin. She's never been one for flights of fancy."

"I
did
trick her into marriage. She got word her father was ill, and I refused to let her sail back alone. She won't face this new problem alone, either." He tilted his glass in a salute. "I'm in your debt, madam."

Sheila handed him the bottle of brandy and led him up the stairwell. "I put her in this room." She pointed to a closed door. "Bath's a the end of the hall. Have a hot soak and relax. My housemaid will fix you a plate and I'll have Patrick bring up your trunk. Anything else I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Before he could answer, doors opened and several whores poked their heads into the hallway.

Sheila noticed. "Ladies, this one's off limits. He's married to my cousin. They'll be staying here a spell. I catch any of you within a foot of this Englishman, you lose your cut for the month."

The harlots disappeared. "You
are
some handsome devil. I can't blame them. You're sure there's nothing I can do for you while Richelle's gone?"

Morgan understood the hidden meaning in the subtle question. "I'll likely never again find myself in such surroundings, and never before have been offered the premiere lady of such a house. I'm sure you'd make it a memorable and discreet experience."

Sheila's dark eyes flashed and she looked as though about to reply, so he rushed ahead to finish. "But I love your cousin, and I took vows to be faithful to her. Unless I hear from her lips that she's released me from them, I mean to honor them."

Sheila burst out laughing. "Guess I won't be having Patrick throw you back out into the street. We'll talk again after you've had a chance to discuss things with Richelle. And don't go ripping my bed linens during those 'discussions.'"

* * *

Richelle returned just after dusk. Sheila's friend at the War Department had been sympathetic, but couldn't give any assurances. Richelle felt ridiculous in the disguise Sheila had persuaded her to wear: a blonde wig of fat sausage curls and flashy blue satin gown. Richelle was only too glad to peel off the gaudy things in the bathroom and sink into a tub of hot water. She scrubbed away the face paint and pulled on her borrowed wrapper before ducking into her bedroom. She locked the door and struck a match. Then burnt her fingers and dropped it as a deep baritone voice came out of the darkness.

"Evening, Love."

The words came from the chair beside the window. Richelle made out a dark silhouette. Her heart was pounding. How had the man gotten in? She'd needed her key.

"No greeting for your new husband?"

"
Morgan?
"

"Aye, and I'm waiting for a kiss from my bride."

She forgot all about the lamp, dove across the dark chamber and flung herself onto his lap. His torso was bare, his breath smelled of liquor. Richelle thought she'd found heaven. She hugged him fiercely and kissed him with an audible smack. "I was afraid I'd never see you again!"

"You do have a nasty habit of eluding me, Colonial. I think it's time we got better acquainted. I'm the innkeeper from Crowshaven, Morgan Tremayne. And you're the dissembling American heiress who's been calling herself Rachel Cordell."

She dropped her arms from his neck. "I can explain."

"I've been counting on that; however, full details can wait. Now I want answers to a few basic questions. This man they believe you poisoned, who was he to you?"

"A stranger. I never met him. I arranged to meet with him in his hotel room, but he never arrived. I left the money Cletus owed with a note. Later I found out he'd been killed and the desk clerk placed me at the scene. Someone put poison in his whiskey decanter."

Morgan's deep laughter stunned her. "You think it's funny? Your wife being charged with murder amuses you?"

"Nay, but poison in a whiskey decanter is the
last
way you'd kill a man! You railed at me about men making occasions to drink. You poured my brandy overboard. Poisoning a liquor supply would hardly be your method of choice. I'm none too certain you'd attempt a stabbing or blow to the head, either—the way you criticize males for dueling and spilling blood." He took another sip of brandy. "You were distressed when I beat those sailors. I'm not convinced you're at all the murderous type."