Lady Fugitive (22 page)

She perched on the edge of the velvet
sofa in the sitting room near Elaine. She deliberately kept her voice low.
"What's Cameron doing here?"

"He lives here."

Good God.
He lives here?

Richelle saw her father's wing chair was
empty. "You'll have to tell me how that came about. Right now I want to
see Papa."

"I'm afraid you're too late, dear.
Your father passed away in March. I suppose it took time for my letter to reach
Violet, then of course, you had to sail home. Jeremiah understood you wanted to
be with him."

Richelle stared at her stepmother.
Hadn't she predicted this? Until Elaine reached a hand to the lace at her
throat and forced Richelle to focus on the stark contrast of fabric there,
Richelle hadn't noticed her stepmother also wore weeds.

Boots clicked across the polished marble
floor. Richelle spotted Cameron leering from her at the edge of her vision. She
fought the instinct to visibly shudder. "I think I need to be alone. I'd
like my trunk brought up to my room, please."

Elaine clucked her tongue and nodded. Richelle
snatched up her handbag and started for the staircase, giving Cameron a wide
berth. Elaine followed Richelle up to the second floor. "You'll find
everything just as you left it." A quick glance around verified this was
so.

Cameron stepped into the room and let
his eyes sweep over Richelle as he set down the trunk. Elaine was busy fiddling
with the window shades and didn't notice him ogling her stepdaughter. "If
you need anything—"

"Please, Elaine," Richelle all
but sobbed. "I just need some time."

Elaine shot Cameron a pointed look and
the pair left the bedroom. Richelle heard the door close with a sharp click,
but couldn't see for the tears in her eyes.
Papa, I'm sorry I let you down.
I tried, I really did. But what happened here? How could you let a monster into
our home?

Richelle told herself she shouldn't cry.
Papa had a good life. He'd been a successful man, happy in his work. A good
father to his only child. Jeremiah Hardwick's business associates and workers
had admired him. He'd been a god-fearing man, well liked by everyone. There was
no reason to mourn.

Yet Richelle
was
mourning, and
she needed the one person who'd understand her grief to mourn with her. But she
had no way to reach Morgan now. He was in some New York hotel alone, and he still
didn't know the true woman he'd escorted to America. The fugitive.

She'd never admitted the truth.

She'd given herself a dozen excuses why:
Morgan had interrupted her, the timing or his mood hadn't been right, they
weren't close enough to risk it, they were too close to risk it. Now she cursed
aloud.

There had been opportunities enough. She
might have done it so many times, but she'd been afraid. She convinced herself
Morgan would have been horrified and rejected her. That's what she feared
most—Morgan's rejection. Yet she'd set herself up for it. She'd perpetuated the
lie, but given him the address of this house. What in God's name would he think
when he came here?

Her error hadn't been in trusting Morgan
to book her passage, only to wind up married to him as the result.
That
had been wisdom. Perhaps the first instinctively bright thing she'd done in her
life, besides go to Crowshaven in the first place.

Her mistake had been in keeping the
secret all this time.
He might have listened, Richelle! He might have
understood!
But she'd never given him the chance. Instead she'd come back
to Philadelphia alone.

To a house that was no longer home, occupied
by people she disliked. Her father was dead. Buried over a month ago. Something
felt very wrong. It wasn't just that Richelle detested Cameron and had been
appalled to find him living under this roof. Elaine was different, too.

Almost as if reading her mind, her
stepmother chose that moment to come rapping at the door. "We need to
talk, Richelle." Elaine was clad in a turquoise dressing gown now. She
settled on Richelle's vanity bench. "Is that a new ring?" Elaine's
eyes positively glittered, like those of a raven staring at something shiny.

Richelle shoved her left hand into a
skirt pocket. "Yes. An old family ring Violet found in a drawer. What did
you want to speak to me about?"

"I know it seems crass, but we must
discuss the financial effects of Jeremiah's death. He had a life insurance
policy, but some of that money went for medical and burial expenses. I couldn't
give a prominent man a cheap funeral."

Richelle shrugged. "He gave you
plenty of good things during his life. The least you could do was return the
favor after his death."

"Well now, about the will."

"What about it? Didn't he leave you
everything?"

"He left me a small trust and half
the house. You got everything else. The factory, money in his bank accounts.
But Jeremiah's lawyer is executor and he talked Jeremiah into a provision that
we must each remarry to take control of what he bequeathed us."

"Remarry? Papa wanted you to
remarry so soon as he was in the ground?" It sounded preposterous.
Richelle couldn't envision any husband making such a decree, let alone her
father. He'd never been unreasonable—which this requirement surely was.

Elaine sighed in exasperation.
"That damned lawyer convinced him that women aren't capable of managing
financial matters or property without men to oversee things. You know Jeremiah
always made the decisions in this house."

With you guiding him every step of
the way
, Richelle's mind supplied.
You
could command the Union army without a man's help.

Elaine folded her arms below her
breasts. "I've been mistress of this house for years. You should deed your
half over to me. You'll have an attractive dowry without it. I've prepared a
quitclaim deed for you to sign. Cameron and I will be married soon."

Elaine went to the top dresser drawer
and withdrew a sheet of paper. She held it out toward Richelle.

Richelle pointedly refused to even
glance at the document.  "I'm not a child now. You can't order me around
or pack me off to boarding school. You're not taking over this house."

"I get what's left of a meager
insurance policy, and a stipend barely enough to live on. That's not fair. I
should get this house after putting up with Jeremiah for all those years."

"Putting up with him?"
Richelle came off the bed now. "I always thought you ran him around on a
short leash, and he was just too enamored to see it. But I was wrong. He knew
you better than we thought. This is his revenge. He didn't leave you much, and
what he did requires a man's control. Just the opposite of when he was
alive." Richelle laughed out loud. "Go ahead and marry that greedy
monster downstairs if you like, but you both can find another residence. I'm
not signing away my birthright."

Elaine snorted in derision. "Brave
talk from a jail bird. There's still a warrant on your head, missy! I could
send a note to the constable right now and tell him to come pick you up."

"Yes, and I wondered why you didn't.
Until you explained about the will, I couldn't figure out why you didn't have
the constable waiting for me. But you don't mean to stay on. You want to sell.
That's why you need full title." The narrowing of Elaine's eyes said
Richelle had guessed right.

"I've tried to be civil," her
stepmother hissed. "Cameron won't be so nice. I've given enough years to
this place and you Hardwicks. You'll sign." She threw the quitclaim on the
bed and rose to leave.

Cameron arrived on cue. "Heard what
you said about my manners, Elaine, and you know you're right? Hard bein' polite
when my sister-in-law's so unfriendly. Did you hear a howdy? Not from Richelle,
no sir. Never liked me to visit the farm, complained when I took Cletus out to
a saloon for a round of cards. My only brother dies of lung sickness—which he
never would've caught if his wife had taken decent care of him—and Sis here
sells the place just like that. Sold the land Cletus got for free. Didn't offer
to split one dime of her pure profit with me."

"You never lifted a finger on the
farm," Richelle observed.

"Followed you to Carson City,
though, Sis. Cletus signed them papers to sell on account we owed a dude there
a chunk of money. But I found that little note and the money you left in his
room, so at least I got something out of the deal. Pity about that mix-up with
the fella's whiskey." His laughter sent a chill down Richelle's spine.
"You'd think a man smart enough to draw an inside straight three times in
one game would be brighter than to drink from a tainted bottle."

Richelle's voice was shaky. "Even
you
wouldn't resort to—"

"Creative juggling is what I call
it. Gambling debt here, dandy gets himself corned and drinks from the wrong
bottle there. Adds up to zero. Zero debt for me, zero future for him."

Elaine hovered near the doorway.
"We're not going to let you scoop up all the poker chips, Richelle. Cam
worked with an alchemist before he went to work for your father. Cam knows
about compounds and chemicals. I'd rethink your position about the quitclaim."

"I'm not staying in this house
another minute."

"Wrong, Sis," Cameron replied.
"Elaine honey, Sis and I need to catch up on old times. Believe she'll
view things different after we do. Go on and see about supper. Ours, that is.
I'll be seeing to dear Richelle's."

Elaine stalked out. Cameron locked the
bedroom door and gave Richelle a lewd wink. His eyes dropped to her feet and
slowly moved up to her face. "Looking finer than ever, Sis. Little on the
scrawny side back on the farm, but you got a decent set of teats on you now.
Always did have one nice little rear."

"Stay away from me."

He threw his hands to his chest in mock
surprise. "Is that any way to treat your long-lost brother? Oh, wait. That's
not right. I'm gonna marry the old lady downstairs…which makes me your new
papa."

Richelle backed away by inches until she
bumped against the vanity table. She reached behind her. Her fingers closed
over a metal comb with a long handle. She raised the pointed end toward
Cameron's midsection. 

He cocked an eyebrow. "Well,
England's put some spunk into you. Almost believe you mean to do something with
that."

"Oh, I do. Comb your liver from the
inside out."

"Time was, you would have just
whimpered and let me have my way."

"I was a
girl
, Cameron!
Barely seventeen. Your stupid brother thought I was upset over my miscarriage. He
never grasped how depraved you are.

Cameron just snorted.

"I don't know how you ended up back
here and managed to crawl between Elaine's legs, but you're not getting back
between mine. One of us will die first. Watch yourself. Right now I'm the Bank
of Hardwick."

"Maybe so. But I wouldn't plan on
that circumstance holding long. And even fancy banks get robbed, don't
they?"

Cameron had locked her in. Richelle
tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. She crossed to the windows. The heavy
wooden shutters had been nailed to the sashes. Her bedroom was a prison.
What
kind of world am I living in
, she asked herself in disgust,
when a man
like my father gets sick and dies while an evil man like Cameron Nash is still
alive and healthy?

She had to do something. She couldn't
stay there. What would Morgan do in this fix? She tried to think like he would,
look for small details. 

At last she recalled something Elaine
may have overlooked. Richelle lit the small bedside lamp and took it into her
walk-in closet. The old attic scuttle was partially obscured by hatboxes on the
shelf. Richelle went back to check her handbag. She had a reasonable sum in
English currency. If she could get out....

She slid the braided rug from beside her
bed close to where Cameron had left her trunk. She heaved with all her might,
flipping the trunk over until it rested on top of the rug. She dragged the rug
across the floor into the closet and upended the trunk. Now she had a makeshift
stepstool, just tall enough for her stand on. She reached up and opened the
scuttle. Took a deep breath, set a foot on the edge of the closet shelf, and hoisted
herself into the attic.

Grabbing a few garments from a crate of
frontier goods, she stuffed them into a weathered satchel and wrapped herself
in a moth-eaten old shawl. Then she silently tripped the latch and opened the
casement attic window. It was an easy drop from the window ledge to the gable
below. From there she worked her way around to the trellis at the northeast
corner of the house. Always a stubborn child, she'd used this same escape route
a dozen times when Elaine ordered her upstairs for the day. Always contrary, or
maybe it was foolhardy—both adjectives Morgan had used to describe her.

Morgan! Somehow she had to find him. But
first she had get away to a safe place.