Lady Fugitive (29 page)

"The 'harlot' isn't one any longer,
and you know it," Richelle informed him. "Her name is Lorella, and
she's gone out for the evening. We can't do anything tonight. Tomorrow we'll go
see father's lawyer. Discuss the will and this turn of events, get his
recommendations. I know it's distressing, but we'll find a way to cope. This
can't be any worse than pirates on the high seas and you dealt with that."

 His gaze softened. "Aye, I did.
Gone out for the evening, you said? So it's just you and me in this rambling
mansion filled with welcoming beds and pillows of eiderdown? I am a bit
weary," he said tauntingly, his gaze moving to the ceiling. A little tense.
Wonder what would…why Madam Tremayne!"

Richelle had gone to the study door and
was divesting herself of garments as she headed through the hall toward the
staircase and their room. It didn't take long for Morgan to follow the trail of
cast-off clothing and leave a pile of his own at the foot of the bed they
shared. Their tussle was quick, fervent, exhausting.

Or perhaps part of his exhaustion was
the mental and emotional wrestling that had gripped his heart since he scanned
Boyd's words. He knew he should return to Crowshaven without delay. Yet his
mind was also cluttered with bleak, terrifying thoughts.

He had an idea what Jeremiah's estate
must be worth. Tomorrow at the attorney's office they would likely find out the
exact sum. Morgan had little doubt it would be staggering. Richelle had
insisted back on the vessel that they shouldn't wed because their respective
worlds were an ocean apart…Morgan hadn't realized then that she meant more than
bodies of salt water. She had come into a fortune.

He was close to losing everything he'd
worked for…which at its zenith couldn't be a tenth of what her holdings must
amount to. He was asking her to turn her back on everything here in America and
return with him so he could fight to save his way of life. Would she willingly
forsake this grand home, a large metals factory, Philadelphia society and
wealthy social circles for a uncooperative stone hearth and faded lace
curtains?

She'd lived in his cottage out of
desperation. She'd been exonerated with Nash's confession to the American
authorities. She was now rid of the leeches who'd taken control of her life.
She was free, and she was affluent.

Did they actually have a future together
as man and wife? If he accepted her offer of financial assistance now—because
he knew her well enough to surmise she'd make it again, despite his early
refusal—would she hold it against him later and resent him for it?

Morgan had no answers for those dark
questions.

He learned some of the answers the next
day when they met with the Hardwick family attorney. It had been difficult to
maintain Morgan's usual poker face upon hearing the sums the lawyer mentioned;
encouraging to discover the man's own business connections were impressive and
had already garnered a potential buyer for the factory.

Through an hour of discussion, Morgan
got a feel for the older man and sensed trust in the attorney was well placed.
But during that hour it became increasingly clear that Richelle would need to
remain in Philadelphia for at least several more weeks, possibly months, in
order to tie up the various loose ends left by her father's unexpected demise.
Morgan couldn't wait weeks or months.

He cleared his throat reluctantly and
said what he knew the others had been avoiding. "It appears as though my
wife will be detained by the family matters we've been discussing. I'm afraid I
can't stay on here. Would you draw up a power of attorney, granting her right
to act in my stead? I'm afraid I must book passage to England posthaste."

Richelle took a sharp breath and pulled
out a handkerchief, covering her face.

The lawyer nodded and pulled out a sheet
of parchment.

With that, their divergent courses were
set.

* * *

She didn't say a word when they left the
lawyer's inner office and headed out onto the Philadelphia street. She didn't
speak when the climbed into and out of the cab to return to the house. She went
upstairs without acknowledging Lorella's concerned gaze.

Morgan didn't know if she was furious
with him or in shock that they would be separated for long weeks. Or perhaps
numb to it.

He rounded on her when he entered their
bedchamber and found her sitting on her vanity bench, staring vacantly at her
own reflection in the mirror. "Richelle."

She turned unseeing eyes to his.
"Come now. We touched on this last night, and after the meeting with your
family retainer, it's clear that you must stay on. But you knew I could
not."

"You can. You won't. I told you we
could send money to Boyd. You don't have to go back there just now."

"The inn is at stake," he
reminded her. "You know its importance to me. I can't sit around this
mansion sipping port and eating roast goose, pretending everything is wonderful.
I won't leave Boyd to handle the situation alone. It's not fair, Richelle. He
wouldn't have contacted me if things weren't beyond that."

"No, of course not. And you won't
take funds from me, even though I owe you. I promised I'd pay you back for the
granary. You sold it for our passage. It's the least I owe you, Morgan, for
helping me."

Then he lost control and lashed out.
Said words he would pray to recall a thousand times later. "If I hadn't
come to your aid, I would have hated myself. Now that I have, I'm afraid I'll
end up hating you. It's hard to reconcile the clerk I believed I was marrying
to all of this." He gestured around the opulent room.

"Then go. Don't you need to visit
the docks?"

She turned her back on him. Literally
and figuratively.

If they'd been in Crowshaven, he would
have gone to the stables and taken Phantom for a long ride or visited the pub
to get properly sodden with watery ale. Played some darts, slapped some men on
the back, had a respite before encountering her once more. And that space of
time apart would cool his ire, have him aching to hold her.

But here…he had nowhere to go, nothing
that was his, no friends to commiserate with.

She was right. He needed to go.

Even though his every instinct said
they'd both later regret it.

The doctor set aside his stethoscope.
"You haven't told your husband you're expecting his child?"

Richelle lay in her bed with her
nightgown bunched around her hips from the doctor's examination. She
appreciated the irony of her situation. The man had just examined the most
intimate region of her body and it was still exposed to his view. Yet this
didn't make her half as uncomfortable as that question.

"I remarried a few months ago. An
Englishman. We sailed here together, but he left last month to return to
England while I completed the sale of my late father's business and this house.
I was anticipating a voyage with my maid perhaps next week. If you—"

"Oh, no," the doctor disagreed."With
your history of miscarriage and stillbirth, you mustn't make a long ocean voyage
now. There's significant risk that you'd miscarry again. You'll have to
postpone your departure."

"Oh, dear," she replied,
frowning. "I have to get to England. Really, with the war here in the
States, it's far safer in the long run. When do you think I might chance
it?"

"I'll examine you regularly and
we'll assess how it progresses. Take care of whatever you need to do. I'll
check on you again next week."

The following week his recommendation
was much the same. Richelle signed final papers on the sale of the wrought iron
factory. She directed Lorella to find furniture dealers. Auctioneers visited
the house and Richelle began selling off most of the furniture and household
items. She'd just watched a fellow load a faded velvet settee from the attic
onto his cart and tie it for transport when the doctor came up the street for
his regular weekly assessment. This time Richelle refused to go upstairs and
submit to the full examination..

"Doctor, my breasts are larger and
aching. I can't fit in any of my clothes. I feel as though I've swallowed a
honeydew melon. Surely it must be time enough that I can leave the States,"
she said hopefully.

The doctor turned to question Lorella
about her employer's eating habits and sleep patterns. Lorella laughed.
"Well, she naps every afternoon. This a big house to keep up on, what with
strangers parading through and us wanting everything to show to best advantage.
She helps with dusting and polishing. Wears her out most days. And she eats
like a horse. Has kept all of it down the past couple of weeks. The worst of
the morning sickness is past."

"Excellent," the doctor said,
smiling. Then he stated how much Richelle owed him for his professional calls
and wished both women well on their Atlantic crossing.

"Oh, thank God!" Richelle
exclaimed after she'd paid the doctor and seen him out the front door. She sank
onto a kitchen chair and pulled a crumpled missive out of her robe pocket. The
robe was well worn and faded, but the only thing she could comfortably manage
these days.

The letter was the only communication
she'd received from Morgan since he sailed. In his usual style, it was terse
and to the point. He'd made it back to England safely. Privateers weren't an
issue sailing away from the States. Most all the vessels to leave American
ports were thoroughly inspected and overloaded with human beings looking to
escape the country's civil war. Not full of munitions or contraband.

She should have no problem finding
passage for herself and Lorella, on a passenger vessel this time. And in a
cabin with reasonable space and amenities. Money was certainly not a problem.

No, it wasn't. Richelle had more of it
at her disposal than she'd ever dreamed possible. And difficult as it had been
to sell off her family's goods, think of strangers taking up residence at Hardwick
House, she'd also read many articles in the Philadelphia papers and overheard
gossip at the meat market and green grocers. Northerners were afraid the South
would actually prevail. Afraid the North would be overrun by Rebel soldiers or
escaped slaves. See their factories and homes razed, looted, burned, decimated.

She'd rather go back to Crowshaven than
be present in Philadelphia to witness that.

Of course she'd put nothing of her fears
or worries in her reply to her husband. She'd assured him that matters were
taking a bit longer than they'd anticipated, but were moving toward
satisfactory conclusions and she'd be back on English soil within a few weeks.

Lorella saw her reviewing the creased
letter once again and frowned. "Richelle, you're like a dog with a bone. You
have a wonderful, handsome husband. You're rich as Croesus. The doctor finally
gave you a clean bill of health. We're women on the verge of making new lives
for ourselves, but you look like someone just chopped down your favorite
petunias."

"I know. I'm not sad, really. It's
good news to be going back. It's just…" Richelle paused and glanced around
the large kitchen. "So final."

"Well, it's not my place to say so,
but I never liked the feel of this house. Didn't know your father, who sounds
like he was a decent enough gentleman. But those other two weasels who'd taken
over this place?" Lorella shuddered. "I swear sometimes I still get a
whiff of her perfume or his pomade. The walls of this house fairly reek. You'll
be better off raising a little one in the English countryside. You said there's
a lot of strapping good men there?"

Richelle smiled and began once again
regaling Lorella with tales of the inn, how she'd mistaken Morgan for a farmer
and then eventually met many of them at the Harvest Dance.

Lorella served up a chicken pot pie and
glasses of iced tea. They played cards for a time, then she suggested they go
to bed earlier than usual that night. After all, the next day they had a lot to
do. They had to visit the waterfront to see about passage to England and both
of them needed some decent new clothes…with Richelle's allowing for continued
expansion.

"There's going to be another
strapping young boy in Yorkshire shortly after your arrival," Lorella
predicted. "Might want to tuck away a few baby things, too."

Baby things.

Something Richelle had never shopped for.
The thought had her smiling until she drifted off to sleep.

It was nearly October when Richelle and Lorella
finally reached Violet's London townhouse. The Atlantic crossing had been
arduous, though Richelle was eternally grateful that she'd been past her morning
sickness by the time of the voyage. Neither she nor Lorella had experienced the
seasickness other passengers complained of, and their cabin had been fairly
comfortable.

Now she was back on English shores, and
there was much to do.

Aunt Violet accompanied her to the bank.
They learned Albert Soames, Violet's trusted advisor for many years, had at
last retired. In his stead they dealt with a younger fellow named Frederick
Deacon. He had tutored with Soames prior to his retirement; Violet had sent
over the letter from her niece in America with written directions, and Richelle
was pleased to discover those instructions had been followed quite diligently
by young Mr. Deacon.