Lady Fugitive (2 page)

Even before she reached Philadelphia,
newspapers published the lurid tale and her description. An old friend of her
father's had become a town sheriff in the Midwest and wired Jeremiah that his
daughter's face was on a Wanted poster. Jeremiah had already decided his
daughter would be shipped off to stay with Violet in London until the tempest
passed.

Only London had now been replaced with
some obscure rural village to the north. The better to bury the past....

Boyd arrived right on schedule Monday
morning. He brought Rachel's trunk out to the waiting carriage as Rachel donned
her cloak and checked the guest room to make sure she hadn't left anything
behind. She descended the front steps and froze. Two uniformed policemen were
talking with some of Violet's neighbors a few doors down the street. Violet and
Boyd noticed, too.

"I wonder what that's all
about," Boyd commented.

"Robbery," said Violet's
next-door neighbor. He shook his head in disgust. "Someone broke into Geoffrey's
place and made off with the good silver last night."

Violet's hand went to her throat and she
fingered the garnet brooch pinned to the lace of her collar. "Oh, how
awful! 'Tisn't safe anywhere these days." She glanced at Rachel and gave
her a meaningful look. "But we mustn't detain you and your employer,
Rachel. The authorities don't need to speak to you. You couldn't have heard a
thing. After all, you know you sleep like a stone."

"Yes, I'm afraid I couldn't be of
any help. Mr. Atkinson?" Rachel gave him an expectant look. He extended
his arm and she climbed inside the coach.

"Have a good trip, dear,"
Violet called. "Off with you now!"

Violet all but shoved Boyd inside and
slammed the carriage door, nearly catching the tails of his coat. Garnet brooch
open in her hand, she slapped at the horse's glossy flank, giving it a solid
jab. The animal snorted and bolted from its peaceful standstill. The carriage
shot down the length of the street, jostling Boyd onto Rachel's lap.

He instantly flushed and jumped onto the
seat across from her. "That was the most bizarre thing I've ever seen in
my life. I could have sworn your aunt—"

"Dear me. I know, sir," Rachel
interrupted. "I'm dreadfully sorry, but first encountering policemen and
then the horse. Poor Violet's never been the same since the accident."

"Accident?"

Rachel coughed into her hand to mask her
lie. "Her betrothed was an officer of the peace. He was killed by a
runaway horse on his way to the policeman's ball."

From Newcastle-Upon-Tyne the carriage
headed inland across the broad moors. Rachel listened to Boyd and gazed at the
passing scenery. Hazy skies were dotted here and there with clumps of whitish
gray batting and a light but chill breeze had been blowing every since they'd left
the inn that morning.

This was early summer. Rachel surmised
winters here would not be terribly different from the wet misery she'd known in
the Oregon territory. But this countryside was much prettier.

Boyd explained that he and his longtime
friend held separate business interests, but had invested jointly in a livery
and freight service and a small warehouse between Newcastle and the village of
Crowshaven. Boyd owned the local tobacco shop. His partner, Morgan Tremayne, owned
the local inn and a granary. They had only recently formed the holding company
of Atkinson & Tremayne, Ltd.

"I was in London negotiating with
my tobacco supplier, but generally Morgan's the one who travels," Boyd
told her. "He makes excursions often, so he's taken rooms on the top floor
of the inn and rents out his family cottage. Makes economic sense, and the
arrangement's suited to his erratic schedule."

Crowshaven was visible now just beyond a
gentle rise. Rachel grinned as she saw the town was nothing like she'd
anticipated. No raw lumber or dirt floors; these were solid homes with glass
windowpanes and stone foundations. As the carriage neared the heart of the
village, her eyes took in the square with a sense of wonder and joy.
Cobblestones! Real streets, not dirt and mire. It was darling, this quaint
village. She liked the tiny shops and marketplace crowded with stalls and
carts. Boyd pointed out his tobacco store and the chandlery, baker's, post
office, livery stable, and blacksmith's. Just off the main square stood a large
mercantile. The most imposing structure in the whole village was the Crowshaven
Inn.

They swung in a circle to the outer edge
of town. A row of houses dotted an angular bluff. The carriage stopped at the
second house from the corner. "This is Morgan's cottage," Boyd
announced.

Rachel sat unmoving. She'd pictured a
single story bungalow. The weathered stone residence had a high gabled roof.
Glittering diamond-shaped windowpanes flanked the front door and graced the
second story. It was no mansion, but there was an undeniable charm about the
place. Boyd escorted her up the front walk and into the parlor. It was snug
though sparsely furnished.

A settee upholstered in a somber brown
sat beside a cherry end table. A solitary armchair faced the open hearth. The
chair's floral fabric matched the front window drapes. Beyond the parlor was a
small kitchen. An alcove led to a pantry and a small bedchamber.

"Sorry about these," Boyd
coughed, pulling the tattered kitchen curtains aside to display the rear
garden. "There's a wire run to the fence for hanging out the wash. That
stile leads to the alleyway." Rachel barely heard him. She was staring at
the yard. There were flowers in bloom right outside her back door. Flowers, not
knee-deep mud and a wooden privy!

Upstairs, the front bedchamber was
dominated by a mahogany canopy bed and tall dresser. The bed's faded lace
canopy and coverlet matched the curtains across the wide windows. The house
featured a good many windows, Rachel noticed. A welcome change after years in a
dark shanty. Across the hall, a narrow cot and small table faced the low bureau
in the third bedroom. A small alcove featured a tub for bathing across from a
washstand and ewer.

"I trust the house is
acceptable?" Boyd inquired.

"It's wonderful. You're very
generous to let me stay here. I hope the owner isn't going to change his mind
and decide to move back in."

He snorted."Morgan hasn't lived
here for years. As I said, he's quite comfortable at the inn. He lets this
cottage on a yearly leasehold."

Rachel flinched inside at that news. She
couldn't promise to stay a year. Not nearly that long, if there was any
kindness left in the world. "I don't know whether I can commit to a full
year, sir. Perhaps half that time." She was afraid she'd just ruined her
chance at both the house and the post, but it had to be said.

"Widow Cordell—" 

"Rachel, please."

"All right. Rachel," he said,
smiling. "Don't feel you must make too many decisions all at once. Six
months will be fine for now." He had the driver unload her trunk, and
sternly shook his head when Rachel dug into her handbag. "I'll deduct the
rent from your salary each week. I know you haven't much money. Your aunt
explained the difficult circumstances that caused you to sell the farm after
your husband's death. Pitiful…But please don't worry, I won't repeat a word to
anyone else."

"My aunt told you all about it,
though." Rachel wondered what dramatic tale Violet had concocted. Then
decided she was hardly one to complain, after the balderdash she'd spouted
about the policeman's ball and that horse.

Boyd coughed. "She led Mr. Soames
to understand you'd had a rough time back on the frontier and arrived in
England with limited resources. I don't mean to dwell on your misfortune. I
thought I might ask my betrothed to look in on you tomorrow. Chrissandra would
love to help you stock up on provisions. She adores any excuse to be out
browsing. Please dine at the inn this evening and tell Mrs. Poole to put your
meal on Morgan's account."

Rachel studied his face. "What's he
like, sir? I feel a little strange moving into the man's home and eating at his
inn, working in his office, yet knowing nothing about the fellow."

"Let's see. Some call him the
Bargainer. He lives and breathes trade, which makes him the ideal partner for
me. I believe there's more to life than commerce. Morgan believes life
is
commerce. He's a proud man, but not above plowing a field or making a delivery
himself. Has a reputation for honoring his word. Something we literally bank
upon. I think you'll get on. You seem the earnest sort, which he'll
appreciate."

He was almost back in the carriage
before she remembered to ask when she was expected at his office. "Take a
few days to settle in," he called back. "I'll send Miss James by
tomorrow and expect you Friday morning at nine."

Rachel closed the cottage door and
turned to gaze again around the snug parlor. This musty but appealing little
domicile was hers alone. The thought had her mind reeling. For the first time
in her life, she would be residing alone. Working at a clerking post she had
chosen to accept, eating meals when she wanted to fix them, bathing and
sleeping and doing dozens of things when her whims—not Cletus—struck her. He'd
been gone for over three months, but she hadn't been able to shake the horrid
memories of all their years together.

Those bleak nights in the shack. The
even worse times when his elder brother had come to stay for extended visits.
The sour smell of liquor, stale smoke, vomit, and God knew what else on the
men's clothes.

There would be no drunken fools to
contend with here, no groping fingers, no rushed apologies for imaginary
failings.

She was really and truly alone.

Accused criminal, wanted fugitive, and
yet free for the first time in years. That thought brought her a strange peace
that allowed her to rest easy in the unfamiliar bed that night.

Rachel surveyed the cottage again the
next day. The furniture was in good condition, but the kitchen curtains would
have to be replaced. The hardwood floors in the parlor needed polishing. All
she could do now was give the place a good clean sweep. She opened the front
door and knocked a cloud of dust onto the porch.

"Good God! Why don't you watch what
you're doing?"

An attractive and furious blonde woman
shook off her brocade skirts. Rachel propped the broom against the wall.
"I beg your pardon! Mr. Atkinson told me you'd be over today, Miss James,
but I didn't expect you this early."

"I'm not Chrissandra. My name's
Pamela Prine. I'm a close personal friend of the owner, Morgan Tremayne. He's
away, so I thought I'd greet the new tenants. I'd like a word with your master
or mistress, please."

Rachel extended her right hand.
"I'm Rachel Cordell, Mr. Tremayne's new tenant. I'd ask you in, but I
haven't a thing in the house to offer as refreshment."

"
You're
the tenant?"
This seemed to set her back for a split second. "Well, I hope your husband
doesn't find our village too provincial, Mistress Cordell."

"My husband's in a grave back in
America." Rachel gestured meaningfully at her own dark skirts.

"A widow? And a Colonial?"

"American, yes."

"Boyd is known to take pity on
charity cases...which explains why he would rent to the likes of you. But I
warn you, widow, the rest of us don't accept strangers so easily."

"So I see," Rachel observed
dryly. "I'm also Mr. Atkinson's new clerk, so I'll be meeting other
villagers soon."

"A woman can get only so far on
pity. Don't expect to turn other men's heads just because Boyd feels sorry for
you."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Is Mr.
Tremayne terribly handsome?" she asked. The flash of anger in the cold
blue eyes told Rachel she'd guessed correctly. "I know he's young and successful.
He must be something, indeed. And I wonder which you favor most—his looks or
his money?"

"Morgan's looks are of no concern
to you, hireling."

"My, a handsome landlord. I can
hardly wait to meet him."

"And I can hardly wait until you
fall flat on your face! Which you will. A woman clerking," Pamela scoffed.
"Preposterous."

"Excuse me," Rachel reached past
her unwelcome visitor for the broom. "I'm not used to your English accent.
Could you spell that last word for me?"

"What?" Pamela sputtered in
outrage.

"I didn't think so." Rachel
stepped back inside and slammed the door.

When a knock sounded later, Rachel was
more cautious in greeting her visitor. This girl's hair fell in a gleaming
platinum cloud around her shoulders. She had dramatic blue-green eyes that
sparkled as she greeted Rachel. "I'm Boyd's fiancée, Chrissandra James.
I've come to take you shopping."

Rachel explained her wariness had been
in reaction to her first visitor. Chrissandra scowled. "That Pamela! She's
the worst snob in town. My only reservation about Boyd hiring a woman as his
clerk was the difficulty Pamela's bound to stir up. She's a vicious gossip and
can't bear other women within a mile of Morgan. She won't make your tasks any
easier."