Lady Fugitive Read online

  Lady Fugitive

  by

  Shannah Biondine

  This work was originally published as "Cachet"

  Revised Edition Copyright © 2013 Shannah Biondine

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21`

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  London, 1860

  "I didn't kill him, Violet."

  Richelle's voice shook as she read the newspaper account aloud. "Grubstake Smith, Eastern gambler and financier, was found poisoned in his hotel room in Carson City. The hotel desk clerk placed a young brunette woman at the scene less than an hour before the body was discovered. Slender, with a single braid reaching past her waist, the woman has been identified as Richelle Nash, a newly-widowed matron from the Oregon Territory. She'd come to Carson City to collect proceeds from the sale of the Oregon farm. Authorities speculate the meeting to settle her late husband's gambling debts went sour. Smith died from drinking tobacco-infused rubbing alcohol switched in place of the whiskey in his room decanter."

  She handed the folded paper to her aunt. "I never even met Smith. I went to his room because Cletus died owing $500 from a poker game. I waited over an hour, then left the cash with a note. My old friend Jonas was in Carson City with me. We had tickets for the afternoon stage East. I never touched Smith's liquor supply."

  "There's no mention of a note or money," Violet pointed out.

  "Probably because whoever did poison him stole the cash. What's robbery when you've already committed murder?"

  "What does Jeremiah intend to do?"

  "You know Papa. He promised he'd straighten things out. Jonas knows I'm innocent, but we parted company in St. Louis. If Papa can track him down and get his testimony, the marshal might consider dropping charges. They only have circumstantial evidence. Jonas will swear I never touched a bottle in that room."

  "Knowing my brother, he'll have investigators combing the country from one end to the other for your friend."

  "Yes, but America's a big country, Aunt." Richelle forced a thin smile. "I pray Papa's men can clear me soon. I'd love nothing better than to go home and be out of your way. But I can't leave until Papa advises it's safe. And I can't be Richelle Nash anymore. It's Rachel now. Rachel Cordell."

  Violet returned the newspaper with a shudder and poured herself another cup of tea. "I hate to ask," she began delicately, "but what do you intend to do here in London? True, I have guest quarters, but only a modest pension. And I suspect you'll find life here with me very drab."

  Rachel pulled a pouch from her handbag. "Papa gave me some traveling money. You're welcome to whatever's left. I haven't spent much."

  Violet counted the folded notes. "This will help for a time. However, you do realize what your father's undertaken could take some months to conclude?" At her niece's nod, Violet rose and headed for the staircase. "You had an excellent upbringing and education. Perhaps you might consider employment as a governess or tutor for one of London's better families."

  Rachel started up the stairs. Violet opened the door to the guest room and paused. "I'm giving a small gathering tomorrow evening. There wasn't time to change my plans. Invitations had gone out before I received your father's letter. We won't let on there's a problem. Only that you've decided to visit me after your unfortunate loss."

  "Unfortunate?" the girl repeated. "Hardly, Aunt. It was a blessing Cletus died. The answer to my prayers."

  "Don't talk like that, dear."

  "I know it's not polite to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn't polite for my father to give me to a man I barely knew, either. I met Cletus only once before our wedding day. I never knew him until he was my husband. Then I grew to hate him. Arranged marriages don't always end up happy. Perhaps it's best not to speak of the past. Then I won't have to pretend a sorrow I can't feel."

  Rachel kissed her aunt and shut herself away in the guest room. She was safe for now. There were no marshals or handbills with her likeness on them here. No more newspaper reports. She was safe. Tired. Banished.

  The following evening the lamplighter made his way down the street as Violet's town house filled with visitors. Rachel stood in a corner of the tasteful drawing room, awed by the glittering candlelight, softly murmuring cultured voices and muted laughter of Violet's guests. She'd almost forgotten all this, so much time had she spent on the frontier with its raw wood and coarse pioneer folk. She'd forgotten the feel of taffeta, the taste of goose liver. Forgotten that warm gatherings and happy times had once been part of her life.

  Rachel watched Violet snag her banker even as he crossed the marble foyer. Before he could hang up his hat, Violet whispered something into his ear and together they moved with purpose to greet a younger man. Then the trio disappeared into the small alcove Violet referred to as her library.

  Rachel circled the salon, nodding at her aunt's guests. A short time later, while reaching for a champagne flute from a silver tray, her gaze lit upon a sandy-haired man in his thirties. He appeared to be staring directly at her.

  Was he from a detective agency, or some freelance agent who'd traced her from America? She'd used her alias while traveling and changed her hairstyle. He still watched her from behind a group of loud business types. She glanced toward the foyer, wonder how she might slip past him.

  She never got the chance. She'd no sooner turned to set down her champagne glass when he approached her. "Madam Cordell, I'm Boyd Atkinson, a colleague of your aunt's investment banker. Mr. Soames seems to think you might be open to an offer of employment. Might we talk a moment?"

  Rachel indicated the adjoining sitting room. She perched on the edge of the deep turquoise velvet sofa, eyes wary. "An offer of employment, you said."

  "Yes, I need a clerk for my holding company in Yorkshire. I understand you're American and well educated. It's most regrettable you find yourself in such doleful circumstances, but perhaps a change of scene would help to cheer you."

  "A change of scene." She was repeating his words like a trained parrot, but she was helpless to stop. It was either that or dissolve into hysterical laughter. Here she'd imagined being dragged off to some London prison, and the man had only been considering her for a job! He seemed nice enough. She forced herself to take a deep breath.

  "I'm from Yorkshire, in the north. My partner and I have a small firm. I've concluded we must abandon haphazard reckoning for precise bookkeeping to improve our profits. A lick and a promise just won't do in these changing times, you see." She nodded. "My partner's forte is acquisition and financial negotiations. Administrative matters fall to me. Neither of us has time for auditing and posting. Therefore, I've decided to seek a clerk."

  Rachel took a breath. "I've been living out West the past several years, sir. Far removed from my father's offices. The closest I've come to tallying anything lately was counting hen's eggs."

  He laughed aloud. Rachel found herself warming to both the idea of the cle
rking post and the man himself. It was impossible to dislike someone with such a pleasant smile. It crinkled the skin around his clear blue eyes and lit up his whole face. "Still, you'd outshine the locals. My neighbors are uneducated farmers for the most part."

  "But you seem educated."

  "My partner and I were tutored by a spinster as lads. The post would mean staying in our small village. I can't offer much in wages, but there's a cottage I rent for my partner. It happens to be vacant. The rent's modest and it's within walking distance of our offices."

  "A position and a place to stay? I'd be foolish not to accept, wouldn't I?"

  "I wouldn't leap to that conclusion," he responded easily.

  "But you hoped I would," she teased gently. "I can see you're very much a man of trade. You're quite persuasive, Mr. Atkinson."

  "If only my partner had heard that," he chuckled. "He asserts that he's the only one with a talent for persuasion. I'm headed back Monday. You can think about it for a few days."

  Violet floated in and settled beside Rachel, beaming at the young man. "Oh, do take the post, Rachel dear! I'll write your father you've gone to Yorkshire. Working with merchants and trade. I'm sure he'd approve. You'd be pioneering once again in a sense, you see?"

  It was over in a trice. Rachel gave young Atkinson her verbal acceptance. He left soon afterward. The soiree ended before midnight. Violet had gone to bed saying she was well pleased.

  Rachel's mind raced as she brushed out her hair and prepared for bed. She'd pictured her adulthood filled with Independence Day picnics and lawn parties. She imagined playing hostess at home on Sunday afternoons, working beside her father weekdays at the factory. She'd have a husband and children, and they'd all live harmoniously with Jeremiah at Hardwick House. Had that been so much to ask?

  It must have been. Because when she turned sixteen her father announced she was to marry one of his factory workers. Papa had been drawn in by tales of virgin land out West and promises his daughter would have a wonderful future as the wife of a young farmer in one of the new territories. Though his daughter had cried and pleaded that she was too young to marry, Jeremiah had seen her wed to Cletus Nash.

  That hallmarked her descent into misery.

  She'd left the brick mansion in Philadelphia to cross the plains and head into the Oregon Territory. The first year of her marriage had been spent in a Conestoga, then Cletus erected a ramshackle farmhouse on their parcel. He'd somehow expected his crops to raise and harvest themselves, while he squandered his time in fledgling saloons. He soaked up liquor and fancied himself a gambler.

  But he'd had very poor luck—which hadn't deterred him from raising his bets or thinking he could beat the likes of Grubstake Smith. There had been other fancy vests and card sharps. Too many to count. Then Cletus caught pneumonia and left Rachel widowed.

  The only thing she'd inherited from Cletus was his rotten luck.

  She'd wasted no time getting out of Oregon. She wanted to forget the misery of those frontier years. Forget the small marker at the edge of the fields and get home to Philadelphia and her father. But the rotten luck that had dogged her husband was her legacy. She met with a land speculator, signed papers and went to the bank. There was one last detail, a gambling debt, then everything out West would be settled. But she'd wound up accused of murder.

  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."

  Chapter 2

  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 e
scorted 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."