Lady Fugitive Page 3

  She watched him peruse several documents before placing his signature at the bottom. Then he reached for sealing wax and placed his cachet beneath his name. Though she'd heard of the practice, she had never witnessed it firsthand. She'd thought only noblemen still resorted to such pompous ceremony, and then only for affairs of state. She only partially stifled a laugh.

  "Is something amiss, Widow Cordell?" He raised his head to scowl at her. "You have tasks to complete this morning, I assume. Or is Boyd paying you to gape at me?"

  "Yes. I mean, no. Excuse me." She felt her face flush. "I haven't adjusted to having you here in the office yet," she stammered.

  "You mean I'm not what you expected in a rural innkeeper," he replied. "I sympathize completely. When I heard we'd hired a Colonial widow, I envisioned thick spectacles on the nose of a withered crone."

  She didn't have an answer for that. She realized it was probably true. Just as she had expected Boyd's partner to be some portly country gentleman with a pot belly and weak knees.

  The awkward silence stretched out as each concentrated on their respective tasks. Morgan's deep voice startled her when he finally addressed her. "I'd like you to straighten out the files. I can't find a bloody thing in them."

  "Like what, sir?" She tried to mask her mounting irritation. She'd familiarized herself with their filing system. It wasn't as though their office housed all that many documents. She hadn't noticed anything out of place. His abrupt request was made out of spite. She was sure of it. Maybe because she hadn't simpered like a schoolgirl over his forward behavior. Worse men than you have tried, Englishman, she silently whispered. All they aroused in me was disgust. She shook off the swirl of bad memories.

  "Like what?" Morgan repeated. "I'll neither define my terms nor tolerate insolence in my clerk, Widow Cordell. I've told you the files need to be straightened out. I expect you to correct the matter. Now."

  She shot to her feet and crossed to the bank of cabinets. She opened a drawer and closed it. She repeated the motion with another drawer and still another. She slammed the bottom drawer and turned to face him. "I see what you mean. Documents and papers in folders clearly labeled as to contents. Drawer after drawer like that. Clearly a disaster, sir."

  "Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, madam?"

  "No," she replied slowly, "but if you won't specify what you're looking for, I can't possibly locate it. I'm not a clairvoyant, Mr. Tremayne."

  He stepped past her and jerked open a drawer. He fumbled with a handful of papers and tossed them on her desk. "Those were misfiled. Replace them in their correct locations." Gray eyes narrowed as they met hers. "And I don't care for the way you call me 'sir'. There's a distinct impertinence in your tone that's most annoying."

  "Oh, but weren't you deliberately trying to provoke me?" she asked in turn.

  "He wouldn't dream of it, would you, Morgan?" came Boyd's voice from the doorway. "He's always like this when he's been out of the office on a trip. Morgan imagines this place goes to utter shambles in his absence. I've never had the heart to inform him otherwise."

  Morgan grimaced and stalked back to his desk. The day dragged on in interminable silence. Rachel kept her head down, though several times she felt gray eyes watching her. Boyd departed for the afternoon. Morgan continued reading without glancing up. "Where exactly are you from in the Colonies?"

  "I was born and raised in Philadelphia, but for the past few years I lived on a farm in the Oregon Territory."

  "Oregon, eh? I've read about the pioneer trails and the land rush there. You made the trip westward with your late husband, I presume?" She nodded. "How long have you been widowed? Not overlong, judging by your wardrobe."

  The notion of him judging her clothing in any context irritated her. Widow's weeds hadn't kept him from ogling her the day before. "A few months," she replied, hoping he'd drop the subject.

  "Boyd mentioned you were staying with a relation in London. Grandmother or something, wasn't she?"

  "Aunt Violet. She's my father's sister."

  "Rather a long way, just to visit one's aunt. Particularly for a woman with limited funds. Couldn't you find suitable employment back in Philadelphia?"

  She set down her pencil. "Mr. Tremayne, I know you're involved in several enterprises. Are you also the editor of the local paper?"

  "I beg your pardon?" The soft tone of his question belied the smoldering anger in his eyes.

  "Either I'm being interrogated as your employee, or interviewed for an article on newcomers to the area for the newspaper. I can't tell which."

  "I was attempting to make simple conversation. Something you apparently know nothing about. You are, without doubt, the most contrary female I've ever met. Are all Colonial women so difficult, or is this a unique personality trait?"

  Rachel met his cold regard without flinching. "I do my job, pay my rent, and ask nothing more than to be left alone. Had you employed a man who did the very same, there would be no problem. Because I happen to be a woman, I'm called contrary and difficult."

  "You are contrary and difficult."

  "Mr. Atkinson doesn't seem to think so. I suspect it's a matter of individual perception. He doesn't look upon me as an imbecile with a shapely bottom."

  Morgan's teeth were clenched as he asked, "Have you forgotten I pay half your salary?"

  "Have you forgotten I pay all your rent?"

  He rose and slammed his chair back under the desk. "This conversation is over. Have your ledgers finalized before you leave this evening. I'll inspect them early tomorrow morning."

  He found three mistakes and absolutely gloried in pointing them out.

  Rachel spent the entire morning recopying and correcting her entries. She silently tossed daggers at him with her eyes. She doubted he'd ever personally made an error in his life. After all, she'd already concluded he was possibly the most perfect man she'd ever met. Perfectly handsome. Perfectly proportioned. Perfectly exasperating.

  He made her want to shout right back in his face. But he didn't matter, pompous oaf or not. She wouldn't be here long. She was here for sanctuary, not to do battle with the likes of Morgan the Bargainer.

  * * *

  Morgan came in late one afternoon to find her chatting with a stranger. The traveler had inquired about the owner of the inn and Thomas sent him to the holding company office. Rachel was startled by the instant disapproval on Morgan's features. He looked past the visitor.

  "Madam, if this young swain is finished wasting your time with his prattle, could we get some actual business done here?"

  The young fellow rose, but Morgan gave him no chance to speak. "She's paid to provide an honest day's labor," he snapped. He held the door and gave the fellow a warning glare. "There's the street."

  "But Mr. Tremayne," Rachel began. Morgan silenced her with a stabbing glance. The man shrugged and went out.

  "Who was that, Morgan?" Boyd wondered aloud.

  "Ask Madam Cordell," Morgan replied. "She seemed chummy enough with him."

  Boyd's questioning gaze turned to her. Rachel carefully phrased her answer, only partly successful in reining in her temper. "He's my living testament to Mr. Tremayne's skills in customer relations. After waiting an hour to speak with the innkeeper, he was kicked out before he could even state the nature of his business."

  Her workday was over. She collected her things. "And I want to thank you, Mr. Tremayne. I used to think your rudeness was reserved for me alone."

  He was out of town for the next two peaceful weeks. Rachel knew he was due back soon. Boyd had told her so, but she was surprised to arrive at the office one morning to find Morgan sitting on the edge of her desk.

  "There's a matter of some concern we must discuss, Widow. Doubtless you'll take offense, but there's a valid reason for my inquiry. I agreed to new curtain fabric, which you likely ordered from the mercantile. Did you also give its owner permission to court you?"

  Rachel nearly dropped her reticule. She knew from more than one conve
rsation she'd overheard in the offices between the partners that neither liked the fellow who owned the mercantile, Arnold Somersdale. Morgan in particular seemed to harbor a powerful animosity toward the older man. Having met the man herself when she visited the large store, she couldn't blame anyone for their aversion.

  Which made Morgan's question all the more disgusting and startling. How could he possibly think she'd have any interest in the ugly shopkeeper? And what right did he have to pry into her social life, even if she did? None.

  She kept her tone innocuous. "That question is an invasion of my privacy, Mr. Tremayne."

  "Somersdale is the one man determined to see me and this company fail. Your position here and his sudden interest are more than happenstance, I assure you."

  "Why, how flattering, sir! Sadly typical, however. You view every aspect of life in this hamlet only as it relates to your own business interests. You probably timed your birth to coincide with favorable trading on the London exchange."

  His tone was clipped and abrupt. "The company now has detailed records of every transaction—costs, vendor discounts, sales, and profit figures—neatly penned into your ledgers. Information like that is a far greater attraction to a business rival than any comely face or bosom. I protect my interests, madam. You'll not see Arnold Somersdale socially. Assuming you mean to retain your post."

  She blinked. "Do I understand you correctly?"

  "You're reasonably intelligent. I believe you do."

  "You're forbidding me to see a man socially under threat of dismissal? I'd laugh, Mr. Tremayne, but I know you never jest." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "At least not with me, a female clerk. You only jest with male peers. Right, sir?" She couldn't resist grinning at the hated word.

  He straightened his shoulders. "There's naught to jest about. Somersdale is my trade and personal rival. You are my clerk and tenant. It's a question of loyalty."

  "Mine or yours?"

  "Mine?" he sputtered.

  "Yes, yours." She paced in the office aisle behind her desk. "I've put up with complaints over tally sheets, stayed late, fetched things while you ranted like a lunatic, ignored your insufferable attitude, even boiled water for your insipid English tea! All of which has earned me nothing but paltry wages and finding my integrity in question. You're contemptible, Mr. Tremayne. I don't care whether I retain this post or not. There's always my aunt in London."

  "That was some tirade," he observed in an odd voice. She'd expected ice—instead there was a warmth, almost amusement to his tone. "I can't recall you ever directing so many words at me the whole time you've worked here."

  She gave a harsh laugh. "And that surprises you? I heard you arguing with Mr. Atkinson that morning. You've never liked me, Mr. Tremayne. You're seeking an excuse to discharge me. Why not be honest? Don't invent a pathetic lie about someone courting me as your reason."

  "So you haven't been seeing him?"

  "You know I'm in mourning," she said with a sigh. "I don't have social visitors. Mr. Somersdale brought the curtain fabric to the cottage one evening. I've seen him at Sunday services, nodded hello in the square. That's the extent of our relationship."

  Morgan returned to his desk. "I don't dislike you, Widow. But I'm not comfortable having an unattached female as clerk. You are correct that matters would be simpler, were you a man. However, circumstances have thrown us together, and I gave Boyd my word I'd make the best of it. He doesn't want you going back to London."

  Rachel stared at him in confusion. His voice had been soft, almost kind. She took a deep breath. "I understand circumstances one did not foresee." An understatement, if ever there was one, she told herself with chagrin. "What I don't understand is what I did to offend you. One day you insist upon seeing me home; the next you want my head on a pike."

  "You haven't offended me." He seemed suddenly fascinated by his empty desktop. "You're an attractive female. The thoughts a man has relative to that fact are inappropriate in a business setting. I understand you need the post. Boyd said it was either this or work as a London domestic. I'm asking you to be prudent, Widow. You're privy to vital information here. A man like Somersdale senses fruit ripe for the picking."

  "And a woman's not much brighter than a piece of fruit."

  "Must you always put words into my mouth?" he demanded. "You have the most irritating habit of finishing my thoughts. You do it all the time, even during dictation."

  "I can compose a letter as well as you can, sir. I attended some of the finest schools on the East Coast."

  "We were speaking of Mr. Somersdale. Have I made my position clear?"

  "Abundantly," Rachel replied. "And as I'm still in mourning, this entire conversation has been unnecessary and distasteful." She wasn't finished goading him just yet. "However, I must come out of mourning eventually. Perhaps you should prepare a list of acceptable bachelors to spare us both this humiliation in the future." She opened a desk drawer and frowned. Where had she put the twine for bundling receipts?

  "Arnold Somersdale is the only ineligible candidate," Morgan snapped. "Any other Yorkshire bachelor is potentially acceptable. I shall have a word with Somersdale. I want it clear he's to leave you alone."

  She slammed her finger in the drawer in her haste to close it. "Ow! Sir, I've told you there's nothing between the two of us. I'd prefer you didn't say anything to him."

  "I'd prefer a clerk who follows instructions to one who believes it her place to give them." He turned on his heels and left. She frowned after him, thinking her broken nail and throbbing index finger were all his fault. Him with his nonsense about Somersdale!

  He came storming back a half-hour later and threw two sheets of paper in her face. "Just what the bloody hell are these? Why shouldn't I fire you, Widow Cordell? You lied to me!"

  She smoothed the crumpled papers, wrinkling her nose in disgust. The sheets reeked of perfume. She scanned the pages and went a deep scarlet. The notes were to the owner of the mercantile, and contained lurid suggestions that made Rachel's skin crawl.

  Somersdale possessed sparse black hairs on the crown of his head, which he combed east to west in an attempt to hide a large bald spot. He had a pinched nose and bulging eyes. The man was a human ostrich. There was no chance she'd ever want to engage in the activities those letters described with him.

  "Is this someone's idea of a joke?" she asked Morgan. "I've never seen these before. I certainly never sent them! No wonder he thought I wanted more than fabric from him that night a the cottage."

  Morgan reached for one of the letters, his fingers brushing hers. She felt a tingling awareness, but he appeared indifferent to the sensation. He was holding a sheet of the scented paper next to one from her desktop. She knew the penmanship didn't match. "You didn't write these," he concluded. "I take it they don't convey your sentiments?"

  She was aghast. "I've never written a man a personal letter in my life. I can't imagine a woman debasing herself by writing such things. I don't wear perfume; it makes me sneeze. And I can spell, sir. The word 'evening' has two N's."

  Morgan knew she spoke the truth. She'd been his employee for a good many weeks. Never once had he caught an error in spelling. He could call out a word and she'd unerringly rattle off the letters in proper sequence.

  He didn't let himself dwell on thoughts about feminine perfume. He concentrated on the missives. "Why would someone forge these?"

  Rachel gave a mirthless laugh. "That's obvious. Didn't you just threaten to fire me? How better to discredit me than plant a link between me and your sworn enemy?"

  "I wonder what else has been contrived," he said thoughtfully, squinting to peer out the front windows.

  She stared at him helplessly. He couldn't possibly have learned the truth about her.

  "I'm afraid some nasty rumors are circulating about you, Widow Cordell. I've perhaps been too gullible. My apologies, Rachel."

  Words failed her. He'd never apologized openly before. No matter how rudely he spoke to her, not even when he
'd thrown the stranger out of their offices. He'd also never called her Rachel. He was looking at her expectantly. She had to say something.

  "I suspect Miss Prine wrote the letters, sir. We got off to a bad start. She warned me that she expected I'd fail as your clerk. Perhaps she wanted to ensure my failure."

  "I'm afraid what you suggest is entirely possible. The woman's prone to fits of jealousy." He rolled his eyes. "It's not a pretty sight."

  Rachel shrugged. "I can think of no one else who would purposely do me ill. Unless you yourself wrote them."

  "I realize your opinion of me is less than charitable, but surely you don't believe that."

  She offered a weak smile. "I didn't believe you'd try to have me fired just because I didn't make you a cup of tea at the cottage, either."

  He stunned her by laughing aloud. "Let me atone. Have supper with me at the inn tonight."

  "We've never had a civil conversation that lasted five minutes, Mr. Tremayne," she snorted in derision. "I can just see the two of us now. Food and insults flying all over the place."

  "You're mistaken, Madam Cordell. We've just had a rather lengthy discussion this morning. We might be less inclined to disagree if we searched for common ground. And I, for one, do not throw food."

  She groaned as she read over the forgeries again. "I'll never be able to walk into that mercantile knowing Mr. Somersdale believes I wrote these salacious notes."

  "You have no need to go there. I made it quite clear he's to avoid contact with you."

  "I hope you didn't insult him."

  His expression hardened. "I didn't call him out into the street with my six-guns blazing, as one of your countrymen would have done. We Englishmen have more civilized ways of settling our differences."

  "So I've heard. Dueling pistols at twenty paces. Very civilized."

  "I happen to own a set of dueling pistols. In some circles, dueling is still considered quite the manly art."

  "Only by men," she assured him. "Few women would see it as artistic. Paint on canvas is art. Blood spattering everywhere is savagery."