Cachet

by Shannah Biondine

  "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."

  "Was your husband killed in a duel, widow?"

  She took down a ledger and opened it, signaling her wish to end the discussion. "Still probing for background information to write that newspaper story, sir?"

  "You may be correct about supper, Widow Cordell. I might be tempted to fling my potatoes and gravy into your hair, after all." He abruptly left.

  Rachel watched him stride down the street and turn onto the main square, noting the angry set of his shoulders. She tried to push away the suspicion forming in the recesses of her mind. He'd said he didn't dislike her...Morgan was many things, but not a liar.

  He'd apologized for misjudging her. Remarked that he found her attractive. Even seemed stung when she hadn't accepted his offer of supper. Did that mean....?

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous, Richelle!" she huffed aloud. "And don't forget, deep down that's who you are. Rachel doesn't exist, remember? You made her up in order to hide."

  She repeated those phrases over and over like a Gregorian chant on her way to the cottage, her thoughts in a cadence matching that of her heels along the cobblestones. It doesn't matter what they think of you, any of them. You'll be going back to America soon. These people don't even know you. Don't let yourself care what Morgan thinks.

  The rational, thinking part of her knew that was the wisest course. But a last little corner of her heart—so weary of clinging to empty dreams, of trying to do right while everything still turned out all wrong—that last little part of her, wonderful traitor, refused to listen.

  Chapter 4

  It was just before three in the afternoon. Morgan entered his private rooms above the inn to find Pamela curled atop his bed in a sultry pose. Clad only in her undergarments, she sucked in a breath. "Morgan! I've missed you." She ran her fingertips along the insides of her thighs. "You're always busy. Haven't you missed afternoons here with me?"

  He stepped closer to the bed. "Sorry, I've had other priorities."

  She rose onto her knees and reached for his belt buckle. "Shame on you. I should be your priority, Mr. Tremayne. You deserve to be punished for neglecting me so. You've earned twenty lashes."

  He caught her hands in his. She glanced up into his stern face and laughed. "Sweetheart, I promise you'll like this game! Now take your punishment like a man." Her tongue moistened her lips suggestively.

  "I wonder how you'll take your punishment, Pamela. You've been busy too. Writing love letters to another man. Spreading malicious gossip. Exercising your jealous streak. I've told you before I won't tolerate being manipulated."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't written any letters." She tried to pull away, but he held both her wrists, his scowl deepening.

  "Come now! You forged letters from my clerk to Arnold Somersdale. You lied to me, claimed they'd been seen together several times. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean." He released her without warning, sending her sprawling back onto the mattress.

  "I merely passed along what I heard." She tried her best to look mortally wounded, rubbing both arms. "I thought you should be told. I never forged any letters. The slut lied if she claimed I did. You'd take the word of that Colonial?" He'd heard petulance in her tone before, but today it verged on strident.

  "I've spoken to Arnold and seen the letters. Rachel didn't pen them. I know your perfume, Pamela. That was a stupid trick." To Morgan's practiced eye, it appeared she still entertained hopes of seducing him. She didn't understand her wiles weren't having the desired effect. Not today. Not ever again.

  She shrugged in feigned indifference. "You complained that Boyd refused to admit he'd made a mistake and let her go. I tried to help you. A liaison with Somersdale would give you the ideal cause to rid yourself of that unwanted baggage. If the tart slept with him, she deserves what befalls her."

  "She hasn't." Morgan stalked out of the bedchamber and retired to his adjoining sitting room. He settled into a dark leather chair. His head ached. The padded leather upholstery made coping with this unpleasantness only slightly easier.

  Pamela reluctantly dressed, finally acknowledging defeat. "Well then, no harm done. I don't understand the fuss."

  Morgan snorted in poorly disguised sarcasm. "You don't understand simple facts. I've no interest or energy for playing games. You don't grasp the concept that trade and commerce are what matter most in my life. The American woman is important. She's a capable clerk and provides me with rental income. She's a decent, quiet tenant. Your little ploy could have disrupted everything."

  "That stupid chit waits on you like a chambermaid! Everyone in town knows we're practically betrothed," Pamela huffed. "It's an insult to me that you'd have that slut at your beck and call."

  "We're not even remotely close to any such binding union, my dear. I have everything I need here." He gestured at his chambers. "I've no incentive to take on the burden of a wife, particularly if she demands to be my first priority."

  He reached for the liquor bottle on the low table beside his chair. Finding the bottle empty, he frowned and tossed it to the floor. "Well, almost everything I need. Out of brandy." Now he glanced up to meet Pamela's furious glare. "Your scheme failed. Rachel needs a job. She'll stay on as my clerk and tenant. You did achieve one thing with this rot of yours, though. You opened my eyes to the liability I incur having a woman around with jaundiced views."

  "Rachel needs a job," Pamela mimicked. "I'm not fooled by that little tramp in her widow's weeds! And I'm not the only one who mistrusts her. Always butting her nose in where it's not wanted. Poor Thomas can't pour a pint downstairs without answering to her for it."

  "Indeed!" Morgan shot to his feet. "Thomas and Emily work for me, remember? I can't let them give a free pint away to every milksop with a tale of woe. The same's true for Boyd and his tobacco. Rachel looks after our interests."

  Pamela made an unladylike noise in her throat. "And you look right back. I've seen you measuring her bosom and hips with your eyes. Don't tell me you haven't thought of bedding that refugee from the cow town saloons."

  Morgan knew he was supposed to vehemently deny it. This was where Pamela expected him to grovel and patch things up. It didn't matter that she'd caused the trouble. Pamela never apologized. Remorse was virtually unknown to her.

  He couldn't resist grinning as he gave her the last answer she expected.

  "You're right, Pamela. I've thought about it. I've pictured her naked beneath me in that canopy bed at the cottage. I've wondered how she'd taste and feel. Whether I ever act upon those thoughts is up to her, not you. I'd better not hear more rumors about Rachel or find you here again uninvited. Your father's loan payments can be accelerated."

  "You bastard!"

  He threw a disgusted glance over his shoulder as he went out. "Take the back stairs, eh, Pam? We wouldn't want townspeople talking."

  * * *

  Pamela lurked on the cottage porch, Rachel discovered with dismay. It was nearly dusk, but even from a distance she spotted the pale hair and knew it didn't belong to Chrissy. Chrissy would have rushed forward with a friendly greeting. Rachel thought about turning back, but it was too late.

  "Evening, widow. I've come for a word with you."

  "If you mean you've come to admit culpability for those awful love notes, save your breath. I know you're behind them."

  "We should talk inside," Pamela pressed.

  Rachel admitted her into the parlor. "Let me guess. You're here to suggest I leave the holding company of my own volition. Why would I do that, after coming clear from London to take the clerking post?"

  "Because you'll never have Morgan. He'd consider you a temporary amusement, at best."

  "As opposed t
o you, a permanent affliction. You're an amazing creature, Miss Prine," Rachel observed. "Anyone else would be too embarrassed to show her face here."

  "I have nothing to be embarrassed about," Pamela retorted. "I'm not the one without two coins to rub together. I can make it worth your while to give up clerking."

  "You'd pay me so your 'close personal friend' doesn't have to? That's ludicrous."

  "The arrangement here is what's ludicrous! The men pay you, then you turn around and pay Morgan rent. Why doesn't Morgan just pay himself? Unless it's for the sake of appearances."

  "Appearances?" Rachel could hardly believe her ears. The woman had all but accused her of sleeping with the landlord! "Rental of this cottage was included in the terms of my post. I'd have to pay to live somewhere."

  "As if Boyd hasn't let this place to you for a song!" Pamela scoffed. "He hired you and made you Morgan's tenant to spite me. Atkinson may think he's clever, but my father's one of the wealthiest farmers in this region. We can undo what Boyd's done."

  "Your father's money doesn't interest me."

  "You can't enjoy the drudgery of that office. Or poking your nose into everyone else's business, creating resentment wherever you go. You wouldn't abase yourself if you didn't need the income." Pamela released a tinny laugh. "Name a sum, widow dear. I'll pay your fare back to London, or even America. The farther the better."

  "Just like that?"

  Pamela snapped her fingers. "Just like that. Neither of us the loser. Women ought to run the world, don't you think?"

  "A provocative notion. But if you already had power, you'd have no need for someone like Mr. Tremayne. You know he's an arrogant, selfish boor. Not worth the struggle you're waging."

  "Not worth it?" Pamela repeated, staring intently at Rachel's face. "You wouldn't say that if—Well, well, well! Perhaps I was mistaken about you."

  "Very mistaken, if you thought I'd leave this village merely because my presence here makes you uncomfortable."

  "I see I must be painfully frank. Morgan's asked me to marry him. Soon I'll be mistress of this house. Obviously you'll have to depart. You should have taken my offer." Pamela rose and headed for the door, pausing to give Rachel a meaningful look. "I shan't repeat any of this to my future husband. He wouldn't be pleased to learn you dislike him so. He might decide to terminate you right away. Wouldn't that be a pity? You'd lose that traveling money. You had your chance."

  "Yes, my first morning here. I should have hit you smack in the mouth with my broom."

  Chapter 5

  Chrissandra appeared at noon as promised. She and Rachel had devised a plan. Chrissandra and Boyd were to wed in the spring. Boyd had arranged a crew of Sheffield masons to build a second house on the Atkinson farmlands for the newlyweds, but work hadn't begun because Boyd hadn't finalized building plans. Chrissy had persuaded Rachel to help her draw him away from the offices. Rachel announced he had a visitor, and Boyd came into the outer reception area. Chrissy plied him with her most dazzling smile. "The builders are waiting for us, Boyd. No more excuses. We must review our plans today."

  "Dearest, if it were any other time, but I've an important errand in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne this afternoon."

  Rachel jumped in. "Sir, couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Perhaps I could—"

  "That's very thoughtful, Rachel, but I truly can't spare the time out of the office." He gave Chrissy a look of reproach. "And I'm not pleased you've dragged my clerk into your scheme, young lady."

  Morgan slammed a drawer shut. "It's a bloody henhouse in here! Man can't keep his thoughts together with all the infernal racket. I'll take the packet to Newcastle. Boyd, take this lady out for the afternoon so Madam Cordell can get back to work." He tossed Rachel a glower even as he snatched Boyd's hat from its peg beside the front door. "The masons are waiting."

  "But Morgan, I need to review the documents with Boswell."

  "I can do it as easily, and mayhap finish drafting up a new delivery contract if I can put an end to this female caterwauling. Get Chrissandra out to the farm and settle things. I'll do your errand. It's not as though you don't cover for me often enough."

  There was a silence after Boyd and Chrissandra left, then Rachel heard a low sound she realized was Morgan chuckling. She looked up at him. "He'll be out to skewer me when he realizes we all conspired together. Chrissy told me he'd be stubborn about it."

  "And you sat there complaining—"

  "I have a reputation to uphold." He disappeared into Boyd's private room and returned with a thick packet under one arm. "Get your shawl, Madam Cordell. We're bound for Newcastle."

  "With both you and Mr. Atkinson away, I should stay here."

  "You know, madam, I've never seen your name chiseled above the door. Mine is, though. Which would seem to indicate I'm in charge here."

  He walked her to the livery stable and had the stable boy hitch a pair of horses to a delivery wagon. They rode in silence. Morgan pulled the rig to a halt before a large stone building. He helped Rachel down and tied the reins to a lamppost. Rachel agreed to wait in front as he disappeared through a pair of thick oak doors.

  But it was dull just standing there, so Rachel took to browsing along the lane. She paused to study a porcelain lamp prominently displayed in one shop window.. The milky porcelain of the lamp's globe featured gaily-painted light pink roses and green tendrils. Rachel glanced away. The lamp beckoned. She admired it once more, deciding it was truly beautiful.

  "What ye lookin' at, Dolly?" The stranger's grimy fingertip left a smear on the window near Rachel's nose as he pointed to the object inside. "That lamp there? Pretty piece, all right."

  "Here on your lonesome, lass?" The dirty fellow beside her had an even filthier companion. He saw the look in her eyes and laughed. "We're sweeps, Miss. Watch it, else you'll have soot on your skirts." He glanced down and smirked. "Then, no one would notice, seein' as how they be the color of soot, anyway."

  "Indeed. This young lady's in mourning," Morgan supplied stiffly.

  Rachel thought of the stranger he'd tossed out of the office. She tucked her arm through his and offered a relieved smile.. "There you are, sir. I was admiring that lamp. Could we go inside? I'd like to inquire what the shopkeeper's asking for it."

  The merchant beamed at them as they crossed his threshold. "Can I be of assistance?"

  "Yes, I was wondering how much you're asking for—"

  "Another time, madam." Morgan pulled her back outside. "I told you to stay outside the office building. Instead I find you half a block away, cozying up to scum off the street. Now you want to dicker over a lamp. This isn't a shopping excursion."

  "I know, Mr. Tremayne, but it reminds me of my mother. She grew flowers like those in our garden. It's a particularly beautiful lamp."

  "There are lamps at the cottage. If you need more light, buy yourself some candles." He started back up the street, glanced over at their rig and horses, then headed for a pub across the way.

  Rachel spotted a wooden bench farther up the sidewalk. She pulled away from him and plopped onto the bench, crossing her legs. Her upper foot kicked at nothing. Morgan continued a few paces, then doubled back to confront her.

  "What's come over you?" he demanded. "Did I destroy your hopes for the evening by running off your sooty friends?"

  "I want that lamp." She enunciated each word with cold precision.

  "You want that lamp." This was repeated in a tone of incredulity she didn't appreciate one bit.

  "Yes, Mr. Tremayne, I want that lamp. And you are the most insensitive man I've ever met."

  Christ, but the wench was stubborn, Morgan told himself. "The little card by the base said he's asking roughly the equivalent of twenty dollars in American money, Rachel. You can't afford such frippery. You don't need the lamp, and you certainly can't afford it."

  "How do you know?" she snapped without thinking. "It so happens my husband gave a land speculator an option on our property in Oregon. After his death, I completed the sale. I have mone
y back in America. I'm not a total pauper, sir. If I were, I'd take Pamela's offer and buy myself the lamp on my way out of Crowshaven. I'd be only to happy to bid it and you farewell."

  Tittering laughter from passing shoppers made Rachel blush. She hadn't realized she'd spoken so loudly. "Confounded females!" Morgan growled low. He caught her fingers in his. "If you've finished making a public spectacle of us both, I'd like to show you something. Will you walk with me, or must I drag you like a spoiled child on her way to the woodshed?"

  She rose and let him draw her to an open area overlooking the Tyne river. He dropped her hand and rested both fists on the stone embankment. He stared down at the water.

  "Forgive my presumption, Madam Cordell. It appears I was mistaken about your finances. How would I know you had funds back in America, or anything else, for that matter? You've bit my head off for asking about your private life. Reticence is one thing,

  but—"

  Rachel needed to change the subject. "Forgive me, sir, but just what am I supposed to see? You said you would show me something."

  "Aye." He gestured expansively. "Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. The activity along the river. England. What we're about, Boyd and I."

  Rachel gazed across the embankment wall and actually focused on the bustling scene before her. She'd been so angry she hadn't noticed the city itself, reminiscent of her own beloved Philadelphia. Small piers and moorings dotted the riverbanks. Men stooped their shoulders beneath crates and barrels being loaded onto boats of varying sizes. A fishmonger loudly hawked his wares, shouting to be heard above the din of wagons and horse-drawn carts jostling to deliver or receive goods from the skiffs and barges.

  Morgan had told her Newcastle was a direct trade point leading north into Scotland, but she was still surprised to see knobby knees poking out beneath plaid kilts worn by a group of young ruffians. They engaged in a verbal debate about ancestry and a possible blood tie to a herd of sheep with a pair of Yorkshire farmers.

  Reddening at the coarse language, she ventured a sideways glance at Morgan to see his reaction, but he appeared to be staring off at a large wagon being unloaded near a warehouse doorway. Suddenly he turned back to her. "What was that you said about Pamela?"