As Morgan expected, the last remark brought Cameron's fist up, swinging wildly.
Morgan unleashed every ounce of the stoked fury in his soul. He seized the younger man by the shirt and flung him against the wall. "I love Richelle, you worthless son of an infected whore! You and your sniveling brother abused her and left her to die on the frontier. Fitting retribution that she survived, while Cletus caught pneumonia and died."
"My brother—"
"Shut your face! I've got something for you, on behalf of my wife. Something she should have given you years ago."
Morgan's knee shot forward and up, connecting with Cameron's groin. Morgan straightened the lapels of his frock coat. He left the study without glancing back at the slumped American writhing helplessly on the floor.
"He's all yours, Richardson."
Chapter 23
Morgan and Richelle had gone out for a walk. Lorella was waiting when they returned to Hardwick House. "This came while you were out, sir." She held out an envelope. Morgan took it and went to the study, where he poured himself a drink and began to read.
Lorella asked Richelle if she might have the evening off to go to supper with a local drummer who'd come to the door selling spices and herbs. Richelle encouraged the girl to go, enjoying the prospect of an evening alone with her new husband. She entered the study to tell Morgan they'd have some unexpected privacy, but found him looking paler than she'd ever seen him except while he'd been ill aboard the vessel.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
He crumpled the letter in one fist. "It's from Boyd. I wired him this address before I went to Washington. We have to go home right away. The holding company has suffered financial reversals. It's bad. Freight service may be in danger of collapse. I'll have to work something out once I get back," he mumbled, more to himself than her, Richelle suspected. "Maybe I can renegotiate with the squire."
Richelle knew Boyd better than that. He must have indicated some reason for the problems. "Why would your delivery service be near financial ruin? You were doing well enough when we sailed."
"One of our shipments was stolen. Highwaymen, apparently. We also lost a driver in the incident. He quit right afterward. There was no insurance on the shipment, so Boyd had to pay for the lost goods. Some of the other customers heard the tale and canceled pending deliveries. Damn it!" He took a long swallow of his drink and rubbed at one temple.
Richelle reached for his hand. "I'm sorry. You probably regret ever leaving England."
"You remember Boyd and I met with Squire Martin, the day in the town square?" Morgan asked. She nodded, flushing. To her that day had always been memorable as the occasion of Morgan's bizarre proposal.
"The squire invested in our company. Boyd's had to guarantee repayment of the funds. I signed a power of attorney long ago so Boyd has autonomy to act in my stead. It seemed a reasonable precaution, as I was often away. Naturally I trust Boyd."
He closed stormy gray eyes. "But he issued a promissory note against the inn. I've got to get home, develop some new prospects and generate more business. I'm the Bargainer, not Boyd. Without me there isn't likely to be new activity. Just mounting debts and no way to make the payments. I could lose the inn."
She squeezed his fingers. "No, Morgan. I'd never let that happen. Papa left some money in bank accounts. We'll wire funds to Boyd."
He pushed her away and frowned. "I'm not begging for alms by telling you this. I can manage my own affairs, but I must be in England. You know I planned to return shortly even before this news."
"It's not charity. I want to help you because we're man and wife. What harms you harms me."
He answered in an odd, flat voice. "I understand you mean to show me a kindness, but I cannot take part of your inheritance. You must let me deal with this in my own way. I led Cameron to believe I was of his ilk—a man who would deliberately prey upon women, beguiling them into parting with their coin. Were I to accept money from you now, an ugly element of truth would creep into that distasteful lie."
Richelle sighed. "Where would you be without your damned pride, Englishman?"
"On a farm outside Crowshaven, stacking hay. Where I may yet end up. Advise the harlot we'll be packing and closing up the house. I've got to see about passage for us and send a reply to Boyd."
"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 se
t.
* * *
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.
Chapter 24
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 t
hings.
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.
"I researched the Crowshaven Inn as well as I could through the bank's financial and business networks of contacts in Yorkshire," he assured her. "The inn appears to be functioning at appropriate levels of activity. The freight service operated by Atkinson & Tremayne seems to be recovering from its prior setbacks." He sighed. "The granary…well, that's a different story. It's been left sitting empty for months. The recent buyer hadn't done anything about leasing out crop storage space and was amenable to our offer."
Then young Deacon smiled. "We got it at a reduced price. It appears negotiations with local farmers in the region wasn't the fellow's strong suit. He knew he couldn't command a solid asking price with no revenues to speak of."
Richelle accepted the documents he pushed across his desk. She was more dismayed than she let on. Morgan had sold it too cheaply when he liquidated in desperation to raise funds for their joint passage to New York. Now it sold for even less.
To her. Morgan's wife.
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