Cachet (4 page)

Chapter 3

Rachel arrived at the office the next day and heard masculine voices in a heated debate in Boyd's private back room. The door was closed, but she plainly overheard Morgan express strong displeasure over Boyd's decision to employ her. The argument ended. The door flew open. Rachel jumped and fumbled with her shawl as though she'd just walked in. She turned to offer Morgan a smile of greeting, but he didn't meet her gaze.

He said nothing as he took a seat behind the empty desk directly across from hers. She silently cursed her luck again. First yesterday afternoon's embarrassment at the inn. Now she found herself only a few feet from him. Every time she looked up, he'd be right in front of her! The situation couldn't be worse. Evidently when she hadn't swooned at his feet, the local rake had no use for her. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe she'd ever mistaken him for a common farmer.

He wore a crisp linen shirt and a coat of deep blue over fawn-colored breeches. His dark hair was neatly tied back and a trace of cologne wafted to her desk. He was, as Chrissy had foretold, unlike the other village men. None of them had such bronze skin or his aura of confidence. They were plow horses. This man was a thoroughbred.

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 before. She'd thought only noblemen still resorted to such pompous ceremony, and then only for affairs of state. She 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. I haven't adjusted to having you here in the office yet," she stammered. She sounded like an idiot, but she hadn't expected him to be so harsh. What on earth had bitten him?

"You mean I'm not what you expected in a rural innkeeper," he replied. "I sympathize. 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 a portly old country gentleman. 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 and 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, "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, Widow."

"Oh? Are you deliberately trying to provoke
me
, sir?" 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 shambles in his absence. I've never had the heart to inform him otherwise."

Morgan grimaced at his partner 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," came her terse reply.

"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 anger in his eyes.

"Either I'm being interrogated, or interviewed for an article in the newspaper. I can't tell which."

"I was attempting to make innocuous 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 same, there would be no problem. You and your neighbors would congratulate yourselves on your new addition to the populace. 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."

"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 for my review before you leave this evening. I'll inspect them tomorrow morning."

He found three mistakes. 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 she wouldn't, she told herself. He didn't matter. She was here for sanctuary, not 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 had 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 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 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 handbag. She knew from more than one conversation she'd overheard in the offices between the partners that neither man liked the man who owned the mercantile, Arnold Somersdale. Morgan in particular seemed to harbor a powerful animosity toward the older man. Having met the fellow when she visited the large store, she couldn't blame anyone for their aversion.

Which made Morgan's implication all the more disgusting and shocking. 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.

"That question 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! Though rather immodest, even for you. 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."

"Do I understand you correctly?" He'd made her angry before, but he'd outdone himself this time.

"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?"

"Yes,
yours.
" She paced in the aisle between their desks. "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, but there was a warmth, almost amusement in 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. "I understand circumstances only too well." 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 fascinated by his blank 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."