She knew it looked that way. Just as she looked like a grieving, penniless widow. So much for appearances.
She shook her hair back, chiding herself not to give up hope. Someone else had killed Grubstake Smith. Somewhere there was proof of that.
Abandoning her absent musing, she noticed dark had fallen. She stacked her journals on the filing cabinets. She'd waited long enough for Morgan's return. She went about tidying the office and had just pulled down the window shade when he unlocked the front door.
"Christ, bloody locked out of my own offices."
"It's very late, Mr. Tremayne. I don't like staying alone past nightfall. If you'll sign the letters on your desk and affix your seal, I'll post them in the morning."
"Letters, aye," he mumbled. Rachel stared at him. His speech was thick, his lapels uneven. There was a strangely disheveled look about him. He scrawled his name on the documents. He gaped at his right hand and frowned. "Where's my signet?"
Rachel stifled a gasp. He'd gotten drunk and lost his signet! He was never without that ring. Symbol of family integrity and pride, handed down from five previous generations of Tremaynes. Its imprint sealed every bargain and appeared on every letter. He never executed a document without his cachet.
"I don't recall if you were wearing it this morning, sir. Maybe it's still in your room at the inn."
"My name is Morgan," he growled. "Why do you vex me by refusing to use it? Swear you're out to rattle my brains."
"They'd more likely slosh just now," she muttered beneath her breath. "I only pray it wasn't stolen," she said louder. "I know it's very valuable to you, all but irreplaceable."
"Aye, eerie-traceable! Got to think. Had it when I left this morning. Showed Grundy my family crest this afternoon...the pub! That's where I left it. Hold here, will you? I'll go back and fetch it."
Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. The last thing he needed was another visit to the pub! "I'll go with you, sir."
He blinked to clear his vision. "What's this?"
She kept her voice smooth. "I should make certain you reclaim the ring. I know its importance to you and the company."
"Humph! Wouldn't go to supper when I asked. Had to twist your arm to get you to Newcastle. Suddenly you're craving my company. Is this your way of saying I'm besotted?"
She cringed again at the slurred speech. Beyond besotted. More like embalmed. "I simply feel it's part of my duty to make sure you locate the ring. I truly would sleep better knowing you had it back."
He moved unsteadily to the door. "You'll dine with me, then. Won't be accused of exploiting the help." She locked the office and took Morgan's arm. They'd walked less than a block when he tripped and knocked them both to the ground. Rachel pushed him away and struggled to her feet. The last of her patience had been knocked out of her. Her pride was smarting—both cheeks of it.
"Is it never possible to conduct business without ale, Mr. Tremayne? Look at you!" He glanced down at himself in confusion. "Your clothes are a mess. You can't walk a straight path you're so drunk, and this chilly night air doesn't help."
"Ha! Spent my whole life in the English damps!" he snorted. "What would you know about it, Colonial? Was fine 'til you sent me sprawling."
Images rose unbidden in Rachel's mind of nights in the Oregon Territory. Memories of struggling to drag Cletus inside their ramshackle farmhouse. Western saloons, English pubs. All one and the same. She wrapped Morgan's left arm across her shoulders. Curling her right arm around his waist, she heaved upward and started forward. "Come on, sir," she sighed. She'd find out what had become of his ring and leave the menfolk to get him back to the inn and poured into his bed.
" Sir, sir, sir . Never did like that word on your lips." He tightened his arm around her. "You've such soft lips, Colonial, but never a kind word for me comes out of them. I need an ale."
She frowned and kept walking. "You need food. Ale
She shook her hair back, chiding herself not to give up hope. Someone else had killed Grubstake Smith. Somewhere there was proof of that.
Abandoning her absent musing, she noticed dark had fallen. She stacked her journals on the filing cabinets. She'd waited long enough for Morgan's return. She went about tidying the office and had just pulled down the window shade when he unlocked the front door.
"Christ, bloody locked out of my own offices."
"It's very late, Mr. Tremayne. I don't like staying alone past nightfall. If you'll sign the letters on your desk and affix your seal, I'll post them in the morning."
"Letters, aye," he mumbled. Rachel stared at him. His speech was thick, his lapels uneven. There was a strangely disheveled look about him. He scrawled his name on the documents. He gaped at his right hand and frowned. "Where's my signet?"
Rachel stifled a gasp. He'd gotten drunk and lost his signet! He was never without that ring. Symbol of family integrity and pride, handed down from five previous generations of Tremaynes. Its imprint sealed every bargain and appeared on every letter. He never executed a document without his cachet.
"I don't recall if you were wearing it this morning, sir. Maybe it's still in your room at the inn."
"My name is Morgan," he growled. "Why do you vex me by refusing to use it? Swear you're out to rattle my brains."
"They'd more likely slosh just now," she muttered beneath her breath. "I only pray it wasn't stolen," she said louder. "I know it's very valuable to you, all but irreplaceable."
"Aye, eerie-traceable! Got to think. Had it when I left this morning. Showed Grundy my family crest this afternoon...the pub! That's where I left it. Hold here, will you? I'll go back and fetch it."
Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward. The last thing he needed was another visit to the pub! "I'll go with you, sir."
He blinked to clear his vision. "What's this?"
She kept her voice smooth. "I should make certain you reclaim the ring. I know its importance to you and the company."
"Humph! Wouldn't go to supper when I asked. Had to twist your arm to get you to Newcastle. Suddenly you're craving my company. Is this your way of saying I'm besotted?"
She cringed again at the slurred speech. Beyond besotted. More like embalmed. "I simply feel it's part of my duty to make sure you locate the ring. I truly would sleep better knowing you had it back."
He moved unsteadily to the door. "You'll dine with me, then. Won't be accused of exploiting the help." She locked the office and took Morgan's arm. They'd walked less than a block when he tripped and knocked them both to the ground. Rachel pushed him away and struggled to her feet. The last of her patience had been knocked out of her. Her pride was smarting—both cheeks of it.
"Is it never possible to conduct business without ale, Mr. Tremayne? Look at you!" He glanced down at himself in confusion. "Your clothes are a mess. You can't walk a straight path you're so drunk, and this chilly night air doesn't help."
"Ha! Spent my whole life in the English damps!" he snorted. "What would you know about it, Colonial? Was fine 'til you sent me sprawling."
Images rose unbidden in Rachel's mind of nights in the Oregon Territory. Memories of struggling to drag Cletus inside their ramshackle farmhouse. Western saloons, English pubs. All one and the same. She wrapped Morgan's left arm across her shoulders. Curling her right arm around his waist, she heaved upward and started forward. "Come on, sir," she sighed. She'd find out what had become of his ring and leave the menfolk to get him back to the inn and poured into his bed.
" Sir, sir, sir . Never did like that word on your lips." He tightened his arm around her. "You've such soft lips, Colonial, but never a kind word for me comes out of them. I need an ale."
She frowned and kept walking. "You need food. Ale
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