But the inn where they had stayed last night and the cost of their coach fare today had certainly drained what little resources they had. Lunch had been a sparse, economical thing, and likely dinner would be the same. She supposed she’d do well to make the best of it. Should they encounter any trouble getting word to Miss St. Clement’s friend once they arrived in Warwick, likely they’d have to choose between paying for an extra night’s lodging or a seat on the coach to Gloucester to find her father.
Nodding politely to several of the other passengers who’d shared their coach, the two women made their way into the building. The unkempt proprietor was all too eager to serve them. They took seats at a table toward the rear of his dim little common room and settled in. Miss St. Clement rejected the man’s suggestions of mutton or bacon but conceded that soup was just what they wanted. Sophie tried to pretend that was so. Grumbling, the innkeeper scuttled off to collect their measly—and inexpensive—soup.
And it was measly, too. The vegetables were limp, and Sophie supposed she could hunt all day and not find a morsel of meat in it. Oh well, it was the best they could do. She would not complain—much.
At least she didn’t have to eat her soup through a mustache as poor Miss St. Clement had to. The woman seemed positively miserable. Well, Sophie supposed that was to be expected. They’d had an uncomfortable journey, and there was the constant concern that all of it was in vain. They had no way to know whether Fitzgelder’s men had already made it to their destination and carried out their dreadful plans. The man Miss St. Clement was hoping to save might already be lost.
It was too tragic to contemplate. Sophie decided she’d do well to try and cheer her friend.
“I can’t wait to see this Lord Rastmoor’s face when he meets you again.”
The actress cringed. “Hopefully that will never happen. With luck we’ll find he’s safely at his friend’s home and I can simply send a warning message. He’ll find out what Fitzgelder is about, and you and I can be off to meet Papa.”
“You don’t want to see him again?”
“Heavens no!”
“We’ve come all this way and you’re not even going to see the man?”
“Exactly.”
Sophie could hardly believe she’d heard right. After all this, Miss St. Clement did not even wish to so much as see him? But surely that couldn’t be. It was obvious to anyone that Miss St. Clement had more than a friendly interest in this Rastmoor. It just couldn’t end without them meeting again!
“That’s so sad. I was hoping the two of you might…”
“Sorry, Sophie. That only happens in novels.”
She changed the subject by launching into a discussion of their plans. She expected to simply leave a message in Warwick to be delivered to her friend and then be off directly to Gloucester. Indeed, she sounded quite determined there would be nothing more to it. The excitement she feigned at the prospect of Sophie joining their troupe and perhaps even laying down her needle in favor of actually treading the boards with them was almost convincing.
“Acting?” Sophie nearly laughed aloud. The idea of taking up the path that had once fully consumed her parents was more than a trifle ridiculous. Why, Mamma had been beautiful, extraordinary. She was elegant and sophisticated and charmed her audiences wherever they went—this is what Sophie recalled of actresses. She could never measure up to the likes of that.
“Oh, I’m sure I could never be so very good at that. All those lines I’d have to memorize!”
“You’ve been playacting the part of a blushing bride for three days now, and so far the audience seems quite enthralled,” the actress said, sweeping her arm wide to indicate the patrons of the posting house.
Sophie wasn’t impressed with such high praise. “I believe our audience would be no less enthralled were I simply a chicken tucked under your arm. They’ve hardly taken note of us at all.”
“There, you see?” Miss St. Clement said with a wide smile. “You’ve played your part to perfection. Who’s to say you might not make a memorable Juliet or Ophelia or—”
But Sophie had stopped listening. Her full attention was caught by the broad, elegant figure in the doorway. Good heavens! Could he possibly have found them already?
“Lord Lindley!” she gasped.
“Lord Lindley? I don’t believe we have any scripts with Lor—”
By then Miss St. Clement must have seen the look on Sophie’s face. Her voice trailed off. Or perhaps it was simply drowned out by the pounding of Sophie’s heartbeat.
THIS WAS A BLOODY WASTE OF TIME. SOMEONE HAD tampered with Lindley’s carriage and weakened the axle. Not surprisingly, it had broken.
Now he was forced to delay his return to London and stop at this godforsaken posting house and hope they had someone available who could make adequate repairs. He supposed he should be thankful no one had come along to murder them on the road, helpless as they were with a lame carriage and twilight full upon them. The only explanation he had for it was that Fitzgelder’s henchmen could not have guessed precisely where that axle would have given out. If he and his companion had waited with the carriage in hopes of snagging a ride with someone, they might very well have been exactly where Fitzgelder wanted them.
But how had Fitzgelder’s men gotten to his carriage? He had gone straight from London to his friend Dashford’s wedding, stopping for the night and then driving all day. Nothing appeared wrong with his carriage at that point, and he arrived just in time to witness the vows.
It was a nice wedding, as far as weddings went, but he had to admit the bride held an unexpected interest for him. Her uncanny resemblance to Sophie Darshaw was most disconcerting. Most disconcerting.
For a frightening hour or so, he’d begun to fear he was obsessed with the London seamstress, finding her features on even strangers’ faces. True, he’d long found Sophie Darshaw more than just passably attractive, but surely there was nothing more to it than that. Was there? Still, as Dashford stood at the altar to pledge himself to his blushing bride, all Lindley could see was Sophie. Truly, it was quite horrifying.
Thankfully, though, the mystery had been mercifully solved. Immediately following the ceremony, Lindley attached himself to Rastmoor. Indeed, his friend was alive and well; Fitzgelder had not yet accomplished his goal. When the unsuspecting target announced that he would be rushing back to London to deal with some family troubles, Lindley was conveniently there to offer his conveyance and companionship. He did not let Rastmoor refuse.
And this was when he happened on an interesting bit of information. Lady Dashford, it would seem, had charged Rastmoor with a task. When he returned to London, he was to locate her missing cousin, a young woman named Sophie Darshaw.
Well, this had been quite more of a coincidence than Lindley expected, but it did explain why the ladies bore such a striking resemblance to one another. Things were increasingly complex. Lindley had some knowledge of Miss Darshaw’s background, but he had not realized Dashford’s new wife figured into things. He would have to give thought to this and wonder what it all meant.
Eventually they left the happy couple and went on their way. For the first leg of their journey the axle gave no trouble at all. They took a break for a midday meal and got back on the road. That must have been when the criminals took their opportunity to tamper. They would have known a damaged axle would surely break on these roads, still heavily rutted from an unusually wet spring.
So here they were, two gentlemen with deadly enemies, stranded at a posting house in some unknown place called Geydon; victims despite all his care and planning. Clearly he’d let his guard down or allowed himself to become somehow distracted. He would not let it happen again.
Lindley stabled his horses and arranged for his carriage to be hauled in and repaired. Like it or not, they’d be spending the night here. He wasn’t hungry, but it would draw suspicion if he did not act like the dandy he’d become accustomed to portraying. He declared himself ravenous and flirted with the yo
ung serving maid who opened the door as they entered the posting house. He forgot her face the moment he walked past her.
The common room was dim, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. It was dusk and yet the lamps had not been lit inside. He led Rastmoor in and was scanning for a table where they might be alone and yet not too far from the doorway should a hasty exit be required.
Instead of an empty table his eyes fell on one occupied by a young couple. A young couple he recognized. Miss Darshaw and her female husband.
She appeared to see him at the same moment he noticed her. The girl’s eyes grew huge and terrified. He watched as her lips formed his name. The actress with her turned suddenly, and her expression changed from mere surprise to absolute horror.
Lindley stepped farther into the room, allowing Rastmoor to get a full view of the couple. He noticed Miss Darshaw immediately, as Lindley had no doubt any man in the room would have done. Despite her travel-worn apparel and the weariness in her eyes, she was lovely. And so far, she was safe from Fitzgelder. Even her bruises were gone.
But now her glance moved from him and shifted to Rastmoor. She glanced back and forth between him and her pretend husband. Why on earth did that actress seem so pale and alarmed? And what was this little smile that crept over Miss Darshaw’s pretty face? Did she actually smile at Rastmoor? No, she was simply nervous at the way he stared.
And he was staring. Indeed, why the devil did the black-guard feel the need to stare at her this way? It was positively uncalled for, blast him.
Lindley decided he’d best put a quick end to any of Rastmoor’s idle fantasies.
“Why, Mr. and Mrs. Clemmons,” Lindley said, making it clear to whom he was speaking and moving toward them. “How odd to run into you here. I had no idea you were traveling this way else I would have invited you to share my carriage.”
Both women seemed at a loss. Miss Darshaw was first to find her voice. “We had a rather sudden change of plan. Didn’t we, Mr. Clemmons?”
“Er, yes,” the actress said, careful to keep her wavering voice as low and masculine as possible. She was a fair actress, and Lindley could see Rastmoor had not the least suspicion. After all, he was too busy gazing at Miss Darshaw. Damn his eyes.
“Forgive me,” Lindley said, determined to curb the staring. Besides, just in case Rastmoor hadn’t noticed the striking resemblance between Miss Darshaw and Lady Dashford, Lindley needed to inform him. “Everyone has not been introduced. Lord Rastmoor, this is Mr. Alexander Clemmons and his lovely wife, Mrs. Sophie Clemmons. We met a few days ago in London.”
He took extra care to emphasize Mrs. Clemmons’s first name. Rastmoor nodded. Yes, he understood. He smiled and gave the couple a polite bow.
They made small talk, asking the couple whether or not they planned to spend the night there. It appeared they were undecided. At least, the actress was undecided. Miss Darshaw seemed quite eager to stay. She also seemed unaccountably interested in Rastmoor. Whyever could that be? Surely she wasn’t drawn in by his too obvious staring. Was she?
Hell, but she certainly did appear friendly, smiling for Rastmoor and chattering pleasantly. “The roads have been so very difficult,” she sighed and pouted. “I do truly dread getting back in that coach to be jostled along to the next posting house. Perhaps if Mr. Clemmons knew some of his gentlemen friends were to be staying here tonight I could stand a better chance of convincing him.”
Even “Mr. Clemmons” seemed appalled at her amiability. Whatever was the girl up to? Well, this would work to his advantage, whatever her game. Lindley certainly was happy enough to have all of his charges neatly under one convenient roof. Likely this meant Feasel was somewhere nearby, too. He’d been assigned to trail the women. This should make keeping everyone alive just that much simpler.
“Shame on you, Mr. Clemmons, forcing your young bride to travel under these conditions,” he said, content to play along for the moment. “Rest assured, Mrs. Clemmons, if it will gain you a few hours’ respite from the torment of travel, Rastmoor and I will do our best to persuade your husband to obtain a room for the night. In fact, I’ll go see to making arrangements with the proprietor.” He glanced at Rastmoor to see if the man was in agreement. “Don’t worry, Clemmons, tonight will be at my expense.”
Rastmoor was only too happy to be left alone to speak with the nervous couple. Lindley found it perversely amusing. Curious about Lady Dashford’s unexpected relationship to Miss Darshaw, Lindley had thought to gauge her reaction by telling her about Sophie’s supposed marriage. It did seem to come as a complete—and welcome—shock to the lady, which led Lindley to believe she was no part of the intrigue. It did, however, cause Rastmoor some concern. During their ride from Warwick, Rastmoor had discussed his concerns about this Sophie Darshaw and her too-convenient new husband.
It seemed Rastmoor worried Mr. Clemmons was in some way plotting to take advantage of Sophie’s connection to the Dashford name. He feared the man may have married Sophie simply to use blackmail or extortion to keep Lady Dashford’s connection to them from coming to public light. Lindley did not know what to think of this development and was happy to let Rastmoor learn what he could about this so-called blackmail scheme.
He doubted, however, Rastmoor would learn much. If Sophie were using this false marriage to gain some profit from her newlywed cousin, she’d certainly gone about it all wrong. And if Lady Dashford were so dreadfully ashamed of Sophie, why commission Rastmoor to find her? Things did not add up. Besides, Rastmoor was basing his concerns on the mistaken belief that this actress was truly Miss Darshaw’s husband. Lindley was more convinced than ever—given the way the actress could not seem to take her eyes off Rastmoor—she was completely female.
But so far Rastmoor was still seething with the wrong sorts of suspicion. “See about getting us a private dining room,” he instructed Lindley. “I’m sure the Clemmonses will wish to join us in a quiet supper.”
Lindley agreed and headed off to find the proprietor. He doubted the Clemmonses wished to join them, nor did he expect the supper to be quiet. It would, however, promise to be interesting.
SHE’D GUESSED RIGHT—THE HANDSOME, RUDDY-HAIRED man with Lord Lindley was Miss St. Clement’s friend, Rastmoor. Sophie had known it the minute she saw the actress’s face when the man walked into the room. And she’d been right about her other suspicions, as well. There clearly was something unfinished between Miss St. Clement and her ill-fated Rastmoor. No wonder the woman had been so determined not to let Fitzgelder’s plan succeed.
Despite what she may have said, Sophie had no doubt Miss St. Clement still harbored special feelings for the man. It was written plainly in her pained expression, though of course the actress tried to hide it. She cared very much for this unobservant gentleman.
Therefore, Sophie felt it was her duty as a friend to keep the pair together as long as possible. Surely at some point clarity would strike inside Rastmoor’s ginger head and he’d recognize Miss St. Clement. Then perhaps they would put their differences—whatever they were—behind them and acknowledge their true feelings. It was a beautiful sentiment.
Although in vain, Sophie soon realized once they’d been ushered into a private dining room with the two dashing gentlemen. Lord Rastmoor had hardly spared a glance at Miss St. Clement. She, for her part, was doing nothing to draw attention or give away her deception. It appeared the couple were never to be reunited, if Sophie were to judge by the way Rastmoor continued to stare at her and ignore Miss St. Clement. Perhaps at first it had been just the tiniest bit flattering, but now, as they all sat down together and waited for the innkeeper’s wife to bring the promised stew, Sophie could safely say she was not at all flattered by the gentleman’s attention. Unnerved, but most certainly not flattered.
It appeared Miss St. Clement did not much appreciate it, either. Her eyes flashed, and Sophie wondered if perhaps there’d be no need for Fitzgelder’s men to follow through on their plan. Miss St. Clement would do it for them.
Lord Lindley, however, seemed blindly unaware of the emotional undercurrents swirling around him.
“So, Clemmons, what brings you out here to Warwick-shire?” he asked cheerfully.
It was uncanny how Miss St. Clement had managed to fool these gentlemen. Not that Sophie didn’t think her a fine enough actress, but still—one would think men might be more observant about their own kind. How could they not recognize the way Miss St. Clement’s mustache kept sagging at one side or the way she periodically batted her very feminine eyelashes in an attempt to keep her emotions from showing on her face? But apparently these men were easily misled.
“Nothing, really, sir,” Miss St. Clement replied to the question. “We’re simply passing through.”
“Oh? You’re not on your way to pay a call on Mrs. Clemmons’s family?” Rastmoor asked.
What was that? Sophie wasn’t altogether certain she’d heard him correctly. Had he asked about her family? Good heavens, what did Lord Rastmoor know of her family? Surely this man had no reason to know anything about Grandmamma or any of Sophie’s unmentionable connections. He couldn’t, could he?
“I wasn’t aware Mrs. Clemmons had family in Warwick-shire,” Miss St. Clement said quickly.
“I don’t,” Sophie replied. “My grandmother used to live not a great distance from here, but she passed away. I’ve no more family anywhere.”
“Your grandmother?” Miss St. Clement asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.”
“It’s all right,” Sophie replied. “You couldn’t have known.”
Rastmoor bullied on, not seeming to care that the passing of one’s dear grandmother might be a sensitive subject for most people. “And just where have you been living, Mrs. Clemmons, in the years since your grandmother passed away?”
Temptress in Training Page 9
