Damsel in Disguise

by Heino, Susan Gee

  But then Lindley showed up at Dashford’s wedding and mentioned he’d run across a girl of that very name and description in London. Seeing her before them now, Rastmoor had no doubt this Sophie and Dashford’s Sophie were one and the same. The resemblance between the new Lady Dashford and her long-lost cousin was uncanny; Rastmoor had been quite stunned by it when he first laid eyes on Sophie. The women could have easily passed for close sisters. But finding her here, less than one day’s drive from Dashford himself, was an unbelievable coincidence. In fact, Rastmoor didn’t believe it was coincidental at all.

  He presumed it must be Clemmons’s doing, and Rastmoor had a fair idea of why. Clemmons must know all about Sophie’s connection to Dashford. He’d no doubt whisked her away from her dismal life in London with the hopes of profiting. It could safely be assumed Dashford and his lady would pay handsomely to secure Sophie’s welfare, not to mention to keep their relationship to her a secret.

  Clemmons was, no doubt, taking Sophie to Hartwood with nothing short of extortion on his mind. Whether Sophie was a part of this scheme or not Rastmoor was still uncertain. Evaline claimed her cousin was merely an unfortunate victim of circumstance, but Rastmoor’s understanding of women left him wary.

  Either way, though, Rastmoor willingly put the heaviest portion of guilt on Clemmons. In fact, he could barely stomach looking at the man with his shifty eyes under those impossibly long lashes. He wore a dreadful mustache, too, which did not speak well at all. His mannerisms were so effete even the greatest dandy would find them disturbing. And the warning glances he kept sending to Sophie spoke volumes. Whether it had been her idea or not, clearly she was in on the scheme and harbored a guilty conscience.

  “So, Clemmons, what brings you out here to Warwickshire?” Lindley asked as they all sat down together and waited for the innkeeper’s wife to bring the promised stew.

  Clemmons hesitated before answering. “Nothing, really, sir. We’re simply passing through.”

  “Oh? You’re not on your way to pay a call on Mrs. Clemmons’s family?” Rastmoor asked.

  Clemmons actually wrinkled his brow, but Sophie caught Rastmoor’s attention with a quick little gasp. A gasp? So the girl hadn’t expected anyone to know about that. Well, she’d find Rastmoor knew a great deal.

  “I wasn’t aware Mrs. Clemmons had family in Warwickshire,” Mr. Clemmons said quickly.

  Sophie dropped her gaze to her lap. “I don’t. My grandmother used to live not a great distance from here, but she passed away. I’ve no more family anywhere.”

  “Your grandmother?” Mr. Clemmons said with oddly believable compassion. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that.”

  “It’s all right,” Sophie replied sweetly. “You couldn’t have known.”

  Blast it, but the couple were passable liars. Yet why should that be surprising? Lindley told them Clemmons was an actor; indeed, the man must have taught the trade to his little wife. Well, it was time to call them on their charade.

  Rastmoor cleared his throat before he continued. “And just where have you been living, Mrs. Clemmons, in the years since your grandmother passed away?”

  Sophie had the good grace to look confused. Likely she was trying to determine in her mind how much Rastmoor might know about her background before she fabricated an answer. Mr. Clemmons appeared even more unnerved. The poor little man seemed desperate to think up something, but his creativity was apparently dried up. Silly man, clearly he was out of his depth in this. Well, Rastmoor would be only too happy to help them both on the point of discussing Sophie’s past.

  He couldn’t help but smile when he asked casually, “Were you at Madame Eudora’s brothel for the entire past four years, or did you find work elsewhere, too?”

  Sophie’s mouth pursed into an astonished little button, while Mr. Clemmons’s jaw fell slack. Rastmoor could almost have believed the man knew nothing of Sophie’s past, except for the fact he could hardly imagine where else a scheming and effeminate man like this might obtain a wife but at a brothel.

  “A brothel?” Clemmons sputtered.

  Sophie jumped to her feet and started backing away, accidentally trapping herself in a corner. The fear on her face was clearly more than good acting this time.

  “That’s none of your business!” she sputtered. “I’m not there anymore, and I won’t go with you . . . either of you!”

  Now Mr. Clemmons leapt to his feet in a rage, turning on them. “Leave her alone!” he demanded in a high, girlish voice. “Hasn’t she been through enough with the likes of you? Take your filthy minds and your petty accusations out of here this instant!”

  Rastmoor had never seen a hysterical man before, but he was fairly certain he was looking at one now. If Clemmons had not been so delicate and so—well—pretty, he supposed the man could have been almost fearsome. As it was, though, the man’s passion was convincing. He did not appreciate such talk about his wife.

  Rastmoor made the mistake of taking a step toward him. “All I’m saying is—”

  He didn’t get to finish all he was saying. Clemmons lunged and swung at him, catching him off guard and forcing him backward, into Lindley. Both gentlemen toppled over, leaving Clemmons free to rush into the corner for his still whimpering wife.

  “Come, Sophie,” Clemmons said gruffly, leading her out of the corner and around their table. “The mail coach is still in the yard. Let’s get out of here.”

  Lindley was helping Rastmoor to his feet. “Damn it, Rastmoor—”

  For half a heartbeat Rastmoor had a chance to wonder why on earth Lindley would be cursing him when it was, after all, Clemmons’s fault they were sprawled on the floor, but his thoughts were interrupted. Glass shattered, and a loud concussion ripped through the room. The chair between Rastmoor and Lindley splintered violently as a bullet came through the broken window and lodged there, narrowly missing both men. Sophie and Clemmons screamed. They sounded remarkably alike.

  “Get down!” Lindley yelled.

  Rastmoor dropped to the floor, Mr. and Mrs. Clemmons tumbling down near him. Lindley shoved the table over on its side to provide some measure of protection should more bullets come hailing through the only window in the small room. They did not, and Rastmoor called over to Clemmons.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Are you?” Clemmons asked in return.

  His huge, feminine eyes flashed with concern, and for a moment Rastmoor was caught in them. What sort of God put eyes like that in a man’s face? He could make no sense of it. Quickly, though, Clemmons turned away. He gave his full attention to his wife, making sure Sophie had not been harmed.

  Rastmoor looked at Lindley. “What the hell was that?”

  But Lindley was already scrambling to his feet. “I don’t know. I’ll go check the front; you go out the back.”

  “Very well,” Rastmoor agreed, since he really didn’t know what else to do in this sort of situation. He gave Clemmons another glance. “Stay here, and stay down.”

  Mr. Clemmons didn’t seem particularly happy with those instructions, but Rastmoor didn’t bother to stick around to hear his complaints. Crouching, he followed Lindley out of the room and into the hall. The innkeeper ran smack into them and demanded to know what they’d been doing in his best room.

  Lindley ignored the man and simply headed for the front door that would lead him out into the yard. Rastmoor muttered a warning that the man had better get out of sight somewhere and pushed past him to head for the back. He doubted the innkeeper—or any other innocent bystander—was really in danger. Rastmoor hadn’t seen the shooter, but he had an idea who the fool had been aiming at: him.

  JULIA WATCHED THE MEN RUSH OUT OF THE ROOM. Tables and chairs were overturned, shattered glass lay about the floor, and Sophie was starting to tremble. Heavens, what on earth had happened?

  It must have been Fitzgelder! No, not Fitzgelder, but one of his hirelings. Fitzgelder was too cowardly to do the dirty work himself. But somehow his men had found Rastmoor and ve
ry nearly succeeded in their goal. Just how did they find him?

  Lindley, it had to be. Once he met up with Rastmoor at that wedding, he must have gotten word to Fitzgelder’s men. He pretended to be Rastmoor’s friend all the while he’d been leading him into a trap. And heavens, he’d just taken Rastmoor outside! Lindley had said he was going one way and told Rastmoor to go the other—to his doom, probably.

  Oh, but this was dreadful. While she cowered here under a table, Anthony was being murdered behind the posting house! No, she couldn’t let that happen.

  “Wait here,” she called to Sophie as she clambered to her feet.

  Sophie protested, of course, but Julia paid no mind. Thankfully, climbing in and out from under furniture was much easier in trousers than in her usual gowns, so she was on her feet and running into the hallway long before Sophie had time to collect her voice. Julia simply had to get to Anthony in time and warn him, to tell him that Lindley was in league with Fitzgelder.

  She burst through the back door just in time to realize this was a very bad idea. Whoever was waiting there to kill Anthony would no doubt be just as glad to kill her right along with him. She paused on the back stoop and scanned the area around the posting house. The sun was getting low, and the trees cast long shadows over everything. Anthony was nowhere in sight. Everything was still. Too still.

  Suddenly someone burst from the shrubbery beside her and pulled her to the ground, dragging her into the dim, musky seclusion of the overgrown foliage. Her face was pressed into the dirt. The whole thing happened so fast, she couldn’t even struggle. All she could think was how positively annoying this helplessness was. Anthony needed her somewhere!

  But then he spoke in her ear. “Keep quiet, Clemmons.”

  Thank heavens, he was all right. He was grinding her into the ground, pressing his knee into her back, but at least he was all right. So far.

  “It’s Lindley,” she tried to say, though with all the dirt in her mouth she wasn’t sure it came out entirely intelligible.

  “Shut up,” he hissed. “And pay attention. I don’t believe for one second you and your little missus are just passing through here for the joy of it. I know who she is, Clemmons. Now, I’m going to give you one chance to tell me why you’ve come out here and how you’re involved in what just happened. I’d better like what I hear. Start talking.”

  But heavens, what could she tell him? He seemed to know more about Sophie than she did. A brothel? Poor Sophie! But did Rastmoor really believe Sophie’s unfortunate past had anything to do with the attempt just made on his life? She struggled to make sense of it all.

  “It’s Fitzgelder,” she said. Her voice was weak with Rastmoor’s weight cutting off her air supply. “He’s hired men to find you and kill you!”

  “Oh? I take it you’re in league with him?”

  She could barely draw enough breath to reply. “No! It’s Lindley. Lindley’s in it.”

  “What?” His knee let up just a bit.

  “It’s true. I heard Fitzgelder planning it. Lindley was there.”

  There was silence. She could hear voices calling out from the front of the inn, but Rastmoor didn’t seem to care. “What were you doing with Fitzgelder?”

  “My troupe was putting on a private performance in his house. I, er, happened to accidentally overhear him talking with some men. We barely got away.”

  “You’re sure Lindley was in on it?”

  “He was there while Fitzgelder was plotting your murder, for pity’s sake. He didn’t speak up to protest on your behalf, either.”

  Rastmoor moved himself off of her, and she drew in a deep breath. Indeed, she’d forgotten how heavy the man was, tall and solid as he was. Her cheeks went warm at the memory, and she was glad for the shadows and the prickly shelter of the shrub. She pushed herself up to sitting, keeping her face averted. Rastmoor stayed near.

  “So what do you want from me?” he asked.

  “I want you not to get murdered.”

  “A most noble cause. Now tell me what you really want. Money? An appointment for your troupe? To blackmail your way into Sophie’s family?”

  “She says she doesn’t have any family.”

  “We all know that’s a lie. I swear, Clemmons, I won’t let you—”

  But he stopped short. The voices were clearly coming around to the back of the building. He gave her a warning look then started to get up as if he’d leave the shrub. Julia grabbed his sleeve.

  “No! It’s Lindley!” she said.

  He shot his hand out to cover her mouth. He smelled like midnight and leather. He was warm, and his skin was rough. She battled back the memory of how his hands felt on other parts of her body, as well.

  “Keep quiet,” he said, and she recognized the threat in his voice. Rastmoor rose and pushed his way out of the shrub.

  “Did you find anyone?” he called as Lindley’s footsteps approached.

  “No, but a couple of the grooms saw someone on horseback riding away just after they heard the gunfire.”

  “No one they recognized, I suppose?” Rastmoor asked.

  One of the grooms—she supposed, since it wasn’t a familiar voice—answered. “Sorry, milord. I didn’t get a good enough look. And anyway, lots of folk were here just then, drinking and such. They mostly all took off when they heard the shooting. The gent I saw might have just been one of those. You might do better to ask them still inside what they saw.”

  “Yes, we might,” Rastmoor said.

  Lindley thanked the groom for his trouble, and Julia heard one set of footsteps heading off. Her heart sped. Rastmoor and Lindley were alone out there. What could she do if Lindley pulled out a weapon?

  “You don’t by any chance know who was supposed to get shot tonight, do you?” Rastmoor asked.

  “To tell the truth, no,” Lindley said.

  Julia cursed him under her breath.

  Lindley went on. “But I do know it’s not safe around here for you, Rastmoor. Fitzgelder’s been stirring up trouble again.”

  “I know. I’m on my way back to London now to deal with it.”

  “Might be better to wait, all things considered,” Lindley cautioned.

  “All things? And what would those things be?”

  “I don’t know, but he’s got something on his mind. Look, you shouldn’t stay here tonight; it’s too dangerous. Why not head back out to Dashford’s and take our long-lost Sophie with you.”

  “And you?” Rastmoor asked.

  “I’ll head after that man the groom saw.”

  “He said he wasn’t sure that was our shooter.”

  “Who else would it be? You just get yourself to Dashford’s.”

  “And take Mr. and Mrs. Clemmons with me.”

  “Right,” Lindley said then laughed. “If there’s any chance of losing the mister along the way, that’s what I’d propose.”

  Julia cursed him again. Well! This Lindley fellow was as unpleasant as they came. He might cut a fine figure, but that was plainly as far as his value went. She supposed the only reason he didn’t just garrote Anthony where he stood was a fear of smudging his shirtsleeves.

  But Rastmoor seemed oblivious to the danger or the difficulty he might have “losing the mister along the way.”

  “Fine,” he said. “That’s what I’ll do.”

  Julia wondered if she ought to curse him as well. Then again, she’d done plenty of that these past three years.

  “Good,” Lindley agreed. “You go collect the Clemmonses, and I’ll see if I can get a fast horse.”

  “You’ll go off on your own, Lindley? Isn’t it a bit dangerous?”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle it.”

  The cocky assurance in the man’s voice was more than enough to convict him, as far as Julia was concerned. She’d seen the man, and he gave no appearance of one familiar with rough-and-tumble. Clearly he must know he was in no danger, chasing off alone on horseback in the dark after a would-be assassin. Likely this Dashford fellow whe
re Lindley was so keen on sending them was in on it, as well, and would finish the botched task when Rastmoor arrived. Obviously, Anthony Rastmoor could stand to make some better friends.

  Lindley’s heavy footsteps crunched rapidly off toward the stables, and Julia wondered what would happen next. Surely Rastmoor wasn’t fool enough to follow Lindley’s instructions, was he?

  “Clemmons,” Rastmoor called. “Get out here.”

  She couldn’t come up with any reason to argue, so she staggered out from behind the shrubs. A wayward branch nearly ripped off her mustache, but she managed to get it to stick back in place. Bother, but she must look an absolute sight.

  “I take it you heard that?” Rastmoor asked as she emerged, dusting herself off as best she could.

  “I did. The man cannot be trusted.”

  “He wasn’t exactly threatening me.”

  Dear heavens! Was it possible the mutton-headed dullard was still choosing to trust Lindley? Unbelievable.

  “I’m telling you, he’s in on it!” she said. “He was helping Fitzgelder plan your murder!”

  Rastmoor just gave her a cold glare. “I don’t believe you.”

  “So, what are you going to do? Drag Sophie and me off to this Dashford person, where Lindley probably has a trap set for you?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you or your wife,” Rastmoor said.

  “Really? His lordship seemed to suggest otherwise. Lose me along the way, will you?”

  “He was funning.”

  “I didn’t find it humorous. Nor would Sophie.”

  “Look, it’s not my first choice, but Lindley was right. We do need to get Mrs. Clemmons safely to Dashford’s home. And you, too, I suppose.”

  “We’ll do nothing of the sort. My wife and I have nothing to do with this Dashford, and it’s likely just a ruse to get you killed.”

  “Nothing to do with Dashford? Do you think I’m a fool? I told you I already know all about Sophie Darshaw and where she comes from.”

  “Then you know more than I, sir,” Julia said, hoping the little bit of truth she dared share with him would be enough to convince him. “As far I was aware, Sophie worked as a house-maid in Fitzgelder’s home, and the man used her abominably. She left with me as a means of escape.”