“You know nothing about her connection to Lord Dashford?”
“Lord Dashford? I swear, if Sophie wished to claim any connection to one of your ruddy lords, don’t you think she would have done so? Maybe he kept her before Fitzgelder; I don’t know, and I don’t care. But if Sophie doesn’t wish to associate with the man, then who are you to drag her back there?”
“He wasn’t her protector, damn it,” Rastmoor growled. “He’s her cousin. So is his new wife. Lady Dashford has been looking everywhere for the girl, and she practically begged me to lend a hand in the search. They want to help the chit, not abuse her some more.”
Julia studied him. Could this be true? Sophie had a family? Good, decent family who cared about her? It was hard to believe. Since Lindley was keen on reuniting Sophie with her family—and getting Rastmoor there as well—Julia figured she likely shouldn’t believe it. Or trust anyone.
“We’ll ask Sophie if she knows about this,” Julia declared, careful not to let Rastmoor meet her eyes. “If she says this cousin is someone she can trust, then perhaps we’ll go there. But if your Dashford is friends with Lindley . . .”
“I’d trust my life to Randolf Dashford,” Rastmoor announced.
“You might be doing just that,” Julia cautioned, falling in step behind Rastmoor as he strode up to the back door.
Chapter Three
The innkeeper was swearing under his breath as he swept up the broken glass. Rastmoor glanced around the room where he’d been nearly killed just minutes ago, but it was clear that no further clues could be gained. Not that he needed them. He knew Fitzgelder was behind this.
There were a couple things he didn’t know, however. One was whether Clemmons could be trusted about Lindley’s involvement. The other was a bit more immediate.
Where the hell was Sophie?
“She was right here just a minute ago!” Clemmons announced, pushing Rastmoor aside and hurriedly examining the room.
“Weren’t nobody in here just a minute ago when I came in with my broom,” the innkeeper said. “Damn mess you people made in here, though.”
“We didn’t make the mess,” Rastmoor grumbled. “We got bloody shot at here in your fine establishment. Now where is Mrs. Clemmons?”
“Pretty little thing with the yellow hair?” the man asked, scratching his greasy head. “Don’t know. Guess I figured she went off with you.”
Rastmoor could feel the tension rising in Mr. Clemmons. Indeed, he had a bad feeling about this. The posting house wasn’t that big. They’d just come through the common room, and Sophie wasn’t there. She hadn’t been with Lindley, either. If she wasn’t there and she wasn’t here, where in God’s name was she?
And just why the hell did the scrawny fool Clemmons leave his wife alone when someone was going around shooting at people?
Unless maybe that was part of the plan. Damn it, maybe that shooting incident didn’t have anything to do with Fitzgelder’s attempt at revenge. Maybe it was simply a distraction—directed by none other than Clemmons himself.
“You left her alone in here, Clemmons? With a gunman running loose?”
Clemmons was all twitchy and uptight. His gaze darted around the room, out into the hall, through the broken window, anywhere but at Rastmoor. He had guilt written all over him.
“Where’s Sophie, Clemmons?” Rastmoor asked.
“I don’t know!” the man exclaimed.
Finally he looked up at Rastmoor and, by God, those almost looked like tears in his sensitive eyes. Hell, he sure could play a part. Rastmoor wasn’t buying, though. It was too convenient. Clemmons showed up to warn Rastmoor that Fitzgelder was after him, just as Sophie mysteriously disappeared? What a perfect way to set up a kidnapping—a fake kidnapping for the purpose of extorting money from Dashford.
Rastmoor eyed the young man. Damn, those eyes were disturbing. What did they make Rastmoor think of? Hell, he hadn’t seen eyes like that since . . . he couldn’t place it. Clemmons looked away.
“She might have gone to use the necessary,” the innkeeper suggested.
While her husband was off doing battle with a would-be murderer? Not likely, Rastmoor decided. And surely if this really were a well-orchestrated ruse and the girl had gone off to hide, she would know that might be the first place searchers would check. Then again, he couldn’t very well discount anything just yet.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll look around.”
That took all of about five minutes. Sophie was not on the premises. Clemmons was making a valiant show of being distraught, however.
“She’s just not here! Someone must have taken her!” he spouted, pacing.
It was too much. They were in the yard where the mail coach had just left—after Rastmoor had made a thorough check for the missing girl. She wasn’t in the coach; she wasn’t in the necessary; she wasn’t in the stable; she wasn’t in any of the upstairs rooms; she wasn’t in the kitchen or the pantry or the cupboard with the lard. She just plain wasn’t anywhere.
“What are we going to do? We’ve got to find her!” Clemmons ranted.
Rastmoor took him by the shoulders and gave a good shake. Damn it, they didn’t have time for theatrics.
“What did you do with your wife, you shifty-eyed weasel?”
But still Clemmons didn’t look at him. The man was touched in the head, or something, the way he simply refused to look in one direction long enough to make eye contact. Rastmoor grabbed his face and pulled it up so Clemmons had no choice but to meet his eyes. And he did.
God, there it was again. The minute Rastmoor’s gaze caught on those warm brown eyes, something kicked him in the gut. Disturbing, most disturbing. What the hell was it Clemmons reminded him of? Someone he’d known, perhaps? Someone like . . .
Shit, he almost said her name. Julia. Damn it, but Clemmons’s eyes were just the same mellow shade of nut brown, just the same shape. Staring up at him the way she did that last time they’d . . .
Hell, that was three years ago. And Julia was dead now.
Clemmons broke from his hold. “Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again, Rastmoor.”
Rastmoor was brought to reality. There were red marks on the man’s smooth face where Rastmoor’s fingers had been. He hadn’t meant to grab on to him quite so firmly. Lord, but the man was soft. How old was this Mr. Clemmons, anyway? Rastmoor was only too glad to accommodate his “no-touching” rule.
He wasn’t, however, ready to give up the Sophie issue.
“Is this your doing, Clemmons?” Rastmoor demanded. “You think Dashford will pay handsomely to get his cousin back from some hired kidnapper?”
“No!” Clemmons insisted. “You’re wasting time. Someone took her—your friend Lindley, I’ll wager.”
“Lindley’s got better things to do than dabble at kidnapping. Your little wife may be an attractive tart, but I assure you she’s safe from Lindley.”
Clemmons slapped him. Slapped him? Indeed, the man could use a lesson or two in more manly arts.
“Don’t talk about her that way,” Clemmons ordered. “Anything she may have done in the past is hardly your concern. She’s not a tart.”
“You going to call me out, Clemmons, or are you going to tell me where your wife is?”
“I don’t know where she is, and we’re certainly not going to find her standing around here. If you think your Dashford would care so much about her, then maybe you ought to quit accusing me of things and start helping me find her.”
With that, the man turned on his heel and started off toward the stable. Rastmoor shook his head and followed. But following was uncomfortable. The man walked like a girl. If Sophie Darshaw had married Clemmons to escape the unwanted attentions of men, she’d likely been quite pleased in her decision. There was nothing manly about Alexander Clemmons. In fact, the man’s coloring, shape, and bearing reminded him of . . .
Rastmoor shuddered. God, but he must be getting desperate.
Chapter Four
J
ulia did her very best to ignore Rastmoor. It wasn’t easy. She’d been burning from his touch since the minute he’d laid his hands on her. Heavens, how could he still have this hold over her?
He couldn’t. She simply wouldn’t let him. Right now the only thing that mattered was finding Sophie. Whether Rastmoor liked it or not, he was going to have to help her find the girl.
She’d just have to be extra careful to keep up her guard around him.
“I need a conveyance,” Julia said to the first stable hand she could find.
The man just looked at her, so she repeated herself.
“A carriage, or something! Hurry! My, er, wife has been abducted.”
Rastmoor came up behind her, and the stable hand looked at him as if for confirmation. Blast it, apparently just posing as a man wasn’t enough. She should have made sure her costume identified her as a man of means and importance.
“You heard the man,” Rastmoor said.
She was inclined to be grateful for his support. Not too grateful, though. The stony set to his jaw said he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her.
“Sorry, sirs,” the stable hand said with a shrug. “There’s nothing to be had. Half our hands have been sent up the road to bring in a gig with a broken axle.”
“Damn,” Rastmoor said. “Horses then. Surely you have a few of those for hire?”
“I can scrounge something up for you there, sir. They won’t be winning no derby, you understand.”
“Fine. Just saddle us the best you’ve got, and we’ll take those.”
Julia swallowed hard. They were to be riding? It would be interesting to see how that worked out. She’d never been astride, and she absolutely could not think up any reasonable excuse for Mr. Clemmons to request a sidesaddle.
Rastmoor handed the man some coins, and suddenly he became almost enthusiastic about finding them decent mounts. Two grooms rushed about readying two horses, and before long Rastmoor swung himself up into the saddle of a large bay. Julia was presented an enormous chestnut gelding that she would have sworn was a close relative of the elephants she’d once seen depicted in a book. The thought of hopping all the way up there under her own power was quite daunting.
“Don’t take all night about it, Clemmons,” Rastmoor said. “Unless perhaps you already know Sophie faces no real danger?”
Oh, the man and his ugly suspicions were damnable. She placed her foot up in the stirrup like she’d seen her father do hundreds of times and pulled herself up into the saddle. By God, it was almost graceful. She glared at Rastmoor.
“Shall we, then?”
“Which way?” he asked.
She frowned. Which way? How was she supposed to know that?
“Which way did your friend Lindley go?” she asked.
“South, I believe,” he said.
“Then we should go south.”
He didn’t bother to discuss it but simply spurred his horse into motion. Lovely, they were to do this at a fast clip, it appeared. Julia clung on as best she could and kicked her mount into the same quick pace Rastmoor had set.
He didn’t bother to look back and make sure she was following, but she was glad for that. This gave her time to accustom herself to this unusual riding posture. She was glad to find, in fact, it was not nearly so impossible as she’d imagined. True, she didn’t have the benefit of the usual leg prop, but she was pleasantly surprised to find much more control seated this way. Indeed, before long she felt confident to urge her horse a bit faster. She was beside Rastmoor in no time.
“Are you certain this is the way Lindley came?” she asked, happy to show off her new talent. Not that Rastmoor seemed to notice anything unusual about a man sitting atop a horse. Still, she was quite proud of herself.
“The groom said he saw someone go this way, and it was Lindley’s intent to follow. I didn’t actually see him, but I’m going to assume the man did as he said.”
“So, for all we know, we could be going in exactly the wrong direction.”
“Are we?”
Julia fumed. “Look, I did not have anything to do with this! I don’t know who took Sophie, but Lindley would appear to be our best suspect. Who else knows about her connection to this Dashford person?”
“You tell me.”
“I did tell you! I didn’t know about this—I don’t think Sophie did, either. Certainly, she never made any mention of it to me.”
Rastmoor eyed her. She ripped her gaze from him and tried to tip her face into shadows. It wasn’t clear how much longer this disguise might last under his scrutiny.
“How well do you know your young wife?” Rastmoor asked.
“Well enough,” she said quickly.
He simply laughed at her. “Oh, I truly doubt that. Tell me, did you take her from that brothel out of the goodness of your heart, or has she promised to make it worth your while?”
“I didn’t take her from a brothel,” Julia snapped. “I don’t know why you insist on talking about her that way.”
“Because it’s the truth. The girl’s nothing more than a cheap whore, and you know it.”
“No! She was working as a respectable maid in Fitzgelder’s house when I met her. He blackened her eye one day because she was nothing like the cheap whore you keep calling her.”
“And so you married her?”
“She needed to get away from there.”
“I’m sure she did. But just exactly what were you doing there? Your obvious intimacy with the likes of Fitzgelder doesn’t do much to make me trust you.”
“Believe me, there was no intimacy there,” Julia assured him. “I told you; I was there professionally. Our troupe had been hired to perform at a private party. I met Sophie that evening, and I could see the difficult position she was in. I asked my father to give her employment with our troupe.”
“How very noble. So she’s an actress as well.”
“No, a seamstress, and very good at it.”
“I’m sure she’s been a real asset. How lucky for your father you found her and . . .”
His voice faded, and Julia knew he was looking at her again. She could almost feel the tension in the air rising up around them. Evening was gone and darkness was settling in, but she knew he could still see her. Had he at last figured it out?
“Your father is the leader of your troupe?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes.” She held her breath, waiting for the storm.
It arrived slowly, with Rastmoor letting out a long, slow growl.
“My God. Your name’s not really Clemmons, is it?”
Her legs began to tremble, and she tried desperately to pretend she hadn’t heard him. He pulled his horse up and grabbed the bridle on hers, bringing them both to a stop in the middle of the moonlit road.
“Is it?” he demanded again.
“No,” she admitted in an embarrassingly tiny voice.
“It’s St. Clement,” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“Albert St. Clement is your father,” he went on, and she nodded again.
He was quiet, and she concentrated on staying in the saddle. She counted the heartbeats—eleven. Why didn’t he say something? He could yell or curse at her or call her all manner of foul names. Anything would be better than sitting here in silence, afraid to look at him but wondering what on earth was going through his mind.
Finally he spoke. “Julia was your sister?”
What was that? Her sister? Good heavens, could it really be he still didn’t know? It was a miracle! Her chest heaved as she was finally able to draw a deep breath.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I should have guessed. You favor her.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment. She was a whore, too.”
Well, that was painful. She deserved it though, she supposed. She hadn’t been exactly truthful three years ago. It was only natural he might not have a very high opinion of her, considering all that had transpired.
<
br /> Rastmoor urged his horse forward again. Julia followed quietly.
“You’re not going to defend her?” he asked after several moments.
“I’m sure she had her reasons for doing what she did,” she said.
“I know she did,” he replied. “That’s what made her a whore. But I suppose it pains you to hear me speak ill of the dead.”
“Yes. It does.”
“Then I won’t. She gave enough offense while she lived; no sense in allowing her any more now.”
All was silent save the hoof steps again. Julia risked sliding a quick glance over at Rastmoor and found his face hard, cold, and unreadable. A shiver of concern ran down her back. He was a different man than the one she had known. This Anthony Rastmoor could be capable of just about anything. What would he do if he ever found out the truth?
She didn’t want to know.
A loud crack rang out through the still night, and Julia practically jumped out of the saddle. Her horse shied and danced sideways. Rastmoor was struggling to keep his from bolting at the unexpected sound.
“What was that?” she asked.
“Gunfire.”
Cold dread filled the pit of her stomach. “Sophie!”
She couldn’t move. Part of her wanted to prod the horse forward, to rush ahead around the next bend to see what had happened. The other part of her—the sensible part—warred to turn tail and run.
“Come on,” he was saying, grabbing her horse’s head again and pulling them off the side of the road.
It made sense—whatever was ahead held danger. They had to hide. She followed Rastmoor’s lead and hurried her horse off the road, into the thick forest that lined it. Rastmoor slipped out of his saddle and motioned for her to do the same. She did. Her desperate descent was not nearly so graceful as her careful ascent.
They moved farther into the safety of the woods, pulling the unwilling beasts along with them. It was noisy, and Julia hoped that whoever might come along would not hear them. She needn’t have worried. When the gunfire was repeated it was much closer, but it was also accompanied by the noise of a thundering carriage and several shouts.
Damsel in Disguise Page 4
